Van woke with a start at the soft thud of a log shifting in the fire. How long had he been asleep? The sky visible through the smoke vent above was still dark. This was no time to be sleeping, but after Van had filled his stomach and tended to other tasks that demanded attention, he was overtaken by weariness.
Van spent the night in the slaves’ kitchen. After discovering the girl, he had left her where she was for the time being and went to look around while the light lasted. Unfortunately, he failed to find superior shelter. He’d already kicked in the door of the neighboring building, which meant it wouldn’t do. The slaves’ kitchen was a sturdy structure, and it was equipped for a fire. Van could also hide the little one in a firebox if those things attacked again. Plus, it was near the shaft to the salt mine. The kitchen was likely built here for transporting the slaves’ meals, meager as they were, into the mine. At this distance, it would be easy for Van to flee with the child into that labyrinth, if need be, and they would stand a better chance of escape in the tunnels, which crisscrossed underground.
Salt was akin to gold, and the Aquafa mine was a precious source of revenue. Once news of what had happened here got out, the place would be swarmed. Van needed to get away before officials and their soldiers arrived. But he had dared not venture into the darkness last night for fear the beasts still roamed about.
Men came to haul away the salt at regular intervals. Van didn’t know when they last visited, but judging by the stockpile in the storehouse, he doubted that they would return tomorrow. Still, he didn’t know how things worked and could not accurately guess when someone might come or why. There had to be merchants who delivered food and officials who regularly checked on work progress. Van had no choice but to stay here last night, but he judged it best to leave before dawn tomorrow.
His first task had been to search through the foreman’s house to find the key and remove the manacle around his ankle. When it cracked open and he felt the weight fall from his leg, Van was filled with a profound sense of release. Now he knew what a dog felt like when it shook its body after having its collar removed.
Van threw the shackle and broken chain down a vertical shaft, then returned to the foreman’s house and took just enough money to survive short-term. He was careful not to take more than needed, and he further concealed his theft by removing money from several places. Upon capture, a runaway slave would be whipped but not executed. No one was foolish enough to kill a horse or cow that could still be used. However, a slave who stole from or murdered his overseers would be drawn and quartered as an example to others. It was galling enough to have been made a slave, but the mere thought of being condemned by such biased reasoning made Van sick to his stomach. While he felt no twinge of guilt about taking the money, he didn’t want to provide anyone with an excuse to accuse him so unjustly.
Before sunset, Van had been able to gather clothes that would disguise the fact he was a slave. He also took a tinderbox, a dagger, and a sword in addition to the money. The sword’s blade was the slightly curved style favored by the Zolians rather than the straight ones Van was used to, but he couldn’t complain. His best find was a well-kept bow that fit his hand perfectly, along with a quiver of arrows.
Van returned to the kitchen with these items to find the little one still curled up in the oven, sucking her thumb. Her dark round eyes watched him. He crouched down, wondering what to do. Fleeing with a child was madness, yet Van couldn’t convince himself to leave her. She was a funny-looking little thing. The girl’s mother had been dark-skinned, like the people of the Yukata Plains in southern Aquafa, but the girl was fair, and the shape of her eyes reminded him of the Zolians. Although Van had no way of knowing the identity of her father, he could think of only one reason for her existence under these circumstances, and it made him sick. If he left the child here, even if she survived, the fate that awaited her would be the same as her mother’s, perhaps even crueler. Slaves were treated no better than livestock. If they were too much trouble, they would be slaughtered. Even if it were considered more profitable to let them live, they would never be treated as human beings.
“Hey,” Van said softly. The girl blinked. He stretched out his arm. She looked at it for a few moments, then reached out with her own small hands. Perhaps she wasn’t the type to fear strangers. He took her in his arms, pulled her from the oven, and set her down on the ground. She wobbled a bit but didn’t fall. “Mauma.” She reached for the body of the woman Van had laid to one side, and he held her steady so that she could bury her face in her mother’s breast.
She sobbed inconsolably. Perhaps she wondered why her mother didn’t wake and hold her. Van let her cry for a long time before pulling her away. She squirmed and flailed at him with her pudgy hands, but he picked her up and held her firmly in the crook of one arm while he set some water on to boil. Then he removed her clothes and sponged her clean.
Strangely, the girl’s crying didn’t bother him. He felt calm and detached as he washed her, as if he were watching himself from a distance. While wiping the filth from her skin, he noticed a long thin scratch that had scabbed over under her left ankle.
So she was grazed by fangs, too.
Van glanced at the scab on his own arm. “Another survivor, are you?” he muttered. Dozens of people had occupied the mine, yet only two had lived. He was struck once again by how odd this was.
The bath must have soothed the girl, because as soon as he wrapped her in a soft cloth, she fell fast asleep, still sucking her thumb. The weight of the sleeping child cradled in Van’s arms filled him with peace, as though the spot where he stood in this room full of corpses was lit by a warm glow. The body of the girl’s mother, which lay beside them, had already sunk into darkness such that only a gray lump was visible. In the dim light, the living and the dead, the floor and the ovens, melded into shadow. Only the damp heat of the child in his arms confirmed that there was life here.
The girl opened her eyes groggily a few times and whimpered a little as though in remembrance, but when Van laid her in the makeshift bed he’d assembled, she passed out again. The temperature had dropped drastically with the sun. Although it was preferable to the mine, which sucked the warmth from one’s body, Van still felt cold.
She must have felt it last night, too… Van was amazed that the girl had managed to survive. He lit a fire in one of the ovens to keep them warm and gazed absently at the sleeping child beside him. As he did so, sleep overtook him.
A bird cawed in the distance. Dawn was near. Van shook himself and rose, then stirred the embers in the oven. He added a stick, and the flames crackled to life. After filling a large empty pot with water, he put it on the stove and brought it to a boil. He then transferred the water to a wooden basin that had been standing against a wall to dry. That done, he removed his clothes—a patchwork of blankets and rags—soaked them in the hot water, and used them to wipe his body.
Van hadn’t washed in so long that his skin was covered in a thick scum, and the water turned filthy in no time at all. He dumped it out and added more, repeating the process several times. Once cleansed, he donned the clothes he’d stolen and threw the rags and dirty water on the garbage heap outside. By the time the first rays of sunlight appeared, he’d prepared and eaten his fill of hot porridge. He woke the little one and began spooning her slightly cooled porridge. She was still half-asleep and, at first, just rolled the food around her mouth with her tongue and spat it out. As she woke, however, she seemed to realize she was hungry. Her eyes grew bright, and she practically devoured the spoon and Van’s fingers along with it.
He laughed deep in his throat. “Hey, don’t eat my fingers. They’ll give you a stomachache.”
The girl peered up at him, eyes round. “Manma, onyage?” Van didn’t understand, but she was grinning at him happily, glad, it seemed, to have some food inside her. He gave her the spoon, and she began scooping up the porridge and eating it quite competently. The soft white light of the morning sun caressed her porridge-speckled cheeks. Mesmerized, Van gazed at the downy hairs glistening on her skin.