Beyond Belief in the Land of Rhythm by Lesley Ann Eden

Author:Lesley Ann Eden
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Publish on Demand Global LLC

CHAPTER 9

Seeing Is Believing

When you take the moves into your being,

into your heart and through your body,

you will not only learn to dance, but fly!

Back in the moment at Knossos, where time ceased to count, when it was too late for regrets and too soon for action, my father in the library wept, flooding his old grey eyes with fresh vision. I threw my arms around his shrunken body and for a moment we were locked inside old memories of rosebud kisses and golden laughter, but a sharp sound outside the door alerted us. He pushed me away and I hid as a guard appeared. He was led away and when all was quiet I crept out and looked at the book he was studying. It was filled with pictures of herbs and plants and symbols of magic. A scraping sound near the door made me retreat to my hiding place from where I spied a servant nimbly taking the book. When no one was around, I scampered back to my cell and waited and waited. No food came. No Xabin appeared. The afternoon became night and still I was forgotten. I was afraid my meeting with my father had damned him and we were both at the mercy of her will.

When night imprisoned day in a bleak, black mantle, I fell asleep near the door but I was woken by brutal hands. I rolled around on the coarse, splintered wood that pierced through the sack in which I was bound and cut into my cheeks. A dark, rough man tied a band tightly around my mouth. My feet were bound with a leather strap and my wrists were held fast with a rope. I was scooped up in a sack and carried over a shoulder then hurled into a creaking cart and trundled away. I heard voices and horse’s hooves cantering over rough ground. I rolled around as the cart bounced across its uneven track. Then the air closed in around me and sounds were muffled. Snapping and cracking of twigs thrown up by the cart’s wheels resounded in a hollow. The cart stopped. My heart thumped through my ribs, shooting up to my mouth as I hit the ground with a thud. I tasted blood and then felt nothing. Voices drifted in and out of the distance until all was quiet

Wood smoke—cooking smoke—choked my throat. Water, cool water refreshed my mouth, my face. Smarting cuts were cleansed with kind hands. Smoke, smoke, warm smoke, curling above, reeling below. Hot broth, sweet soup, gurgling through my lips, down my chest. Rest, rest, sleep. Open eyes, clear skies, no longer smoke, only light, wondrous day. An old woman’s face peers over mine. She is wearing thick brown serge cloth. Her hands are gnarled like the bark of an oak. She smiles a toothless grin. I sit up. I hurt and ache. She laughs. I try to stand. She slaps her thighs and bleats like a lamb. I am alright…

The next morning, back in my bed in Camaguey as I came to, my throat was sore and my head throbbed.

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