Mina goes to market

"You look uncomfortable, pretty Mina," I said

"Master knows well how to beat a girl," she answered, tugging the single oar through the murky water with a decided lack of grace.

I shrugged, indicating she should do her best to navigate into a side canal on her right. She was speaking with proper deference to me today, but her tone still had an edge of insolence. I found it charming, provided she did not push it too far. She was rowing in the stern of my small, green boat. I was in the bow, relaxing and enjoying the view. That view, by the way, was enhanced by the fact that Mina found it difficult to keep her curvy backside still on the bench. She squirmed and attempted to sit on one side of it, then the other. Two days ago, I whipped her. Partly for her attitude, but mostly to satisfy my curiosity. I was beginning to think Mina was not entirely without interest. Staring at a nice ass can be enough to accomplish some days, and consider oneself productive. Not every day, but now and again. Still, I thought it prudent to offer the girl constructive criticism.

"You are not very good at navigating a small boat," I offered. Alright, it was not entirely constructive.

"I am not meant for this sort of thing!" she answered as she dunked the oar and it yanked her sideways. She nearly fell backward off of the bench, but I was feeling charitable, and thoughtfully lifted my sandaled foot between her shoulders.

"In the future, if you would prefer, I can leave you back at the Tavern to empty piss pots and wash dishes," I offered. You see. Charitable.

"No!" she said quickly, and then composed herself. She even tried to smile a bit.

"Your rowing will have to improve, of course," I amended. "Have I mentioned that you are not very good?"

"Yes, Master," she nodded, bringing the oar from the left side of the boat to the right, doing her best to push us through the water.

"If we are not at the market soon," I mentioned, "the best peaches will have been sold."

Lady Philomena

"I am sent to clean your room," the girl's voice came from the doorway of my rented room.

I had just awoken moments ago, washed my face in the basin. I was watching the last of the Tavern Master's patrons stumble out onto the dock, grimacing at the rising sun's reflection of the canal's murky waters. The noise of the establishment below does not bother me, nor interfere with my ability to sleep. Not much, at any rate.

"Pardon me," the girl said, trying to get my attention. "I am sent to clean your room."

I was watching a man rubbing the side of his head, trying to remember where he might have tied his boat as he cast his gaze left and right. He waved cheerfully at me, forgetting his dilemma for the moment.

"You do not seem overjoyed with the prospect of cleaning my room," I pointed out to the girl, turning from the window to regard her.

She seemed comely enough, if a bit lax in her calisthenic regimen. Her hair was brownish, tied up in a rag. Her garment was a slip, the hem rudely cut so it laid high on her thighs. She blushed as I considered her thighs, trying her best to hold them tightly together.

"Of course I am not overjoyed with the prospect of cleaning your room!" she bellowed.

I glanced up, fairly surprised that she would take that tone with me. Her eyes were brown, a similar shade to her hair, and they were wide with anger and, I thought, trepidation at her lapse in discipline.

"Is such a thing below your station?" I asked, rather generously not pointing out the beating she now richly deserved. "Are you not a slave girl?"

"Slave girl?!" she exclaimed. "Slave girl?! No I am not a slave girl!"

I nodded, pointing out a fact. "You are not wearing a collar," I said. "And the hem of your tastefully altered garment is high enough that I am able to discern the lack of a brand."

As I glanced to her bare thigh, and her muchly exposed hip, she made an effort to tug the frayed hem down. Of course, this only exposed her lovely cleavage further. My expression must have been one that indicated I was at least marginally impressed, as she began to blush from her cheeks to her throat.

"Indeed," she said hoarsely, trying to clear her throat. "I am here under duress, forced by that brute of a man to clean the rooms of renters!"

"I am the only tenant," I pointed out helpfully.

"There is that," she nodded, accepting that her fate, while dire, needn't be exaggerated.

"Shall I make haste to the Tavern Master and request an audience?" I asked. "Perhaps I can enlighten him to his obvious mistake, illuminate him to the absence of a brand on your thigh or a collar about your throat."

I saw her tense, her shoulders squaring and her fists clenching. Her brow furrowed in anger. "You are mocking me."

"Yes," I admitted. "I could commence with your beating, if you'd prefer."

Her eyes widened and her mouth opened, the words failing her for a moment.

"Of course, that would delay the cleaning of my room," I pointed out to her.

"You, too, would beat me?" she asked, her tone quite a bit less indignant.

"The Tavern Master beat you?" I asked.

"Yes,"she said, her eyes a bit wet, but tears not yet imminent. "For no reason! No reason at all!"

"That is not true," I pointed out. "New slaves are commonly whipped when they cross the threshold of their master's domicile for the first time. It encourages discipline."

"I am not a slave," she said firmly, some of that indignant tone returning to her voice.

"My apologies," I said. "Lady?"

"Philomena," she answered. "Lady Philomena of Ko-ro-ba."

"Are you the one the Tavern Master refer to as Mina?" I asked, already certain of the answer.

She had a disgusted look on her face, but I noted her nipples were firm beneath the flimsy slip. It did not seem to be chilly in my room, but that is a subjective observation. I wondered, for the first time, how she might look nude, if the indolence of a free existence had made her completely without interest.

"Yes!" she said. "The brute calls me Mina! Mina! It is the name of a slave!"

Apparently, this was a point of contention between her and the Tavern Master.

"It is a lovely name," I pointed out. "Lyrical, even. And it recalls your given name cleverly."

"I am sent to clean your room," she said, her teeth clenched. Her anger confounded me. Were we not having a pleasant conversation?

"How did you come to be a servant in this tavern?" I asked her.

This seemed to buoy her. Would I listen to her story? Truly listen? Maybe there was hope for her after all. She was not branded. Yet. Her throat was not encased in steel. Yet. If she changed her tone, spoke more pleasantly, I might be consigned to her cause.

"Sir," she started. "I was arranged to be the companion of Samos, Master of the House of Samos."

"I was under the impression that Port Kar did not recognize free companionships," I interjected. "Are not free women here referred to as the 'women of their men?'"

"Yes, sir," she nodded. "I was to be the woman of Samos. My father arranged for this in order to seal a friendship with him."

"A friendship?" I asked.

"Indeed," she nodded hopefully.

I stroked my chin, letting my fingers cover my mouth that she would not detect the smile.

"And when you arrived in Port Kar, what occurred?" I asked.

"We gained entrance to the House of Samos, where I was received in a rather unimpressive room for such a grand residence," she said. "Papers were signed, men spoke amongst themselves as I waited, and then..."

"And then?" I prodded.

"I was put in shackles!" she exclaimed. "And gagged with my own veils!"

"No!" I exclaimed facetiously.

"Yes!" she averred. "It was terrible. I was thrown, robes and all, my wrists behind my back, into a hay wagon!"

"And then?" I asked, my best incredulous look.

"I was offloaded into a boat, a small dinghy!" she said. "And put beneath a man's feet as he rowed! He showed no concern for my discomfiture!"

"The rogue!" I said back to her, barely able to contain my laughter. "What then?"

"I was brought here! Of all places!" she said. "This is not the House of Samos! I am the woman of Samos! Lady Philomena of Ko-roba!"

I took a breath, and smiled. I suppose my smile was a bit condescending, but there was no reason to apologize for that. She was not due better.

"Are you finished now?" I asked her.

"Finished? Finished?!" she asked, clearly surprised. "Are you not prepared to liberate me, to come to my succor?"

"Do not be silly, Mina." I said to her. "You will clean my room. Later, when you have finished, I will beat you for your insolence."

Thoughts

Early and often, I have paid the penalty of passion and the price of dignity

The ego-driven presumption, assumption, and the outright lies we tell ourselves

Our own self-deception, projected perception, and well-weighted opinions

Of our lives, of our ambitions, of our prowess and our possessive positions

Is it such a scandal, such an elusive notion that a man's wishes exceed his grasp?

And what of the unlikely event, upon reaching that uncharted horizon

Where heretofore unimagined circumstance alights, and he steps foot on that isle

While the doubtful, the scornful, the meek, and the mundane shake their fists?

Living a life in full, an existence unbound, a vision unfettered by blinds

Demands the seeker of fates and friction, unlimited faith in the frisson

Fear hath no hearth and home in the heart of the hero, if such melodrama applies

It flies in the face of his unconventional ignorance, a wisdom of sorts

Cut me, and I bleed. Red and full, in a dilution that stains and cleanses in one stroke

The scars external, can never match the rending of the soul, the un-mended whole

What is fierce, is yet fragile. Agile, existing on solace over feckless adoration

We are all an island, a city, a state, a nation of one - until our penultimate breath

Introspect; Longing

There's still a little bit of your taste, in my mouth

There's still a little bit of you laced, with my doubt

It's still a little hard to say

What's going on

Days gone by. Hands. Months. Years. The pasangs behind me never surpass the distance laid out before me. And the farther I travel, the smaller the world seems. Most days it is little more than this modest stretch of canal, where only rowers, canoes, and gondolas navigate. It is a humble view of the world, from the window of my rented room, but enough for now. Vendors laden down with their goods of trade, slave girls hanging laundry. All of this under the complimentary haze of a midmorning sun, before the full light of day brings an honest clarity to the muck and the mire, the myriad sins of lies, deceit, debt, and betrayal.

There's still a little bit of your ghost, your weakness

There's still a little bit of your face, I haven't kissed

You step a little closer to me

Still I can't say what's going on

A prisoner of the city, in his chains and manacles, under guard, scrubs the same stretch of cobbled pathway each day. I sometimes wonder where he is from, how he came to this predicament. He weathers the blows of the guards, sometimes a fist to the back of his head, other times a kick at his legs, with a patient resolve. Wretch though he may be, he does not seem to be a slave. Perhaps he will find a way out of this morass of circumstance.

Stones taught me to fly

Love, it taught me to lie

Life, it taught me to die

So it's not hard to fall, when you float like a cannonball

I have fallen into a comfortable routine in this city, famed for its infamy, and also for its courage to overthrow the chains of despots. Free men did not build her walls, but she is free nonetheless, grand in a way that is best understood by being here. And a power to be reckoned with. Though I long for home, for the beauty of the Theater, the adventure of the Anbar, and the simple pleasure of being amongst the People, I am starting to wonder when I will return, if I will return. I do not believe in the maxim, 'you cannot go home again,' as I have gone and returned dozens of times, but I understand the meaning of it. One changes. One grows. One evolves with the passage of time, and the experience of life. If one is truly 'of' a place, as I am of Ar, I do not believe one changes into something incompatible with his origin, nor does he outgrow it, or even evolve past the intangible part of his being that defines him. I suppose I will return home, but I cannot say when.

There's still a little bit of your song in my ear

There's still a little bit of your words I long to hear

You step a little closer to me

So close that I can't see what's going on.

lyrics by Damien Rice - 'Cannonball'