The Corn Flower Chain
By Evan
(Remember the Key Game? This is the Chain Game! =)
Mehadi hung by her knickers from the sickeningly tall, very jagged palace wall and gently swayed with the humid summer air.
It had all seemed so flawless in her head. But obviously it hadn't been. She had plenty of time to think on it now.
When, she thought, had things gone so wrong?
Several more very tall, very put out guards had congregated below her. She could only imagine what names they were conjuring up for her. She may be in peril but at least she could not hear them from so high above. Each of the stern, armored women added to the warming debate of how exactly they were supposed to fetch the bothersome girl who, for the fourth time in as many days, had tried to leave the palace grounds.
Without using a door.
Mehadi, upon hearing the distressing sound of her silk pantaloons tearing further, thought the problem might very well solve itself given some patience.
Too bad, she thought with a sigh, that she wasn't on the other side of the wall.
Not that the 100 metre drop down to a thrashing pool of live alligators and angry large-toothed fishes would have assured her passage, but it would have been preferable to the latter.
Which was to be returned to Mistress Petraliambili.
She hadn't been owned by her for very long.
Three weeks of the most unimaginable hardships Mehadi had ever experienced in her young harem term.
The only thing small about Mistress Petraliambil was her mind. Fallen into not power but rather money by birth, she spent her endless wealth and time doing what she did best.
Which was snoring flat on her back in amongst the pillows with a tipped over bottle of wine in her thick hand or eating anything and everything set before her.
Peel me more honeyed grapes and sing that song I like.
Mehadi fetch me more lard cakes and don't skimp on the butter sauce!
I sweat so much I have a rash! Mehadi do scratch my back it is far too hot in here for me to do it myself. Use your nails, girl!
Mehadi slept each night nestled beneath the bloated clammy arm, staring out the latticed windows and supremely grateful when the wind picked up to carry the gagging aroma of Mistress Petraliambil, pickled in wine and fearful of baths because her mother had caught a fever and passed away from that very act.
Mehadi, pensive at the thought, suddenly felt the taunt silk give and within moments, she landed with a loud thud in the safety of the waiting sheet.
"Oh!" She frowned delicately, rubbing at her sore limbs. The glares of the guards reflected little sympathy. She was righted and ordered to march.
Her pantaloons were in disrepair and she caught several of the younger, less experienced guards looking at her exposed rear end. She gathered up the material to cover herself but not very quickly.
She tried winking up at the towering put out woman, knowing the talk of the strict regiment of the Queen's guard, and alleged loneliness of the military.
The guard shook her head and gestured for Mehadi to get going.
Mehadi complied, hoping that Mistress Petraliambil was still sleeping off her almond lard cake and plum liquor binge the evening before.
She had no such luck.
Her mistress had, of course, been alerted to her escape and sat propped up among her many luxurious, if not stained, pillows. Mehadi covered her lips to stifle a small chuckle. The woman looked nearly like a pillow herself.
The madam looked angry, her eyes flashing.
"Mehadi, you hateful girl! I am done with your mischief!"
Mehadi attempted not to jump up and down in unadulterated joy.
"You want to go outside of these walls so badly you shall."
Mehadi paused, intrigued. Outside? She had been born and raised here, what could she possibly do outside?
"You will make a fine gift," she snarled, waddling over to her cluttered vanity and shaking her finger at the girl so that her golden bangles shook. "That foreigner deserves you."
Foreigner? Mehadi covered her smile with a bit of sheer material that hung from the windows.
"Curb that smile, my dear. You may look like a flower but a trinket with a broken clasp is of no use to me!" The madam turned to her vanity mirror and held a gaudy jeweled necklace to her thick throat while lifting a half eaten sticky sugared fruit she had happened to have left there the day before. She tossed it over her ample shoulder with a discontented sigh.
"You shall leave in the morning. Believe me, the foreign devils will not show as much kindness upon your crafty ways as I have."
Mehadi looked sullen, lidding her dark gold eyes against her mistress's words as she would a harsh wind.
"Oh go, you silly hen! Go and prepare the chamber pot! I think the lard cakes were left out for much too long!"
The displeased matron waved her hand in angry dismissal and Mehadi was relieved to finally be employed and not glared at for once. After plaiting the thick greasy hair of her mistress, she was allowed to curl up against the satin pillows to sleep. It was well, she thought, that the madam was cross enough with her to deny her the usual night time intimacy. Yet the thought of the foreign palace troubled her a little. Not very much. Though she loved the spiced air and sunlit rooms of this home, her mistress's foul airs and temper clouded them as a rain cloud in spring. She would be glad to leave that behind but she had never thought of being sold.
Sold. She wrinkled her nose. What a common word.
She thought herself beautiful. At least all could agree on that, even the madam. She twined her fingers contemplatively through her locks. The rope of long hair was her pride; oiled, cleaned and cared for with loving attention and scented with rare perfumes. It was the sort of rare black which possessed a sheen of dark green and deep purple rather than simple dark brown when exposed to sunlight. It was hair that invited people to bury their faces in and sigh. Indeed, it was this hair that the other girls envied and that had caught the madam's eye in the first place.
It had not always brought her good fortune.
Her eyes were fair in her dark complexion. A visiting young poet had once called them amber gems. She had liked the dashing girl very much. Kisses were sweet from her red-glossed mouth and nothing had won more favor among the novice girls than the brush of her lips.
But would the foreign devils think as much?
She had heard some of the younger girls speak of them in wonder and fear, the older and wiser girls with much more reserved curiosity. They were said to have pale skins and prefer the scents of musk and leather to flowers and herbs. Some said their music was strange, their songs impossible to learn. Mehadi shivered in excitement. What would her lovely mouth sound like trying to form the new name of her mistress? Would she be dressed in heavy furs instead of the light silks and sheer organza of her own house? Her heart suddenly froze. Would they make her cut her hair?
She rolled over with a sigh, still shivering. She wanted desperately to look upon something pretty. Outside, the moon glowed full and bright like a luminous kite. She smiled. No matter where she was sent, it would never abandon her. Perhaps some things would remain the same, even in her new homeland. A guttural snore from the madam made her shut her eyes.
And perhaps her new mistress would smell a bit less like a goat.