Living on Writer's Block

Author’s Note– Going through the later chapters of the story, I realized that ‘Chapter 1 Samuel’ did not at all match ‘Chapters 2-?? Samuel,’ so here’s Chapter 1 again, updated, and Samuel as he actually is meant to be. (Plus — this is a bonus post!) Chapter 2 will also drop today! New chapter drops every Saturday from here on out.

There are many lands. Many of them are far away, and often, in these far away lands, stories happen. But sometimes, stories happen in lands that are not so far away; sometimes, they happen in your own backyard. To a boy in Kansas, the story of Dorothy and her flying house is like a local legend. 

Some of these far away lands are magical, but it’s always a matter of perspective. To a girl in  central downtown NYC, the wild forests of Idaho might seem magical, but to her pen-pal who lives in those forests they are as normal as sky-scrapers are to the NY girl. 

For Ramona Redhawk, magic was as common as a fly would be to you or me. For Ramona Redhawk, the story took place with its inception in a dark, musty old tavern, sitting across from an old business partner, wishing the consequences for murder did not end in a chopping block. 

“Well Samuel,” she sighed, “Up to the same old tricks again, eh?” 

“Of course, Redhawk. I must keep up the reputation, mustn’t I?” 

“Not necessarily. You could be helpful, at least once in a blue moon.” She sighed wearily and rested her chin on her clasped hands. “I could use some help, once in a while.” she added wistfully. 

Samuel’s clear blue eyes studied Ramona over the worn toes of his boots, which were propped up on the tavern table between them. “How so? You seem to shift for yourself just fine.”

“Normally, yes. Because normally, I have at least five contacts with the assets I need, and I can afford to be choosy. But today, you’re the only one, and I have to take all of them to the Matron –– and they’re all old, weak, or sick. She’s not going to let me off easy, Samuel.”

He studied her, thoughtfully twirling a thin, long-bladed knife in his fingers. He knew little about the inner workings of the Matron’s forces, but he knew to avoid her. “What exactly do you mean, Redhawk? You’ve always seemed satisfied with your position.”

She watched the knife in his hands, the way it flashed faintly in the dim light of the tavern. She wondered how much she could –– or should –– tell him, if at all. She looked up from the knife and studied his face as he watched her. She lifted her chin from her hands and sighed heavily at her arms fell with a thump onto the table. 

“How much do you know about the Matron?”

“Little enough. But it’s enough to make me fight shy of her,” he answered, sheathing the knife. 

Ramona bit her lip and looked away, considering. Was it worth it, to risk her life in revealing the Matron’s secrets when her agents might be anywhere? She blinked and looked back at him. His eyes were half closed but she could see he was studying her. When had he ever given her reason not to trust him? She decided to take a risk.

“You remember when I was little,” she began, “an orphan in the streets here. The Matron pulled me out and gave me a home. At first, I was happy with it, because I believed that now I wouldn’t be a slave in some foreign country.” She laughed humorlessly. “Slavery seems to be what I’m destined for. At first life was good –– I had food, a bed, a roof over my head. But then the training began, and it all changed. Yes I had food and a dry, warm place to sleep, but it was all miserable. She trained us to be pickpockets –– we were rewarded with more food, a better place to sleep, more blankets, that kind of thing. But if we did poorly, we were whipped –– badly. At first it was just leather straps, but as we graduated and got better and better, she  added white-hot metal teeth to the ends of the lashes. We got horribly burned –– which cauterized the cuts but hurt much worse for so long after that and often got infected. And slowly, the rewards disappeared. No more extra food, no more nice sleeping quarters, no more physical benefits. So, tonight, when I report to her…” She sighed and ground her face into her hands. “I might as well die now,” she muttered. The red streak in her hair, which changed its brightness according to her emotions, was almost black.

Samuel watched her, his face hard and expressionless. After a moment Redhawk came back out. 

“After a set amount of years of service, she deemed us loyal servants and said we were to be marked. So… we were.” She swallowed hard, and swept her caramel hair with its red streak off her shoulder. Then she pulled the hood of her black cloak aside to reveal a vile thing. On her collar bone was a brand, shaped like a heart, with a black, dripping arrow tattooed through the center. “It was hours of pain. We were shackled to a torture table, and then she began. She branded us first so the tattoo would be clean, and then, right over the fresh pain of the burn she gave us the arrow. We were all screaming and writhing the whole time. She made us watch the others, too; while we tried not to touch or think about our own injuries she inflicted the same ones on our friends –– or at least, the closest we had to friends.” She sighed and looked down at her hands. “I have to get out of here,” she whispered huskily. 

Samuel studied her darkly. “Yes you do, Redhawk, but I don’t see a way out. Not an easy one, at any rate,” he added quietly.

“So is there a hard way out?” she replied, in the same hopeless voice.

“Maybe –– it’ll be dangerous, though. Really dangerous.”

“Anything to get out of this place.” She looked down at the table and drew a shaky breath. “I don’t care.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You’re that desperate?”

She nodded, her eyes fixed on the table. “I can’t take it anymore,” she said suddenly. “She’s tortured me long enough.”

He lurched forward, putting one hand out in warning. “Quiet down,” he hissed. Samuel glanced around the tavern. “We don’t know who could be a spy for your Matron. So keep it down, or we’ll both get it.” He sat back again, slowly, and crossed his arms, eyebrows low. Her gaze flicked up to him and her cheeks reddened in shame, and she nodded. Her lips tightened as she recalled something.

“You don’t even know. There’s one last thing I should tell you –– the Matron has two huge log books in her room that she showed us when we were still sore from the marking. One was full of the names of people who’d gone and told about her practices, and those to whom her practices had been told. The other was those who’d tried to escape, and their accomplices. Samuel ––” her voice shook in fear and anger –– “Samuel, the names were written in their owners’ blood.” She was pale now, her eyes a dull grey-blue, the streak in her hair a blood-red color.  

Samuel shook his head. “Redhawk, I’m all in now. I’ll get you out of there if it kills me.”

“But why?” she burst out a moment of silent thought, suddenly pleading. “Why risk yourself on my account?” She paused and lowered her voice, conscious of staring eyes. “What do I matter to you?” 

He tightened his jaw reflectively, looked at her hard as he considered. “I’m no heartless monster, Redhawk. Besides, it’s the right thing to do.”

She looked at him for a moment, lips slightly parted over her teeth. Her eyes wavered, flickering with faint amber hues as she began to hope, but then quickly plummeted back down to the old dull grey. She shook her head. “I won’t ask you to die for me.” Her expression grew sharp and cold. “I appreciate your concern, Samuel,” she said, “but I think I’ll have to go it alone.” She rose to go.

“Oh, no you won’t,” Samuel said, gripping her wrist and dragging her back into her seat. 

“Now what?”

“Now, I’m just going to do it to be contrary,” he said resolutely. 

“Samuel…” she bit her lip and glanced away, suddenly sorry. “No. Don’t do it. I never should have brought you into it. Please, captain; I won’t ask you to die.” She twisted her wrist in an attempt to escape, but he held firmly onto her. “Let me go, will you?” 

“No,” came the calm reply. “Besides, you’re not asking me to die because I won’t.”

Ramona stood up again, tugging angrily. Her eyes were pale blue now, like a winter sky. “Let go of my arm, Samuel!” she said warningly, her free hand prying at Samuel’s fingers. A few chuckles sounded from around the bar at the far end of the tavern. Ramona saw some weather-beaten old fishermen watching her. She suddenly stopped struggling. She stared coldly down at him, speaking from between clenched teeth. “Let go. Now, Samuel.” 

“I’m not letting go till you sit down,” he said firmly. Ramona froze. Her free hand dropped from her wrist and drifted to her back where she kept her dagger. Samuel noticed and one eyebrow flicked up in disappointment. In a flash, he stood up and slid his free hand beneath her black cloak around her back to the dagger before she had time to react. Their fingers collided and they both gripped the dagger, Samuel’s hand around the dagger and Ramona’s hand around his. She flinched away and released his hand, and he drew the dagger quickly and flung it across the room into the wall, where it stuck, quivering, the point buried in the wood. She stared at him, her eyes a brilliant electric blue and her red streak a bright scarlet. Her cheeks burned, and she was panting slightly, her lips parted. Samuel was as calm as before, his face set and undaunted. Suddenly Ramona relented, and she slowly dropped back into her seat. Samuel released her wrist and dropped into his own seat. “You were really going to try that, Redhawk?”

“I’m sorry, I was being a fool,” she said, embarrassed. “I do need help, and I won’t get it anywhere else, I suppose.” She sighed and put her face in her hands. “What did you have in mind?” The question came out muffled and forlorn. 

“To start with, how about you buck up,” came the brief reply. “You won’t be able to do anything if you just sit there crying all day.” 

Ramona raised her face and stared at him over her fingertips. He was studying her lazily, leaning casually back in his chair. “I wasn’t crying, captain.” 

“Of course not,” he said, a faintly mocking tone in his voice. “A brave girl like you wouldn’t be caught dead with a teary eye. Now, here’s what I propose. I’ll ––” 

Suddenly a hooded figure in the corner opposite Samuel stood up and drew a long dagger, identical to Ramona’s, and raised it to throw at her. Samuel dove for her and shoved her to the ground behind the table, accidentally clipping her jaw on the edge of the table and thereby rendering her unconscious. He grimaced. He hadn’t meant to do that. But, all the better, he thought, ducking as the dagger whistled by over his head. She’s safer now.  He spun around to face his attacker, drawing his cutlass, as the figure charged towards him, drawing a sword of its own. Samuel ducked under a swing aimed for his head, and returned with a swipe at his opponent’s leg. The figure danced away, and Samuel took advantage of the split-second reprieve to pull the table over sideways behind him, completely sheltering Redhawk as she lay on the ground. He spun and braced himself to face the black-cloak. The enemy charged again. Samuel parried the coming blow and secretly drew his own knife from its sheath, hefting it carefully in his left hand, setting himself. He went on the offensive, surging forward, aiming his sword tip for his adversary’s heart. His blade was knocked aside, as he predicted. He gave a slight smile and he used the block’s sideways momentum to spin, letting it carry him forward to plunge the knife into the belly of his enemy. There was a sudden cessation of all movement in the tavern. The hooded figure looked down slowly, groaning, and staggered back, a hand at its waist around the hilt of the dagger. Samuel straightened up, reset his feet, and lunged forward one last time, driving his sword into the heart of the figure. There was a choking scream, and his adversary staggered back against the wall then slumped to the floor, lifeless. Samuel, breathing hard, pulled a few coins out of his pocket and flung them to the terrified inn keeper. “Sorry for the mess,” he said, then turned around to check on Ramona. She was sitting up slowly, staring uncomprehendingly at the black-cloak slumped against the wall across the room. 

“You alright, Redhawk?” Samuel asked, offering a helpful hand. “I didn’t mean to clip your jaw there,” he added as he helped Ramona to her feet. She swayed and fell against his arm, dazed. 

“I’m fine,” she said faintly. “I can walk –– by myself.” She tried to step back but overbalanced, and started falling backward. Samuel caught her arm and kept her upright, then supported her as she walked over to the body. She knelt cautiously, as Samuel withdrew his hand, and took a hold on the hood with the tips of two fingers, took a deep breath, and flung it back.