Saudade

It was nearly morning.

Though it was still dark, the veil cast over the Earth was beginning to lose its grip. The tipping hour--the hour of limbo--parted the lassitude of night and would soon usher in a rejuvenated morn. A soft zephyr ran its course above the sleepy Earth--ticklishly rustling the leafy treetops.

Woosh! Woosh!

It was as if the skies were intentionally filling their bellies full of air and breathing it out harshly. The wind was both cold and ominous. The fauna of the forests nestled closer together in its haughty wake. Rain droplets left hanging idly on blades of grass found themselves in a frenzy as they were sent asunder. The song of jitterbugging streams pervaded the breeze as croaking frogs and stentorian crickets played a serenade.

Though the night was waning, the darkened clouds billowing over the Earth threatened any possible orangeade of the morning sun. Their impregnated bellies, full of rain and lightning, scraped the landscape below. They followed the path of the wind through the rough mountain terrain, away from the far-off shores to the south.

The town of Mijas, a small insignificant community, roosted inside a valley that cut straight through the imposing mountains. Miraculously, it avoided much of the chaos. Mijas remained calm despite the titanic clouds that brushed it as they marched by like soldiers on a mission.

To repeat, it was dark. The penurious farmers of Mijas would soon rouse and find themselves blinded, not by a holy advent, but by darkness itself. Still, their long years had not passed in vain; they had grown smart and their experience did not betray them. They hung vibrant candles under their overextending roofs, something they had learned to do when faced with unpredictable weather. The ploy carried a dogmatic principle, yet, was more practical in nature. The fluttering lights would surely lead anyone to safety were they left astray.

Albeit, given the time of night and lack of life present, the sheltered candles glittered for no one but the peregrinating spirits roaming the inclined valley. This was the dogmatic principle--a spiritual and religious belief. The people of Mijas were a spiritual bunch.

On this night, in a small adobe home, no different than any other littering the sleepy village would see its tenants’ rest suddenly cease. Amidst the calm were sudden prodding sounds that pricked their ears like needles. At first, it was only momentary--a blip, even. Hell, had it even happened?

But then there was a squash! And then a bloop!

The residents’ eyes slowly cracked open, taking their almond shape. Within the bleak darkness, the shimmer in their eyes met. They didn’t dare speak nor mutter a sound, they only looked at each other worryingly as the ambiguous steps rang in their ears. As they Stared into each other’s eyes, it became clear. The sounds were unmistakably caused by the strenuous steps of those plodding in thick mud--of those walking outside their home.

The old man looked at his old wife’s eyes and saw her worry. Youth had escaped their grasp long ago, but within the darkness, unable to see his partner’s ripened face, the man’s instincts began to boil his volition. He placed one doddering hand on his wife’s shoulder and lifted himself upright with the other.

Quickly, but quietly, the man hopped out of bed and reached for the metal bat held against his bed frame. The cold concrete floor did not inconvenience his calloused soles, it didn’t even slow him down. Many days and nights he spent walking on nothing other than the skin on his feet, the cold sensation no longer processed in his mind. With the tips of his fingers, he maneuvered through his small bleak bedroom until he reached the door.

“Zeljko,” his woman called out to him in a whisper, but she was promptly hushed.

Their bedroom door wailed as Zeljko opened it. He paused for a moment, waiting to see if the steps had stopped. With worry he waited, hoping he hadn’t given himself away.

They hadn’t stopped.

He finished opening the door then made his way into the living room with caution, creeping by like a haunting ghost wafting in the air. The steps outside now matched his own. Whoever was circling his home was directly on the other side.

Under the cloak of darkness, he reached the entrance door without any hiccups. He thanked his many gods by kissing the beaded bracelet wrapped around his wrist in all four cardinal directions. Then he gave a silent prayer, imploring for his well-being as all men of faith do.

The woman’s pupils glittered just above the seem of her covers. Her eyebrows furrowed and her face tightened under the weight of her worry. A bead of sweat ran down the course of her forehead until it became perched on the precipice of her nose. She heard her husband open the front door. The acute sound held her at knife-point as if the blade was already at her neck. She whimpered.

Her silent breaths, quick as they were, carried a thousand prayers.

In the abyss, unable to distinguish anything, her mind conjured the wildest of ideas. Her beating heart hastened and her prayers strengthened.

Then--her heart stopped.

Thud!

Another.

The door flung open, banging its nob on the wall and throwing caution out the window.

The old woman shot up from under the covers but remained sitting. Tentatively, she sharpened her hearing, awaiting the cry of her maimed husband...but it never came. As the seconds passed by in silence, worry clouded her senses. Unable to hold her tenacity, her words made a grand escape through her lips.

“Zeljko,” she echoed once more, not raising her voice past a whisper. “Zeljko.”

“Keya!” Her husband met her whisper with a shout. “Keya, come out here!”

Her husband’s flippant tone was a surprise, and she didn’t know what to make of it. The worry that once gnawed at her conscience was now conquered by curiosity. A nervous smile began to spread on her face, but she wasn’t so naive as to throw her worry to the wind just yet. Her husband’s well-being was more apparent than real for the time--she could only surmise from the sound of his voice. Only with her own eyes could her prayers become reality.

Throwing the bedsheets aside, she ran to her beloved’s call.

What she came to find lying atop her living room floor was something far beyond the wildest ideas of any being, let alone her own. So strange was the sight that she blinked twice and rubbed her eyes, but the image in front of her remained.

Zeljko had gone fetched the candle hooked to their roof. Its light shone vibrantly and strong; even the winds outside hadn’t put it out.

Once more, Keya rubbed her eyes, thinking that she was still asleep, but it was all the same. Words that contradicted her affable character took bud in her head, though she denied them of their full bloom. Her bewildered countenance seemed to speak in her stead.

“Zeljko. W-what i-is this?” She stuttered.

“They’re not mine--I can promise you that!” Zeljko was quick to his defense.

Two young corpses lay in their living, thoroughly drenched and mud-laden. Though to call them corpses is misleading--comatose would be better, perhaps. Two young girls. Two young girls were splayed out on their living room floor in comatose. Their attire was completely tattered, burned, and soiled. Their lethargic faces tightened as if they were battling their inner demons. They drew deep breaths and let them out just as heavily.

Then, as the couple’s voices settled, one girl of auburn hair lifted her gaze--gifting the world of their beautiful grey colour. The light of the candle seemingly fused with her hair and set her ablaze. She groaned slightly and winced at the sharp pains poisoning her body. The candlelight was proven too poised for her fatigued mind.

Slowly, the fiery girl met the couple’s gaze, paralyzing them where they stood.

“Well, I can see that--she’s bloody gorgeous!” Keya let a distasteful word escape the restriction of her mind.

“Eek!”

Enticed by the flame’s light, the girl shrieked a frightened cry. But in the same breath, she clasped her open mouth shut. It was as if the flame, flustered by her sudden yelp, had swallowed her breath and rendered her mute. She then placed her arms around her face as if protecting herself from oncoming projectiles. Her legs bent themselves inward into her stomach leaving her in the shape of a ball. Tears began to assemble near the edges of her eyes.

She was vulnerable, and her cowardly reaction attested to it.

“Whoa, whoa. Easy now,” Zeljko spoke as if taming a frightened kitten. “It’s just me. I’m not going to hurt you.”

Moving the candle away from his face, Zeljko smiled amicably. He hoped to calm the girl, but the shadows cast by the wrinkles on his face did him no favours. Still, the good sentiments reached the frightened girl.

Pressed against the wall, the girl sat completely naked of a defense.

“Easy now,” Zeljko continued to say softly.

With a tender smile, Keya greeted the girl and asked for her name, though she didn’t get the reaction she hoped for.

The girl remained silent for a moment. Tossing her gaze from Zeljko then, Keya, then back again. Her words were dearth in the still air. The task of parting her lips proved onerous as they trembled to even lift. Still, the more the silence overstayed its welcome, the more the girl loosened her tight guard. Regardless of anything and everything, she was completely at a loss and trapped.

“Sa-Samara,” the red-headed girl said at last. Her lips trembled with regret and her voice was soft, almost ghostly. A sense of shame washed over her--part of her wished she could take it back. At that moment, she felt as if she had lost custody of her given name as if it had been taken away by some curse.

But she couldn’t be more wrong.

“Samara? What a pretty name,” Keya smiled warmly. Within the reach of the light, Keya’s kinder face looked balmy. Then slowly, as if speaking to a child, Keya introduced herself and her husband, Zeljko. “Samara,” she chose her words carefully. “What-what happened to you? Where are you from?”

Again, like a poet appraising his next word, Samara studied her words before they were let out. “I-I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?” Zeljko echoed sympathetically.

“I-” the mere syllable was enough to break the dam that held the tears she earnestly withheld. Though innocently asked, the question proved more demanding than initially thought. The more deliberation she poured into her memories, the more it tortured her. With the hem of her sleeve, Samara scraped the runaway tears from her cheeks.

“Oh, dear,” Keya whimpered. Without saying more, she bolted up to her feet then went to fetch something from her dresser.

Left alone, Zeljko appraised Samara’s condition as she remained curled up against the far wall. Whatever had happened to the two girls, he thought, in no way had it gone in their favour. Samara’s coat, though spoiled, looked to be made of decent material. A leaf crest was embroidered using white string on the left side of her coat, just above her chest, near her left shoulder.

Zeljko didn’t know what to do or what to say to the trembling girl in front of him. He wanted to help, no one could disprove that. Whether the girl presented any threat escaped the realm of his mind. All that he understood was what was in front of him--a frightened child. Still, what to do? He opened his mouth at times but words seemed to escape him. He wanted to console her, but he didn’t know what to say. He didn’t want to perturb her more than she already was.

Keya returned not long after, relieving Zeljko of his awkward state. Bending down, she handed Samara a white handkerchief embellished with pink petals and green leaves.

“Use this, deary. We don’t want that pretty face of yours getting scratched up now.” A small chuckle accompanied her words, but truth be told, she was holding back tears of her own. Just looking at the state of the two girls, she could tell they had been in the rough for a while.

Samara mulled over her offer as she stared into Keya’s dark brown eyes. There was something in her gaze that Samara found warm and endearing... Motherly. There was no other word--rather, there were many words but they all gathered in equilibrium and threaded that silky word. Mother. Like an orphan babe, she found solace in the kindness of whoever cared to give it to her.

“Thank you. Thank you, and sorry for being such a nuisance.” She was brisk and straightforward. She stretched out her hand, timidly, hovering mere centimeters from the handkerchief. Despite Keya’s friendly smile, Samara remained skeptical. Still, she took it.

“Don’t worry about that now, dear,” Zeljko remained distant, but his wishes filled Samara with warmth. “You’ll be safe here.” Zeljko rubbed the back of his head then spoke again. “You’ll have to change those clothes of yours, otherwise, you’ll get a nasty cold, I reckon. Hope you don’t mind old woman’s clothes, eh, Samara?”

“No, no. I don’t mean to be a bother,” Samara raised her voice for once.

“Nonsense,” Keya was quick to dismiss Samara’s humble words. “Zeljko. Carry--er.” Keya eyed the unnamed girl sleeping supine on the floor, beside Samara.

Samara turned her gaze to her left and was surprised as any other to see someone lying beside her. Who was this girl? She was... How to put it? Different. Strange, foreign, alien. Savage looking. Tribal. The clothes the second girl wore bore no resemblance to that of Samara’s. To begin with, they were far too big for someone of such a petite figure, it was almost comical. The garbs resembled those of a monk.

The petite girl wore a large muslin robe sporting wide-open sleeves. A golden floral motif adorned the ends of the sleeves as a red lace ran the course of the hem. A skin-tight white shirt underneath the robe barred any skin from showing--in fact, she barely displayed any skin at all. A dark blue sleeveless vest covered her white robe that was adorned with hieroglyphics running up and down the flanks of the navy garment.

In total, she wore three sets of upper garbs.

Her white pants, now partly browned by mud, were puffy. Elastic straps tightly held her pants to her ankles and waist. She wore colourful textile sandals to match, though their colours were hard to distinguish under the muddy patches.

Samara remembered her clothing, albeit, the girl’s face was new.

There was something odd about her. Then she recalled! In her returning memories, the girl had donned a veil over her face. Surely this was the first time she caught a glimpse of her face, she thought to herself.

As if her clothes weren’t already mysterious, the petite girl had another layer of mysticism plastered over her face. Two dots were painted near the middle of her forehead and a thin red line was scribbled running down her face, cutting it perfectly in half. Painted on either cheek were the same hieroglyphics that were embroidered on her navy vest.

Odder yet, the girl had no eyebrows--in fact, there wasn’t a trace of hair about her figure. Her eyebrows, eyelashes, and head were all cleanly shaven. It was rather spooky to see, perturbing even--yet interesting.

How bizarre, Samara thought.

Despite all her quirks, the mysterious girl wasn’t unpleasant to look at.

She hated the fact that she was repeating herself, but Samara had her hands tied behind her back. “I don’t--I don’t know. I met--rather, I...I...don’t know.”

“Poor girl. We’ll get you out of those clothes so you can rest easy. Zeljko, carry Samara’s friend to our room. I’ll be there shortly. But first... I think I have some isopropyl somewhere around here.”

“Aye-aye.” Zeljko shot Samara a smile. “Don’t worry, Samara. I’m sure the whole thing will be cleared up by tomorrow’s end. Just rest up for now.”

“No...really. I don’t...mean to...bother--” Unable to finish her sentence, Samara’s vision darkened. Her conscience had collapsed.