Born for Silk (The Cradled Common)

Chapter 4

Chapter Four

Aster

The van comes to a stop.

We exit the vehicle under the cloak of night. I cannot see much through the face mask, but follow the lamp held ahead by the Wardeness. Whistles from the gale dance around me until we are declining steep steps away from the fingers of the night and into a dimly lit concrete underground space.

My heart races knowing this is an unusual practice; sneaking away at night, just the three of us—the Silk Wardeness, Iris, and I—accompanied by two Guard: one ahead of us and one behind.

My body vibrates with nerves and something else entirely. Something strange and as lovely as it is alarming—excitement. I like the idea of sneaking around, like the idea of secrets and journeys.

I shouldn’t want such things.

Curiosity isn’t a virtue.

I look at Iris as she clings to the Wardeness’s cloak— granted, the company could be better down here…

When the tunnel creates a sanctuary from the wind and sand, I pull my mask down and sling back my hood, which bunches at my shoulders.

I look around but see only steep concrete bathed in a low white hue from flickering tracks of lighting hugging the cracked grey ceiling.

“Will you note the lighting issue for when you come back tomorrow for your deliveries?” The Wardeness asks the Guard ahead. “There must be a windmill down.”

“Noted, Ma’am.”

The grey walls seem to disappear into the dead straight distance and my imagination takes over as the mundane trek continues for many minutes.

I picture the land above this tunnel. An unknown city or plane or farm. No glass walls of isolation. The aviary is all I know—I have only ever visited the Lower-tower a handful of times for special occasions, and even so, we are rushed from shop to shop, hidden and surrounded by Guards.

A few minutes pass, and I almost miss the steel door that the Wardeness stops beside.

She knocks twice and steps backward. The gasp of air escaping the door gives homage to its age and tight seal.

“Mother Rose and her sister are awake,” another Wardeness says through the door. “Bring the girls inside but don’t touch a single surface. You’ve not been tested or checked for ailments.”

“This will never be spoken of.” The Silk Wardeness turns to us, her cheeks flushed from the walk. “We travelled far because I trust these Mothers with our secrets, not all would allow such a visit. Or I would have taken you to a nursery closer to home. If anyone was to find out we let you in here with the babes, Trade be merciful, they’ll only have my head. The king himself doesn’t know the location of each nursery. Only a handful of people in all The Cradle know where we keep the precious babes.”

“Why risk it then?” I ask.

“Listen to me.” She cups my cheeks. “I care for all my girls. I care deeply. I can see the path you will take, and it is pitted with pain.” She wraps one arm around Iris’ waist and holds the arch of my neck with the other. “My girls.” She squeezes with affection. “This is your future should you choose to overcome your corrupt feelings of jealousy and hate for each other.”

We enter.

My breath catches as the warm, softly lit lounging area comes into view like a flower opening, revealing soft pinks, reds, and a scent unlike I have ever known. I sniff the air.

“Baby powder,” the Wardeness says to me, sweeping her hand to the side. My eyes follow. Along the wall are babies in rope hammocks, some stirring, cooing, and others mouthing in their sleep. I know they are babies because I have seen pictures of them, but they are even more beautiful in the flesh. They have such big heads for the size of their bodies, short limbs with rolls of plump skin bunching at every crease. They look like dough. Nothing like the little bird I found. Nothing so tight and frail. They are round. Chubby, even. Delightful.

“Welcome, Silk Girls,” a woman in an apron says, rocking a hammock with her hand to a baby’s chest. It mewls gently. Her voice is husky and deep but somehow soothing. “I’m Mother Rose, and this is what it looks like to be on the night shift with the babes. The light-hours are far wilder and fun, but nothing beats the nights when we cuddle and sing.”

“They are lovely.” Iris’s voice unsettles me, gentle and kind, and I turn to stare at her.

She slowly returns my gaze and doesn’t harden her expression. Every nerve in my body pricks up. I barely recognise her features like this. “Aren’t they, Aster? Just so peaceful.”

Startled by her, by some magical baby force that has her melting into someone capable of kindness, I gaze back at the source of her affection. The baby squeezes Mother Rose’s finger. My heart feels like it might pop.

“These are the babies of The Cradle,” the Wardeness says quietly with a sigh. “ Trade willing , I wasn’t a Silk Girl, so I never had a chance to be a Sired Mother, but you girls do, and the most coveted Trade for women is to care for these little ones. No studies. No eyes on you. All the food you wish, the clothes you choose, and peace. It’s guaranteed.”

I look at Iris again, my lips forming a tight line. She is right.

This is the offering: a place away from the Guards, away from the Redwind, from the eyes that track us, the militant rules. This is the promised retirement for a Silk Girl. If we give The Cradle two boys and a girl.

“One may be a lord,” I murmur. “Imagine that.”

“One shouldn’t imagine anything,” Iris states, straight from her textbook, the dangers of speculations.

“ Hosh-posh , we are all women here.” Mother Rose waves her hand. “Just a couple of old hens living out our lives in peace and tranquillity. Meaningful Purpose. Meaningful duties. We can talk in here.”

My ears basically grow. “About anything?”

“Anything.” She leans in, a playful smile teasing the corner of her mouth. “We are old. We’re done. What are they going to do with us if we natter? The babies can’t understand us.” She winks at me, and I giggle once.

Iris squares her shoulders. “But I have nothing to talk about. My mind is too fixed on my Meaningful Purpose.”

“Oh, lies. ” Mother Rose dismisses, and I gape. “I can see the attitude all over this one’s face. You look like someone twisted your nose. You have thoughts. I am certain. You’re having them right now. Probably about me.”

Iris takes a step back, lifting her chin in defence. “What about the other…” she trails off before finishing with, “girls, erm , women? They might misinterpret ?”

“There is a thought. Good for you, dear.” She looks between us. “Don’t you trust each other? You don’t trust your Collective with your thoughts? My dear sweet, Silk Girl, you are not perfect, and your imperfections will be blemishes your flock must hide for you. Hide from The Trade and your lords. You will succeed together not alone. The only confidant you truly have is your fellow Silk Girls. You wear the pregnancy and the birth together. It is not easy. Your pregnancy is hard on your body and the birth is harder still. And one Silk Girl will not supply The Trade. There is no I in Trade.”

I blink at her. “Pardon?”

“Such younglings. It’s an old saying, from the old-world. There is no I in Trade. Achievements come when we act together. Such is The Trade’s way; failure usually happens alone. History shows us this.”

On the journey home I feel a shift between Iris and me. She sits close and yet, quiet.

My bully gauge is silent, too.

The chaotic winds outside howl, but through the tinted windows, it’s merely an abyss of black swirls. It’s early—first-light perhaps, but no direct light will come until the sun is high enough to cut through the thick Redwind. And to think, there are people out there. In the waste. In the wind. Merely surviving.

And by choice.

I could have been a Fur Girl.

I’d be out in the Redwind, skin peeling from the gale, eyes red raw, running for my life, hunted, killed, raped, and eaten. If I were lucky, it would be in that order.

Fur Borns are free but not protected. That is the life I was saved from when they brought me home—to the Aquilla Silk Aviary.

I look at Iris who bats her eyelids softly, slumber’s heavy presence weighing on her. I am yawning, sleep clinging to my lashes also, when there is a loud bang.

The car flips, throws us forward, and then— I scream as we become weightless, gravity drawing me in all directions.

My vision blurs. I can hear the van bashing as it rolls and slams, rolls and slams, my body hitting the roof, the side, thumping, smashing, shattering glass, and the sound of screams rattle the space.

Fear and adrenaline course through me when the van ends the perpetual revolving and slides on its side, the crying of metal on rock twisting my spine into coils.

The vehicle stops completely, the air is thick with silence, and my own breath is a staccato beat in my ears.

I blink around and groan from pain, a warning my body is bruised and twisted. To the side, Wardeness lies unconscious. In front of me, Iris moans, a small snake of blood trickling down her forehead. “Iris? Iris?”

Suddenly, a big, bloodied hand reaches through the shattered window behind her head and fists her hair.

My blood runs cold.

Her screams echo through the car as she is dragged backward through the glass, her arms and legs flailing around.

I find the strength to sob. Pathetic attempt to react, really. Paralysed, I watch in horror as her feet disappear into the ominous dark.

The screaming stops, the wind howls, and my breath shakes from between my lips.

A minute or more. I don’t move. That is all it takes, though, before the life I know changes forever. The pretty glass house that protected me shatters.

“Hello, sweet bread.” A man drags me from the car by my hair. He is cast in shadows, but the stench of blood and oils seep through the air like long fingers violating my nostrils.

I am being shoved forward between multiple bodies, the wind slicing at my legs and face, lashing me with the sand it breathes.

As I am pushed through an opening, I lose my footing and fall to the floor. The wind is suffocated when a heavy door shuts.

It’s cold. Still.

“Well, well, what a catch.” A man laughs. “Those crazy motherfuckers were right. Got ourselves a couple of Silk Girls.”

I spin to my bum and squint through the dark. Five men in tatty clothes, soaking wet from something sticky, stand over me.

Fur Born men.

“ Aster …” A female voice finds me as I stare at them. I turn to see the Wardeness and Iris beside me on the floor. Shadows move across their faces, but both are awake and waiting. Scared.

“The Guards?” I mutter.

“Do you know what you’re doing?” Wardeness warns the men, her voice a tremoring mess. “These girls are the property of The Cradle, and I am their?—”

“Shut up, woman!” the biggest one, with a bald head and square jaw, snarls before reaching for her and pulling her to her feet. She stumbles as he leans in, “You’ll keep for weeks with all that blubber.” Her eyes lock in on mine. She doesn’t speak, but the terror she feels screams from her gaze. “Take the fat one to the basement.”

While three Endigo keep watch, two drag our Wardeness into a hallway, and I slide my hand along the floor, looking for a piece of glass or debris.

My stomach churns.

I can smell burning flesh and hair. The air is electrified. I find myself inhaling a putrid smell and nearly gag as the body of air seems to roll down my throat.

“That’s something aint it?” the same one says to me, grabbing a hold of my elbow and pulling me to my feet. “The smell of contaminated flesh. See,” he pulls me further into the room, toward a fire in a barrel. “We cut his leg off and cooked it when it was fresh. Nice. Not as sweet as your legs will be.” He licks his lips. “Don’t worry. Usually, we keep the live meat clean, but the water stopped running when the mill went down last week, so we couldn’t.” He pushes me down onto a bloody bed; the cushions are stained, brown and red.

I take in my surrounding through side eyes: old mattresses, sofas, and barrels. So many different barrels, and one is on fire, the light illuminating a ring around us.

Then I see the man—the live meat.

My eyes hollow. My heart rings in my ears like an alarm. He is missing a forearm, sliced off at the elbow, and a shin; the kneecap is an avocado colour and oozes with yellow puss.

I cover my mouth to stop from vomiting.

Should I run?

Scream for help?

“No. No!” I hear a woman scream from somewhere inside the building. I snap my head toward the sound. I don’t need to see anything. I can imagine what they are doing. Like my raptor’s teeth—slicing into flesh, sucking muscles from tiny bones.

Screaming won’t help.

The woman’s guttural cries wind up, building and building until they cut off. Right in the middle. Like her voice box was severed in half, or perhaps she just passed out.

Hunted, killed, raped, eaten.

If you’re lucky, it’ll be in that order.

She wasn’t lucky.

Across from me on another soiled sofa, Iris has her eyes squeezed shut, her hair is dishevelled, and her dress is stained and ripped. I sit upright and still, watchful.

“Can I touch that one?” A younger one bares his teeth, thin like sewing needles, and rubs at the swell between his thighs, staring at Iris. “I like that one.”

“Not now, you fool,” the largest one says.

Iris sways. Her body gives way and flops to the side on the filthy sofa.

“Iris,” I whisper-shout. I won’t be able to carry her out if we get a chance to escape. I need her to run. Fight. Survive. “ Iris .” But she’s out cold. His words were too much for her to handle.

As I sit stiff like an obedient doll, my eyes veer around the room to watch the men as they go about their routines. The young one plops down on a stained pink sofa and picks his teeth with a rusty knife, angry eyes never leaving Iris’s unconscious body.

The big one, the leader, moves over to a bench and lifts a barrel onto it; it must weigh a ton. He’s strong.

Can’t overpower him, not even with Iris.

A skinny one lays down on a tatty bed and rests his forearm over his eyes; a large automatic weapon is thread into his belt. The gun could fill us with holes in seconds if we tried to run away from them.

Can’t run.

The live meat , twitching and disorientated, stares at a puddle of piss on the concrete by his feet. He’s given up. A man twice my size with far more muscles didn’t escape…

Fighting back isn’t possible.

I think about the dead baby bird, belly up and stiff. Like me now. It broke its neck on the glass dome. I always thought it was an accident, but maybe it would rather die than be trapped and taunted by the other birds. Maybe it was being chased. Hunted. Maybe it was courageous and resilient, not insignificant. Determined. It tried to break free instead of cowering in a corner of the aviary.

I’ll be the upside-down bird.

I think through the dusky first-light as the Endigos take turns sleeping. I won’t go huddled in a corner. There is a way out… I scan the cavernous space. It’s an old factory of sorts.

I pay attention to details; the floor is cracked and so are the bricks, so maybe there is a hole somewhere small enough for me to fit through…

I keep looking. Strip drains run in tracks down the centre, maybe there is a well I could hide inside. Seven beds, but only five men.

Where are the other two?

Three sofas, and old tables are squeezed close together, probably for warmth at night. The echo of each slight noise denotes a larger area swallowed by the dark. The stench of death climbs along my tongue.

No clean water…

With that, I remember the closest mill is down, which means Trade men will be coming to fix it.

Alert, I mull the next few days or weeks over in all their horror. When I heard stories of Endigos and feral Fur men, I presumed they would capture and kill their prey. It never occurred to me that they would keep them alive, live with them, clean them, cutting pieces off day by day until they bid them farewell with a final slash.

I’m staring at the drains, thanking the pond for teaching me to swim and wondering where they may lead, when the young one stands. I hide my interest but track him subtly as he checks the other men are asleep.

With the others out cold, he turns to Iris.

I swallow as he approaches her. Placing a hand on either side of her body, he looks engrossed in her every feature. His eyes flick to her forehead, where the blood from the crash has dried to a crusty river. He leans over and his tongue lashes out, lapping at the bloody trail.

I gasp, and his eyes snap across.

He rises, staring at me.

My heart thrashes inside my ribcage, the fearful organ is desperate to leap free from the snare of his gaze. I shuffle backward on the mattress.

“Pretty, pretty, little girl. Pretty, pretty, little girls,” he says, a taunting lullaby. He would only be a few years older than me, perhaps newly a man. Is he mad? I know nothing of the behaviours of men. The anatomy, yes, I’m quite versed in that area from my Silk Girl training, but not the manners.

I track him with my eyes as he sits back on his pink sofa, but now he’s fixated on me. “I’ve never had a Silk Girl before.”

“We belong to The Trade. To the king.”

I don’t know why I say it.

Such a redundant attempt to rattle him.

“ Ooo ,” he mocks, as I knew he would. “Where is he now? Have you met him? I’m sure you have if you’re his Silk Girls.” His face contorts with thoughts of anger and bitterness as he continues, “They say King Rome is the closest thing left to a pure Xin De.” He leans into the barrel at his side and pulls out a strip of cooked, pink flesh, a seam of fat around the edge. All the while looking at me, he plucks pieces of the loin apart and plops them into his mouth. “They say he’s full of metal and eight foot tall.” The fire licks upward from the barrel between us. “I saw a pure Xin De once. The Trade left me and my family —starving . This bitch was dead when I found her in an abandoned basement. There was half a baby hanging from inside her. Still fresh. Both of them. Maternal deaths are so common that even at the age of nine, I knew what had happened. Xin De are too big for their own mothers. Without Trade help, women die. Just another way they control us.”

He hates The Trade.

He talks around a chewy piece of meat. “I tried to cut the baby free so I could put it on salt for later, but the woman’s skin was like hide. I’m part Xin De, got some of the undesirable mutilations, but I don’t have skin like that…” Then he smiles at me, and my stomach turns. I roll my lips together to mask the revulsion I feel. “Not like you,” he adds. “I’ll go into you like a knife into that baby that hung from her. You’re soft. Your skin is thin. They made you so fragile and made themselves so indestructible. It’s no wonder the Trade has been trying to backpedal this fucking Gene Age disaster. Mix us. Blend Common and Xin De. So tell me, little Silk Girl, tell me all the tales of King Rome. Your saviour.”

I know we are sheltered in the Silk Aviary, but Silk Girls are well read, so I don’t allow him to frighten me.

Instead of detesting him for his vulgar story, I stare at this young man, unable to overlook the despair hidden beneath his layers of resentment. What must he have seen and done in his young life? Would I be any different if I had walked in his shoes? I hope I would still be decent even as I fought to survive.

It seems fruitless, but time is my friend, so I humour his request while I consider what to do.

“King Rome has a giant eagle named Odio,” I begin, playing along. “He is as big as I am. Wings twice the span of my arms outstretched. They say he flies into each battle first and rips the head of the opposing leader right off his shoulders with his talons. Carries the head to King Rome and places it in his hands to symbolise the beginning of each battle.”

The man leans forward onto his knees, murky brown eyes narrowing. He is dirty, yes, but youthful in a way that saddens me. “You’re not what I expected from a Silk Girl. I’ve jerked off to the idea of the perfect little breeding girls you are. Pure. Unopened by a man. Adore, pleasure, provide, am I right? Nothing in your pretty heads except that.” He hums in thought. “But you’re… talking about beheadings, sitting there all stiff and alert, like you’re going to try to take us all on. Is that it, little girl? You’re not even that squeamish. Your friend couldn’t stand the sight or smell, but you…” He studies me harder. “What are you?”

“I’m different.”

“How different?” he poses, a challenge skittering along each syllable. “How different are you, little girl?”

“I’m just like you. Surviving.” I look at his leader—at least I think he is— and remember the way he belittled him. He snores on his mattress. Quickly returning my gaze, I say, “With people ordering me around. Like the Wardeness. Those who think they know better than me. Or are smarter. Prettier”—I flash a look at Iris— “I’m just trying to survive in The Cradle. It’s made for them, not us.”

Fuck. I feel sick. I want Meaningful Purpose as much as any Trade citizen, and my words are profane.

We are staring at each other, and I feign intimacy, push it into the length and depth of our eye contact, using every inch of strength to not recoil or grimace.

His eyes drops to my throat.

I swallow as he leers, dipping his heated gaze lower to my chest and then my lap, where his vile thoughts are almost tangible fingers removing my clothes.

“Her red hair distracted me,” he offers, as if I really care, as if I’m jealous he chose her first. “You’re by far the prettiest girl I have ever seen. Ever.”

I blink at him. “Thank you. You’ve been surviving for a long time. Since you were ten?” I steady my breath, stay calm. I’m not afraid. “How old are you now? Have you got a House Girl?” I know the answer, but I need him to say it, for the conversation to continue as I plan.

He finishes the meat in his hand. “Twenty-two, I think. It’s hard to tell when the sun decides not to shine and the moon sleeps for too long. But I believe I’m twenty-two.”

“And girls?”

“Women don’t survive in this lifestyle. No. They don’t live long enough for me to keep.”

I stare straight into his eyes. “I could. I would.”

“You think?” Hesitant, he stares at the other men stirring on their mattresses. “You want to survive with me?”

I hold my panic inside.

What am I doing?

With his blade in his hand, he stands up and crosses the flaming barrel to get to me. He reaches down for my wrist, and I try not to flinch. He gazes at The Silk Girl Sigil in disdain, growling, “You want this thing on you? A womb. That is all you are to them. A womb.”

“I had no choice.”

“Prove it.”

I look at the drain.

Where does it lead…

They’ll be looking for us. Near the broken van? Near the mill? When we are announced missing, will the Mothers tell them of our secret visit? Will they track the broken glass? Will they find evidence? Will it be too late? There’ll be little pieces of me missing, digested and then waste in that drain.

The drains are manned by Trade workers.

“I’ll cut it off for you.”

His words land a hard blow. “Pardon?” My voice strains with the thought of removing his mark. No. No, I can’t. I won’t. Will he eat it?

He sneers. “So, you’re a liar, then?”

I panic. “No. You just have to prove you don’t think of me as live meat and dispose of it. Do not eat it. Do not eat me. Put it down the drain or,” I swallow, “something.”

A smile moves across his lips. “When Shank told me our Snakes saw a Trade van on the road, I thought he was crazy. Trade vans don’t travel ‘ere.”

My pulse hammers. “What’s a snake?”

“Men that live in the desert for weeks—scouts. They rotate the sand around our Ruins. Our territories. Tell us what’s happening on the roads. They told us about you . Shank said to blow out the tyres, and I thought he was out of his fucking mind. Not a Trade vehicle. Askin’ for trouble.”

“Shank isn’t very smart. We could have had more Guards,” I mutter, keeping soft eye contact. He likes it. The way I am looking at him.

“Worth it; I have you now.”

“Lucky, sure, but not smart,” I confirm.

He sits beside me. I can see the bulge between his legs bunch upward. Yep, he likes my attention a lot.

He pulls my wrist to his lap, his dirty fingers and split nails curling around to hold tight. Drawing the knife up, I look at the rust and blood painting the shiny surface. I force bile back down my throat.

“Don’t eat it,” I say, head heavy.

“You’re nothing like I expected.”

“You’re not what I expected.”

“Come with me.” He is suddenly dragging me into the shadows, away from the others. I cannot breathe.

I try not to panic. A girl who likes him wouldn’t panic over being alone in the dark with him.

“You want to be mine?” he asks. “I’ll keep you.” I can smell the death on him, his unclean flesh and putrid breath rolling down my skin.

His hands come up to my chest, my body jerking when they both paw softly at my breasts.

“Small. They are small.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No, no, I like them.” He opens my cloak to expose my dress. It’s a dusty lilac colour, the king’s hue, but he cannot see any colours in the dark. “I’ve never been with a girl who wanted it before or was alive.”

Shit. My throat burns with bile.

Even as I try to remain calm, my body shakes violently. I’ve never been touched by a man before. My hands won’t move, but I think I am supposed to do something.

To touch him.

All I can do is steel my spine and let him fondle, but when his breathing becomes rough and his hands too firm, I blurt out, “I’ve never been with a man.”

I hope that he will slow down, but his hands continue to work on removing my dress; I block out the feeling. Bare, rough fingers slide along my skin; I concentrate on breathing.

Disgusting lips move to mine, meet mine. A tongue pushes in, and I twist my cringe of disgust into a moan of false enjoyment. But when the hard length between his legs presses against me, I stumble backward and hit a wall.

“Wait,” I pant, exhaling his horrid breath from my mouth and inhaling clean air to replace it.

“Okay!” He huffs. “I’ll cut it off first.”

“Cut into the fat, too,” the words spit out, “make sure it’s all gone. Then put it down the drain.”

“You’re a wild girl.”

I sob. “Then we can be free.”

“I am free.”

My hands shake. “We can be free together .”

This might keep me alive, might make him defend me against the others, might… give me time.

Or that piece of me might float down the drain. I don’t know what I’m doing. I grab my forearm, displaying the tattoo, twist my head away, and close my eyes.

A cold blade presses in and slides under my skin, curling the flesh and fat from my muscles, burning a trail so intense it sends violent noises up my throat.

I try to keep quiet, but it hurts, and a real groan crawls along my tongue before I can stop it.

I quickly mutter, “I’m sorry.”

But it is too late.

“Wait. What the fuck?” One of the men is awake, but we are still hidden in the shadows of the large room. “Where is she, you damn fool!”

On a mission, I grab the slice of flesh, perfectly removed—a strip branded by The Trade—and move to the drain. I squat, shoving it between the grates. It disappears under the building and out of sight.

Fat is less dense than water… It might float. It has to float. Float all the way to the dam or irrigate yards that are managed by Trade men. They will see the sigil; they’ll alert someone. It is a wildly arbitrary plan, but it is all I have.

I look down at my wrist, a shiny strip missing, the raw, bloody flesh screaming in the exposed air. My head spins. I lose my fight against the nausea. It swoops in, my muscles loosen, knees buckle, and I drop straight to the floor.

“Your tongue can’t be trusted, little girl. Let’s take it off for you. It gets you in so much trouble.”

His threat rattles between my ears moments before a black silence swallows my world.