A bandit works the streets, forming his own personal army to shake down anyone for good coin. Only, the bandit Vaho is hiding a deep secret, he is actually a she.
The below excerpt is when Vaho stops by to visit the only person trusted with the great secret.
The
strangulations of a goat regurgitating up a wire emanated from the propped open
door. A final warm winter breeze blew into the house while the machinations
against music-kind wafted out. Occasionally, there was a melody, but only by
accident, before the strings — vibrating in terror — tripped over each other.
Vaho
slipped off the doorjamb, mercifully saving the street from the noise, but
trapping it inside with him. He laid the hunk of metal beside a tipping end
table, when a head poked around the corridor.
“What
are you doing?!” she shouted before Vaho raised his head and smiled at the
girl.
Teresa
reached to her ear, removing a wad of cloth as she apologized, “Messir, I did
not recognize you.”
“It’s
all right,” Vaho said, “Some mornings I fail to recognize myself.” He weighed
the pot in his hand and passed it to the servant.
Teresa
accepted it, a node of confusion in her young brow, “Is this for…”
“You,”
Vaho said, “have a bit of pottery.”
“I…very
well,” she said, not looking at the mediocre piece. Out of all the artistry
Granada offered, he was often dragging in the remnants from a going out of
business sale. “Madam is not in,” Teresa said.
“Good.”
“Mistress
is…”
“Strangling
a nest of squirrels,” Vaho sighed, “I heard. Almost the entire street could
hear, in fact. A curious thing, no less, the musician giving an impromptu
concert before she is prepared.”
Teresa
shrugged one shoulder, her dress straining from the force. Anymore growth from
mother nature and the girl could wind up indecent from a sneeze.
“I won’t
tell Mariana of you trying to turn the mob against her, if you warn me when her
mother approaches,” Vaho said.
“But
Madam was very strict with her instructions.”
Vaho
winked, “Isn’t she always?”
Teresa
laughed, her fingers patting the bottom of the gifted pot. “Very well, but be
quick about it. She’s been gone half the day and is liable to return soon.”
“Thank
you, my dear,” Vaho said, bowing deeply. The overt gallantry was enough to cause
a blush across the girl’s cheeks. She bounced on her toes, the burst of nervous
energy keeping her rooted to the spot blocking the door. Lightly placing his
thumb and fingers around her expanding arm, he guided her to the side.
Before
leaving the girl to sit upon the stoop as lookout, he whispered, “If Madam
catches you, you can always claim I bewitched you.”
“You
could charm the Inquisitors themselves,” Teresa said, her face beaming with
that rose of youth. The patina of adulthood washed away so quickly.
“I pray
it never comes to that,” Vaho said, bowing his head once more and sliding open
the door to the sitting room.
Mariana
perched upon one of the grander chairs, mahogany wood carved by master hands.
The instrument of torture filled her lap, fingers plucking at the air as she
thumbed through a sheet of music sketched by an instructor who couldn’t take
the barrage anymore.
Vaho
leaned against the door frame, watching as tired sunlight lit up her warm face.
Even through the concentration and slight confusion of practice, a tiny smile
worked the edges of her lips. Her face projected tales that Vaho would watch
enraptured for hours. But there wasn’t much time.
“How is
it going?”
She
turned up from her papers and warmed her smile at the body filling the door.
“You have ears, I’m certain you already have an opinion,” Mariana said, testing
him.
Vaho
scratched his head, stalling, “Well, it is not as bad as last time.”
“You
mean when you told Teresa I was slitting open the throat of a rabbit?”
“Yes, it
is certainly a much smaller animal’s death throes.”
Mariana
laughed, “Well, thank the Lord for small miracles.”
Vaho
smiled at her joke and stepped into the room. He collapsed haphazardly onto one
of the benches, his legs dangling over the arm rest. “I do not know why you
waste your time with that contraption.”
“It is
our duty, and the gifts from God, to strive to better ourselves,” Mariana said,
sitting up squarely.
“I don’t
think Jésu said much about playing the lute.”
Mariana
twisted her lips up, her fingers dragging along the wires. The lute cried in
response to her treatment. “Mother thinks it’s best if I learn how to accompany
my own singing.”
“Your
mother would suggest you learn how to juggle wolves if it would get you married
off,” Vaho said.
“Already
nineteen and only one failed proposal to my name.”
“You’re
welcome, by the way.”
Mariana
sighed, “Of course I am grateful, the bastardo had it coming. But…”
Vaho sat
up at the wistful sigh in her voice, “Ana, there is no reason to rush such
things.”
“All but
one of my friends is married or engaged. And the final holdout often gets
mistaken for her own horse.”
“You are
still in mourning, for your dead fiance. These things take time to overcome,
yes?”
She
narrowed her eyes, jutting out the bottom lip.
“I could
tell you the tale of how I finished him off again, if that would help,” Vaho
threw out.
“I do
not understand you,” Mariana said, twisting her head.
“You
would not be the first.”
“Do you
not wish to be married? To find joy in the sacrament, to birth children?”
Vaho
dropped his shoulders and struggled to sit up properly. What began as some
light teasing a few years ago was turning quickly into a weekly battering. She
had babies on the brain and assumed everyone else around her did.
He waved
down his bandaged chest and joked, “What man would want this?”
Mariana
sighed, “You can easily discard the disguise. Slip back on a dress, speak as
Lucia, settle into domestic bliss.”
Vaho
pursed his lips together and nodded along as if Lucia wasn’t as much a disguise
as Estevan. Some nights, when sleep floundered on the edges, dreams haunted him
as he ripped off each mask until only a black hole remained. What he…what she
had been before Vaho was born was long dead.
“Perhaps
you should try slipping on the trousers,” Vaho said, shifting the conversation.
Mariana
laughed, “That would send Mother to an early grave.”
“That
would be such a shame,” Vaho responded in monotone.
But
Mariana only waved him off in an ‘Oh you’ manner. “I am curious,” she slid
forward in her chair, the lute dipping dangerously off her lap, “if, if the
Lord came to you in the night and offered you the chance to change parts, would
you?”
Vaho’s
heel kicking into the priceless antique, he muttered, “I must admit, there is a
curiosity about the rod. But not the jewels.” He leaned up with that,
emphasizing some long contemplated ideas.
“Why
ever not?” Mariana asked softly.
“A
dangling sack right in the perfect spot to be knocked about? Seems a cruel joke
all around. No, if God asked me I would give the penis a test, but he could
keep the testicles.”
Mariana
chuckled as if he spoke childish nonsense.
Vaho
continued, “I have often wondered to myself, if, as the priests say, we are
formed in God’s image, what does the Lord appear as?”
“What do
you mean?”
“Think
of it, to appear as both of us, He or She would have to have the full bosom of
a woman, the spear of a penis, and a cunt.”
“But no
testicles?”
“Of
course not. God isn’t about to be fooled into that trap,” Vaho said, shaking
his head.
Mariana
laughed, “You speak such blasphemous thoughts, Lucia.”
He
knocked another boot into the chair and shrugged. If ever there was a soul worth
saving, it rotted away from neglect long ago.
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