Ocean Eyes

She had always been told that she had her mother’s eyes. Deep, swirling, and alluringly blue; they were eyes that reminded one of the distant seas. She had even been named after their beautiful colour: Asherah – she who walks the sea. But, perhaps they appeared this way because she was always so sad. It had not always been this way – once she had been the happiest little girl, but that was before everything changed. Before her town was invaded, before her family was taken away, before she was placed as a servant in this beautiful, yet wretched place. Her eyes were the only thing that stayed the same.

But, no one seemed to notice them anymore. Sometimes the rare guest commented on them but never to her; it was always to the Mistress, who, each time, forgot she had them. Their opinion did not matter, though. They complimented for their own achievement, not for hers.

The people that did matter, however, did not want anything to do with her. The other servants thought she was too young to be faithful, too quiet to be trusted. ‘Only the silent rebel’, they would say behind her back. And they were right to do so. She dreamed of freedom by day, and, by night, she read about heroes who rode on white horses and wore armour of shimmering steel.

It was sad to know that her peers thought of her so poorly, but she understood their caution; being in possession of illegal books could bring drear consequences. Their subjects, though fairytales, would lead officials to thoughts of treason, and that would result in death. Many times she thought of burning them, ridding herself of their existence, but she simply could not. How she marveled at the words, the pictures, the stories. She wished to be like them: strong, courageous, and outspoken – all the things that she, seemingly, was not. The characters rebelled, fought, and won. They defied gravity, the same gravity that weighed her down.

She would never be like them, a fact that she silently accepted. She wished for rebellion, but she would never be the one to carry it out. She was weak; she could barely carry the water that she was ordered to fetch each day. She was obedient to her Mistress and cowered in fear when the Queen’s soldiers pass through. And, most of all, she was shy; she never spoke unless she had to. During her free time, she would hide herself in the corner and simply dream. Dream of actions she would never do. Dream of the freedom she would never have.

Other than her trips to the well, she was cut off from the world. Her Mistress did not want her servants to hear word of the war, but Asherah found ways around the isolation. She would take her time as she walked to the well, listening in on others conversations when she could. She would glance at newspapers, which always headlined the war, but she could never look too long. Her, and the other servants, main source was a raven, which, once a week, would perch himself in one of the Mistress’s great flower trees and quickly report the news. They would listen silently, expectantly, but he always brought bad tidings. The Queen’s forces were constantly winning and advancing to the next country. And, with each depressing report, Asherah would go deeper into dreaming.

The raven, though helpful, always laughed at their pitiful souls. The birds would never be captured. He told them that he would continue bringing news of the Queen’s victories until she no longer needed them. And, when Asherah sat alone with the bird, he would scuff at her dreams. With glares as cold as ice, she would say, “You lack compassion,” but each time he replied, saying that compassion was for silly girls with dreams.

Occasionally, when the Mistress had that rare guest, Asherah would be called away from her regular, uneventful routine to serve tea in the west parlor. Not only was she allowed to subject herself to intelligent, formal conversation (the only kind she really liked), but also was allowed to look like a proper lady. The hairdressers would lead her into the upstairs suite, which was decorated with gold and fancy things, and they dressed her in beautiful silk. With giggles they would craft her hair into fashionable designs, lace her in the finest jewelry, and bring out those exotic eyes.

The upstairs was an entirely different world: the floors were cleverly slick, the animals exotic, and the rooms magnificent, but, most of all, while forbidden downstairs, mirrors covered the walls. It was the only time Asherah was able to see herself or her eyes. Sometimes, when she looked close enough, she could see the past – her family, her village, a world without the Queen. The hairdressers would not allow her to get too close to the mirror after the first time. Her tears smeared the eyeliner that they had worked so hard to perfect.

When in the parlor, she was silent though it was her usual tone. She served with poise and diligence, made the tea to perfection, and made it her number one duty to make both the guest and the Mistress as comfortable as possible. Everything had to be just right. This job was the only time that she had not the time to think about her dreams. She had to be alert or else she would be punished. She could not afford an investigation.

But, after the guest left, she was ripped of the beautiful silk, the hairpieces were removed, jewelry retrieved, and the eyeliner harshly rubbed off. She was thrown back into her routine – both of a water-girl and of a dreamer. Life resumed as normal.

Sometimes at night, after hiding her books and killing the light, she would dream of the past. When she saw her village being destroyed, she would pretend that she had been too determined to give in. When she was dragged away from her family and put into slavery, she would imagine that she had been too stubborn to work. When the other servants avoided her, she would make believe that they were waiting until night to assist her with her plans of rebellion.

And, once in a great while, she would talk in her sleep. The servant girls, who shared her quarters, snickered and sneered. “You dream of impossible things,” they informed her. They told her that they were once foolish like her, urged her to give up on her dreams and make everyone’s life much easier. They even tried to convince her that she could perhaps even make friends, but the word was used so loosely that it could not be true. With glares as cold as ice, she would say, “You lack kindness,” but each time they replied, saying that kindness was for silly girls with dreams.

But life went outside of the house. Every morning, at the break of dawn, Asherah walked through two miles of nostalgic scenery – half rural, half urban – to fetch water. But, despite her flashbacks, her world had changed, especially the town. The buildings were now dull concrete, black smoke from long stacks filled the air, and the people glutton and flash around their worthless wealth. She felt inferior as she walked its crowded streets. Some of the old buildings, which had been occupied before the raid, were worn and inhospitable, but they brought back memories. She never had time to sit on their steps and reminisce, however, because even the slightest punishment could put her, her dreams, and her books into jeopardy. One house, in particular, which was by the well, once belonged her grandparents. While drawing water, she could not take her eyes off of it. Sometimes, she could even see herself, along with her carefree family, sitting on the porch. And the vision would drive her dreams even deeper.

The country, unlike her town, was mostly the same. Though the river was now polluted and the trees were being cut down, the field, where she and her brother used to play, was still lush and the thicket, where she would explore with her father, was still growing. When she had an extra moment, she would occasionally run down into the hemlock and silently begin to dance. Each time she did, she could hear, though barely, the playing of her father’s flute in the air. If the Mistress found out about her talent, Asherah would be assigned to entertaining at public affairs for extra money. This would put her on good terms with the Mistress, yes, but it would also draw too much attention. The last thing she needed was to be noticed.

Once in a while, while on the road, Asherah would be stopped by the Queen’s soldiers. Their black armor, their long scythes, and their cruel eyes made her heart stop. They were malicious, uncompassionate killers that would, without hesitation, die for the evil they called their Queen. Before they could even ask, she knew exactly what to say: “Asherah, servant number twenty-seven of the Mistress Eskarne of House 124. I go to the city for water.” She knew she was given too much information, but she would like to give more than less. She would bow, at the waist, keeping her eyes fixated at the ground. That way, they could not see her fear. The soldiers would laugh at her, sometimes push her around, but they would always end up letting her go. Once out of their sight, she would lay in the thicket to gather herself. It was hard to talk to murderers without running in fear.

Not all the servants were like her, though. They were loud, outspoken, and brave, but also foolish. When under the pressure of the soldiers, they would break, lashing out at them and trying to murder those loyal to the Queen, but the servant was always overcome. Sometimes, as Asherah walked to town, she would find a dead body on the side of the road. Once, she had been able to identify one – Jesper, servant number twelve from her Mistress’s house. She had never run so fast. Water spilt over the dirt road; worn, muddy shoes skidded across clean wood floors; and she had brought herself in the presence of her Mistress without formal announcement. Punishment would have been delivered if she had not started to tell her about Jesper when she did. It was the first time Asherah had seen her Mistress outside of the house while wearing plain cotton. She went with her to ask the guards what had happened, but they were only given lies. The soldiers said he had been killed by dogs; and, though silently, Asherah agreed.

Only the servants were killed so quickly, however. Traitors of the Queen had their deaths publicized. Asherah had only been to the gallows once when Master Valter, the Mistress’s former husband, had been accused of secretly importing illegal books, some of which were hidden under the floorboards of Asherah’s room. The entire town – servants, lords, and even the birds – had been called to witness his death. The sickening smell of rotting corpses filled her nostrils as she watched as her Master, naked, chained, and blindfolded, was led to the noose. The servants stared, unmoving, while the gluttons and the killers snickered in glee.

Asherah knew he was an innocent man; the books had been found abandoned by the river, and the Master, being loyal, took them to his house to be reported to his Queen. The soldiers found them before the letter could be sent. He was stripped of his clothes, beaten, and dragged out of his house as a criminal. No one, however, would hear the testament of a servant girl.

The snap of his neck echoed through the air, carried on through the trees, walked the streets of the barren city, and ran across the plains; but, most of all, it occupied its hideous sound in the head of a little girl and refused to leave. His body, so suddenly pale, swayed with the dry breeze, and, quite truly, she did not know whether to rejoice or join her Mistress who was mourning so loudly on her knees. The gluttons, their minds too twisted from wealth, laughed at the scene, cursing that which they believed was a traitor. With a glare as cold as ice, Asherah said, “You lack forgiveness,” but the gluttons replied, saying that forgiveness was for silly girls with dreams.

The crowd began to clear away, and, as they did, Asherah began to see the lifeless corpse in a new light. It was no longer the Master; it was her father, her brother, her mother, her grandparents – it was her town, her life, and even her dreams. And then, with a hoarse whimper, she began to cry. She had turned away angry and confused, but, as she did, she felt as though she was turning on everything she believed in. So, until she was commanded to leave, she stayed with the body. She watched as the servants lowered the body, its remains only to be taken harshly away by the soldiers. There could be no burial – traitors did not deserve such respect. Then why, questioned poor Asherah, was her town, in its innocence, not given one? Was it regarded a traitor or was it simply forgotten? She did not know.

Everything was grey at the gallows, even the people’s hearts.

Days, months, and years passed by and there was still no news to lighten Asherah’s heart. The raven, now old and weary, perched itself unevenly on the branch of a flower tree, and, with slurred speech, reported his weekly news. He had stayed true to his word: never once did he ever have to report a victory; but he no longer snickered. The birds, who were thought to be so free, were imprisoned as well. And, instead of scuffing at a silly girl’s dreams, he listened and chose to share his too. One thing had not changed about the bird, however; he still lacked compassion. His hatred against the Queen grew so severely that it killed him. He had no funeral except for the one in Asherah’s heart.

The servants, now old like the raven, still choose to ignore her. They went along with their daily chores and, when the Mistress was around, tried to do the best they could. She had no need for elders whose tasks they could not perform. The new imports, however, from countries which the Queen had recently gained, loved her. At night, they would gather around her bedside where she would tell stories of fabulous things – mostly of heroes who rode on white horses and wore armour of shimmering steel. She sparked their imaginations, twirled them in surreal realms, but never did she tell them of her dreams. She knew they were too young to be faithful, too feral to be trusted.

She had been given new chores around her Mistress’s house, and, in her place, another little girl was sent for water. Asherah watched, each day, as the girl left, but she knew that she would not have the same experience. The town, by now, had been changed so much that even she herself could not recognize it. The only building which still stood was the house by the well, but she knew the water-girl would not stare at it as she had.

What had once been a rare guest was now none. The Mistress only surrounded herself with her possessions and her wealth these days. The hairdressers, who giggled as they transformed a dull person into a beautiful maiden, had been sold; and Asherah, once always chosen to serve the tea, was never called upon again. The world upstairs – that wonderfully different world – would never see the reflection of ocean eyes again.

Life still went outside of the house. Each week, sometime around noon, Asherah walked through two miles of now devastating scenery – less rural, more urban – to buy the groceries. But the town was no longer her own. She watched as the gluttons, with their hideous wealth, transformed it from a peaceful village into an economic dump. Black smoke reigned the sky and dull concrete was like a virus – it even covered the fertile ground. She felt inferior as she walked its crowded streets. She had to barter, sometimes for hours, with merchants who were too greedy to lower their already inflated prices. There were no longer buildings, the ones that existed before the raid, to bring back memories. She never got the chance to sit on their steps and reminisce. But, even if there were, she never wanted to stay long. The people there disgusted her. The children, with their eyes so radiant, were the only pure souls amongst the mutilated crowd, but they trailed monsters with their open hearts. Nothing could ever remain innocence in that hellhole – not even those that are its definition.

The countryside, like her town, was dramatically changed. The river was lifeless, the trees were gone, and the field, where she and her brother once played, was barren and dead. The thicket, where she held memories of her and her father’s explorations, was cut down. Despite this, she would occasionally run down to where the hemlock once was and silently begin to dance. But, these days, she could not longer hear the playing of her father’s flute, not even in the wind. She never did give up her talent and it was forever unknown, even to the children that she loved.

But, still at night, after her daily chores were completed and her roommates were nestled into their beds, Asherah would tiptop across the room to the corner where the floor was hollow. The boards hid a treasure more precious than gold: her books. With a candle as her only light, she would read them continuously throughout the night memorizing every word. She still wished to be like the heroes who were bound to the pages, but she knew she never would be. Her feeling of rebellion still held strong, but never would it be achieved. One girl could not go again a Queen and her merciless army, and she dared not to. The gravity that the heroes in her fairytales suppressed and conquered still weighed her down. Still, throughout her days, she still dreamed of actions she would never do and of freedom she would never have.

And still, once in a great while, she would talk of rebellion in her sleep. The servant girls, who were too old and too fragile, no longer snickered and sneered. They no longer had the strength too. Once and a while, while Asherah told the children her stories, they would say that she dreamed of impossible things, but they no longer urged her to give up. They knew it was a waste of time. Even though they admitted their defeat, they still lack kindness which later turned the other servants against them. They were later thrown out onto the streets.

Even though she travelled less, Asherah was still stopped by the Queen’s soldiers once in a great while. They had not changed. They were still the malicious, uncompassionate killers they were before, but, by the day, they were gaining more power. Before they could even ask, she told her required information: “Asherah, servant number twenty-seven of the Mistress Eskarne of House 124,” but she no longer included her reasoning for going. If she did, they might follow her; she had learned that the hard way. She still would bow, at the waist, but she kept her eyes fixated on theirs. She still held fear, but she did not want to be taken advantage of. The soldiers would sometimes laugh at her, but they never pushed her around and would always let her continue her duties. Once out of their sight, she still would lay where the thicket once was to gather herself. It was no easier than it was years ago.

She continuously taught the little servants to follow her procedure, but some were loud, outspoken, and brave; but, most of all, they were foolish. When under the pressure of the soldiers, the children would break, lashing out at them and trying to murder those loyal to the Queen, but they were always overcome. More often, Asherah would find a dead body on the side of the road, but never again did she have to rush back with news of a servant’s death. The children were usually brought back beaten and broken. Most never talked again. Who knows what punishment they undertook. Some men, however, that she found reminded her of Jesper and how the soldiers lied and said he had been killed by dogs. She still believed it to be the truth though – the soldiers were dogs in even way.

Traitors were still killed in the same fashion, but it was no longer just an execution – it was a fiesta. The gluttons and the tainted townspeople, by the hundreds, would gather at the gallows bringing fine wine and food for the ‘show.’ Only the servants and the birds would remorse. Cheers would echo from the crowd as the criminals, naked, chained, and blindfolded, were led to the noose. Children wore masks, much like the hangman, and would wave flags with skulls. And they were encouraged by their parents to do so. The gluttons, who laughed and cursed the traitors, still lacked forgiveness. Each one of them, with their selfishness, died for possessions they did not need, but they never died out. Someone always succeeded them. They would only bring more people, their children, to the execution and encourage them, like so many parents, to take pleasure in death. Indeed, executions were no longer a sullen event. Sometimes, Asherah believed that they were set up just for entertainment.

The snaps of their necks echoed through the air, carried on through the trees, walked the streets of the barren city, and ran across the plains; but, most of all, it occupied its hideous sound in the head of an innocent, young woman and refused to leave. She would sit just below the gallows, and, with each death unseen, she would cry. It did not matter the person, their crime, or their age, for, in Asherah’s mind, they were not humans at all. Each blow was the recurring death of her town and her life. And, with each neck snapped, her dreams slowly died.

Everything became grey in her world except for her ocean eyes.