Rain Washes Off All the Other Colors by Tethys Resort

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Flood

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They confessed, the vegetable seller, the fish monger, and a man they knew from the dockside taverns.  All three of them proud of their deeds. 

And Geil hated them. 

Their crime was considered minor, they were fined and let go by the city court.  The noble families were too provoked by her pleas to reduce the taxes on the drought stricken city to listen to her rage at the attempted murder of her cats.  She occasionally wondered if the trio had been paid, provided with both poison and plans.

Geil ordered the kitchen staff to buy their food elsewhere but did not have the power to punish them more.  

And so she hated them all and cursed their names. 

Two days later the vegetable seller got drunk, bragging of his feats.  He tripped on one of the stairs in the lower quarter, and broke his neck as he landed.

The man she had not known, the one from the lower district, was a dock worker.  He died a week later.  She heard of it in the markets as she purchased some little honey cookies as a special treat for herself.  He drowned when his foot became entangled in a rope.  The docks had been slippery with the first rain in two years, the river swollen and angry with floodwaters.  His was not the only accident and drowning because of the river, but people talked the most of him.

The day after she heard of the drowning, the fish monger dropped the hook he used to move large fish and stabbed his ankle.  Also drunk, according to the cook, who brought her the news with shaking hands.  A minor injury.

But two weeks later he was missing along his route.  The muscle spasm disease claimed him slowly over the course of the next several weeks. 

The day after his death, the Lord of Osgiliath came.  “Those who abuse animals receive the curses of the Gods?” 

Geil didn’t say anything. 

What could she say?  That even if she had wanted it, she had no power to curse?  That she could not have caused the accidents?  That she had not even snuck out of the mansion in the last month and a half as the rain pounded down with a rage that resembled a curse of the Lords of the Water and Wind together? 

“Your Highness, we have decided you have insufficient company.”  The cold look grew a slight sneer.  “I suspect spell working requires privacy?”

Geil had no idea if magic, spells, or curses required privacy.  She somehow doubted it: according to the old stories, the Lord of the World had not had any problem with working magic and curses in front of all his followers in the form of miracles. 

Under the now watchful eyes of the nobles, she could not even escape from her mansion turned prison.  The mansion next door was now guarded, her attempt to simply walk out her front door forestalled by the guards the ladies brought.  The ladies who now sat in her living room, gossiping and embroidering. 

She would have enjoyed gossip and embroidery, but she moved through a cold circle of silence among them. 

She took to huddling in her bedroom, where her cats had taken refuge and only two brave souls were willing to stand guard.  Both determined older women, who sat in silence day and night and turned away when she tried to speak with them. 

Geil didn’t dare to speak to the cats in their presence; she was already accused of enough. 

Three days, and Geil was ready to start screaming at the women carefully ignoring her and yet still judging. 

A week later, it was almost a relief when the King called her into the empty drawing room, just after the cook had brought up a tasteless breakfast and the bowls of food for the cats.  “Lady Nâluphel, Black Numenorean.”

“Queen Nâluphel, your wife under law.”  She curtsied low with all the dignity she could muster, trying to use polished Sindarin, the language of the nobles.  “I would ask that you release me, husband.  You want nothing from me.  Osgiliath wants nothing from me.  I would go home.”

“The trade treaty.”  The King sounded like his speech was memorized.  “I cannot simply send you home, or execute you for your crimes.”  His eyes were cold.  “You are Berúthiel, the curse upon Osgiliath and Gondor.  Therefore you and your minions are going on a trip.  An exile if you will.”

“I have committed no crimes.”  Hope spread in her heart.  Exile would be preferable to this misery.  Somewhere quiet and far from the cage Osgiliath had become. 

He saw the hope, she thought, because his voice deepened in scorn.  “In a few minutes we shall walk down to the docks.  Your minions and spies have been drugged and are being bagged up as we speak.  Walk down, sit down in the boat and the cats will be added.  You can all sail with the currents.  Into exile.”

He leaned in, getting louder, “Resist and be carried down.  And I will drop the cats into the water and let you watch them drown before you go into exile.”

Some thread of rage broke through the numbness in her soul.  She stared up into the King’s eyes, gray and tired.  Eyes the exact shade of her own.  “Which rumor was true then?  The knight from Belfalas?  The blond woman from the North?  A long ago accident?”  She shook with rage.  “I would hope for accident.  It would be the answer with dignity.”

His hand moved so quickly she didn’t have time to flinch as it connected with her face. 

She staggered backward, staring at him.  Her face and jaw throbbed, her neck was already beginning to ache. 

He turned and without a word walked from the room, leaving her alone. 

From the silence of the mansion she could tell that all the noblewomen still gathered had witnessed their conversation.  None said anything though, and none came to ask if she was okay. 

A shuffle of fabric, the barest footstep.

She gathered herself, straightening and brushing at her dress before she turned and faced the door.  Only one hapless young woman, much younger than her, stared with the wide eyes of a girl watching a theater performance.  Geil stared back, wondering what she saw.  She hissed, “You and you alone can decide what message you take away from today.”

The girl fled.

She could hear noises upstairs.  But guards had taken the place of the girl and they stood ready with drawn swords. 

She thought of running.  She could cooperate and then break loose and flee.  But even if she managed, they would kill her cats.  And there was nowhere to run.  The blue curtained bakery would not shelter her, even if it were the blue of a place of protection and not the bakery owner’s fancy.  She thought of the women who sold wares at the counter, tough and bold.  And the women who hid behind their hair as they made bread and pastries, protected behind them, and whispered a prayer to the Lady of Pity for them. 

So when one of the older noblewomen came with her cloak, dark gray, she pulled it on and thanked her. 

She let them pat her down and take her little belt knife.

She let them tie her hands.

Geil walked out of her home into the first sunshine since the great storms had begun.

They shouted the name they had given her, Berúthiel, as she walked past the crowds.  Out of the King’s House, down the long winding road of the stone city, down to the quay.  At least the guards kept them from taking her from her path. 

The cats were in a barrow just ahead, lumps of weakly struggling canvas.  Thankfully ignored as the people of the market screamed for her blood. 

The cats were dropped into the bottom of the little boat without ceremony.  Their bodies thudded limply.  But Geil could see them breathe, frightened but steady.  Could see them struggle.  Gos mewled a complaint audible despite her position somewhere in the middle. 

Geil stepped in to join them, gathering her skirts to sit with dignity on the box in the bottom of the tiny craft. 

She stared at her tied hands.  It would be difficult to get free, but she would try with her teeth when they had drifted downstream a little. 

Up on the dock the King whispered, “Black Numenorean, I will strike your name from the Book of Kings.  Lady Berúthiel is the name you will bear forever.”  He stood straight and tall, and watched with the dignity of a King as the guards untied the boat and pushed it free into the current.  

The cats cried in distress as the boat rocked and she whispered, “Lie still.  I am here.  I am here.”

The boat drifted, slowly at first, and the people howled, “Berúthiel!” behind her. 

Geil began to hum a lullaby to the bags, waiting as the sounds of the city retreated.  She did not look back.

As soon as she was too far to be simply hauled back, she leaned over to worry at the rope knots with her teeth.  The cats would be sick and frightened.  She had to free them, to help them, to comfort them.

***

The night that they sailed past Pelagir and out of the delta into the ocean, Geil sang to her cats and they watched the stars together.  They were headed south, she thinks.  She could possibly steer the little boat with the sail, if she knew how.  They’d removed the rudder though, and sailing was not a skill she had ever cared to witness, let alone learn. 

She had managed to rip strips from her skirt and tied her cloak into a sun shade, trying to give them all a little shelter under the summer sun that now beat down as the drought returned. 

She had been given one week of food and water.  Four days if she cares for the cats.  And she will always care for her cats. 

Geil saw the distant lights of Umbar City the next night, slipping past on her left as the boat lofted ever South.  She whispered to her cats, “I am going yell.  Maybe there is a boat out here and we can be rescued.”

She tried to yell and coughed.  Bet said, “Have a sip of water.”

Geil frowned.  “It is not my turn.  I will not take what is yours.”

Kiw whispered from behind her, “One sip, and it might save us all.” 

So she had a sip, it burned in her chapped lips, and she stood to stare across the water.  She yelled, and faltered: it had never been her part to yell.  It was not the lot of a Princess of the City of Spices, nor the place of an unloved Queen. 

She took another deep breath and tried again, this time raising her voice to sing.  Singing was easier, and the lullaby she started with morphed into the story of the sinking of Numenor.  A wail rose behind her, Bet, singing along.  And another, El, at the top of her lungs next to Geil’s feet. 

The cats screamed and yowled, helping her call.  The city lights slowly slipped away until they vanished entirely just before dawn. 

No one had come.  And dawn revealed open ocean to all sides. 

Geil curled up under the little sun shade she had made and wept, the cats sitting around her for comfort.  El pushed her nose up against Geil’s, “Don’t cry.  You waste water.”

Even without crying there was no water to waste.  They lay together under the sun shade, each in their spot.  Geil petted each, stroking sides that were already growing thin and matted.  “I am so sorry.  This is my fault.”

She began to quietly sing the story songs and hymns she had been taught by her mother and the other Hidden women.  The cats settled into sick but peaceful drowsiness. 

Another day passed.

A cloudless dawn revealed only more water and Geil could only pet the cats and mutter hoarsely, “I am sorry.  I am sorry.” 

It was all Geil had left as that day passed too and that night as she portioned out the very last sips of water to each cat.  None for herself, she is bigger and will last longer, she thought.  Her nose bled and her head throbbed as she watched the stars tracing their great paths through the night sky. 

Dawn was red and orange, with dark gray looming clouds.  The pattern of the waves had changed to sharp smacks that jolted the little boat. 

Geil stared up at the clouds.  Rain would be good, she wasn’t certain how to collect the water but it would at least be water they could drink. 

The waves got higher, breaking into sharp caps of white with wind that made the ropes on the sails hum and the boat teeter back and forth.  She tied the edges of her cloak sunshade tighter, telling the cats, “Hide there, stay safe.”

The moment the rain started was the moment the boat capsized, flipped sideways as a wave rolled it over. 

Geil and the cats never surfaced, sucked downward in the storm currents. 

***

Ulmo looked at Namo, “You asked this favor.”

Namo watched the debris float away in the tapestry.  “Mercy takes many forms.”

***

The room was wide.  Tiled, with adobe walls, just like the Villa. 

Just like all the houses and mansions of the City of Spices. 

She could smell peppers and cinnamon.  Home.

Geil climbed to her feet very slowly, waiting for the headaches and cramps of dehydration to return.  They did not.

“Geil, faithful Mortal daughter.” 

She turned, and looked up into the shadowed face of the Lady behind her.  Tears ran down the Lady’s cheeks, evaporating as they fell so that none touched the floor.  She wore gray, was gray.  The Lady of Pity.  Geil’s knees folded as she began to cry.

The Lady of Pity knelt and pulled her into a hug, rocking her for a while more before pulling back a little and smiling.  “You have no greeting for your beloved friends?”

Something soft brushed her leg, bumping her ankle.  Mis.  All ten stood in a little herd, staring at her expectantly.

The Lady of Pity said, “Men must go on, but cats always get a choice.”

El said, “And we chose to go with you.”