Fractured: Tales of the Canadian Post-Apocalypse(78)
Joyce shot a poisonous look at the pair behind Otis and then returned her full attention to the oaf directly in front of her. She glared and said nothing.
“Oh look,” Otis continued, pointing at the three nails pinned through the left breast of her coat. His eyes grew wide as he asked, “Are you a Wrather?”
“A sister of the Convocation Penitent.”
“Yes,” Otis nodded sagely to the continued entertainment of his fellows. “A Penitent. Of course. But even with a dispensation you are only allowed to serve animals that died of natural causes. How did this dog die?”
“Blood loss.” Joyce had had enough. She folded her arms across her chest and narrowed her eyes. The cleaver was still clenched in her left fist.
Otis looked at the bloody steel in mock horror and backed away, his hands held up as though he were pleading for his life. He crooned, “I am so sorry, Sister. My friends and I meant no offense. We’ll be on our way. Gaia be with you.”
With that said, the trio moved on, finding it difficult to walk in a straight line as they gave full vent to their amusement. Joyce watched them go before turning back to her butchery. She pulled the cloth off the meat and brought the cleaver down with a solid blow that severed a canine spine. Under her breath, she muttered, “Gaia go with you. I don’t want the bitch around here.”
She was not speaking entirely of the goddess. Joyce chanced a glance across the tent. The dowager had been watching the exchange. That was bad luck. Joyce went back to work. There was a lecture coming but let the old woman scold. The guardsmen were arrogant bastards. Someone had to stand up to them. Their job was to keep the peace in the name of the Caretakers, not to harass women trying to make a living by selling dog stew. Joyce finished hacking the corpse into manageable parts and exchanged her cleaver for a carving knife. The bones she threw into a stock pot while setting the meat aside for cubing. To the guardsmen, she was little more than that bleeding pile. Just meat. But her flesh was her own and would never be theirs. Let them eat dog if they dared. They would never taste her, despite the wishes of that crooked tyrant. Joyce looked again, a flicker of eyes to mark the old woman’s progress.
The dowager could see how pretty Joyce might be with combed hair and a clean face, dressed in a clinging gown or not dressed at all. Youth and beauty brought a good price and there was a place for young and beautiful women in the dowager’s pleasure house. Joyce wanted no part of that. This the dowager took as a betrayal.
Perhaps it was. Perhaps Joyce owed her body in return for all she had received, but she could not give it. The old woman might have named her, taken her in and raised her when no one else would, but it was too much to demand. Surely that demand was the greater betrayal. Or perhaps Joyce was no more than an animal raised for slaughter. That thought left her with a dull ache inside. She had felt safe if not loved. Now that was gone. Joining the Convocation of the Penitent had done little to ease her sorrow, but it did ensure that the dowager could never take her by force. The bishop and the deacons would guard her against that.
Joyce watched the old woman hobble along, making a slow progress from table to table, ancient eyes inspecting every detail. Stern. Fierce. Grey. Everyone bowed. Each showed their regard. Even the guardsmen were respectful. The dowager had the means to feed or frustrate their vices.
She passed by Joyce with only a nod, unable to keep the anger from her eyes but remaining silent. Joyce kept her own eyes averted and, wishing no confrontation, made the briefest acknowledgement possible. It was much the same as every other day. Joyce would gulp down her panic and keep her face stiff. The moment would pass.
A train rumbled and Joyce looked up, thankful for the distraction. The tent hid the concrete beams overhead but she knew they were up there and the station above that. She had been found there and named for it. So far as she knew, she had never been more than a few kilometres away from it.
She knew the towers, all clustered around the station, that were principally billets for the guardsmen. She knew the burn belt from Metrotown Enclave in the east to the industrial areas around Pit One in the west. Best of all she knew Central Farm, which had once been a park, where she went to collect her herbs from the hedgerow and barter for vegetables. This was her little world. It kept her alive. That was more than many achieved.
With the meat cubed, Joyce raked the charcoal and placed the flesh on the steel plate that served as a cooking surface. She added a few crushed herbs and some fat. It sizzled. While the meat seared, Joyce began preparing vegetables. It was early spring and the only root vegetables available were those from last season. Joyce could not afford the best of these. She picked up a turnip. The surface was wrinkled and soft. She took care to remove the decaying portions without wasting any part of the healthy flesh beneath. She tasted a small cube of this to be sure it had not been tainted and then chopped the remainder. Onions came next. She cursed to herself when several proved to be rotten at the centre. She salvaged what she could before moving on to the carrots, limp and spotted black, muttering at the state of them.
“Good afternoon, Sister.”
The voice surprised her. Joyce had been entirely concerned with her preparations but now she looked up. Archdeacon Nathaniel was standing on the far side of her work table. He wore the same type of rough grey coat that wrapped her and the same pattern of nails glinted over his heart. He was a big man with a grizzled beard. Joyce flushed, hoping he had not heard her angry words.