*inspired by the image above*

 

The last thing she wanted to do when Nochel swaggered into her steel cube of a room was sing. But sing she would, for him and the dozens of others–-mostly men with grandiose dreams of endless riches-–that daily frequented The Artisan, home of creative exotics like Zelmyr.

Zel held a glop of spit under her tongue as Nochel, her "landlord," unbuttoned his silver striped waistcoat. He tripped on her lone handwoven rug, but this time he caught himself and kept walking to her dresser, where he shoved back the ultra-fine fish net atop it toward the mirror. He reeked of lilac and bourbon.

"How's my pretty songbird today?" he asked, rummaging the pockets of his slacks, then in the doctor’s bag he forgot he’d carried in.

He knew full well she could not reply with the muzzle strapped across her mouth. 

Eliakim help her, there was nothing but rage toward the man who'd enslaved her for the past two months. She'd escaped drought and starvation in California, only to be wrangled like a rare oriental unicorn as soon as she'd stepped off the stagecoach in Colorado.

But she was thankful for the magic, and Zelmyr thanked Eliakim for it now, managing to swallow both her saliva and ire. Her songs had protected her, the whirling strands of gold dust dazzling clients into forgetting that she was an innocent young woman.

Self-conscious and blushing beneath the white of her geisha makeup, sixteen year old Zel yanked her turquoise and pink kimono tighter around her chest and forced herself to exhale slowly through her nose.

Even though his back was to her, Zel knew Nochel was arranging small glass bottles in a row on the dresser, the familiar clink of glass tinkling her ears as he dropped a tiny silver funnel into a 5 ml vial.

Half-filled, it was probably worth thousands of dollars. It was only a guess, though; she knew nothing of precious stones in the time of the jewel-rush.

Nochel sniffed and turned, the half-smirk on his face almost making him look handsome as he unlocked Zelmyr’s muzzle with the key around his unshaven neck. "There we go," he said, tossing the restraint onto her bed and handing her a tube of lipstick.

She took it and applied it without a sound. 

"Can't have you singing yourself your own little pile of gold, now. Put me out of a job!" He twisted the four rings on his right hand before sliding them down Zelmyr's rosed cheek. "Make it pretty, not like that sad number you did yesterday.” He yanked a lock of black hair that had slipped out from behind her ivory comb, forcing her head down to his armpit. “I'd hate you to have to re-do your kohl again," he said, letting her go.

The threats were usually hidden under a veneer of  bemused concern for her, but the bourbon put an unnecessary exclamation point on everything he did or said. He wanted a high-dust song today, to make up for the 1ml song she'd eked out the day prior.

Yesterday, she'd been so heartsick, she'd wept in front of him, voice tremulous as she sang in her old tongue about her dead parents, the orchards in full bloom, the sweet-sour tang of fresh-squeezed orange juice, and the tinny buzz of pollinators. She had mourned her old home, its timeless culture and its modest people, who were not at all like the greedy jewel-mongers of Colorado.

And for some reason, he’d let her cry. He hadn’t hit her, or even raised his voice at her for the ‘female emotions’ she usually kept well concealed.

But now, today, in her iron-walled, underground prison, she sang the injustice of her life, the old tongue jumping from her lips in a flighty, bird-like verse. She sang of her first sleepless night on the cold steel floor, chained to the leg of her bed because she refused to open her mouth.

As Nochel began swiping up the twinkling gold that danced from her lips to the air above her head, she sang of loneliness and nights without either a blanket or pillow to comfort her.

Her mother’s words dripped into her mind like a slow, gentle rain at the beginning of the growing season: Eliakim delights in mercy, Zelmyr, not judgement, and at once her song of pain clothed in fake joy stuttered.

She was tired, so tired of giving mercy to the undeserving. Zel’s mother had given mercy to those who had treated their family below human dignity; her mother had forgiven them for poisoning their water so they could not drink, and somehow prayed for them even as they refused to trade with her family with for basic needs like rice and potatoes.

Her parents had starved to death.

Thankfully, Nochel hadn’t noticed her song had slowed, and he giggled as he swooped the net over her head, past her shoulder, and skimmed down the length of her kimono before the dust settled on its less-than luxurious folds.

Zel closed her eyes, doing her best to blink back the rage brimming on her lids. She didn’t want to see this grown man act silly and carefree with the whimsy of an innocent toddler. He deserved neither fun nor gaiety.

He would not see her cry again. It would insult her ancestors to show such weakness two days in a row.

So she forced herself to remember her painfully empty stomach, enduring four days of no food or water to coerce her into servicing customers. Zel sang her anger and frustration, bitterness and rage. She made herself relive again the sting of broken vials he’d thrown at her, and of his fists pounding her flesh purple and blue, but only in places her kimono could hide.

She continued to sing, and Nochel darted around her like a profane butterfly priest worshipping his pagan god.

She kept on, her voice spiraling higher until--

Nochel slapped her.

One sob, and one sob alone escaped Zel’s lips as she bowed her head, lungs heaving with her long-winded exertion.

“Don’t think I didn’t know you were cursing me, child,” he said before he turned away, pinching the smallest end of the net to pour the gold dust into his vial. “I don’t believe in any of that hogwash, else you’d be dead,” he said over his shoulder.

Again, Zelmyr couldn’t see exactly how much gold he’d captured, but she held her breath, praying to Eliakim that her song had produced enough.

Nochel grunted, shoved the glass into his pocket, and headed for the door.

The words, “Good girl,” were the last he spoke, for as soon as he stepped into the claustrophobic hallway, The Artisan itself quivered, and Nochel thrashed backwards, one arm flung behind him, the other at his chest. A choked cry escaped his throat, but it was cut off as soon as his body hit the cold metal with a dull clang.

The walls of her bedroom shivered violently again and bowed inward.

Despite the chaos closing in around her, Zel could only stare at the manager of the Artisan, dread lodged in her throat. Oh, Eliakim…Oh no.

Reuvena, her pale cheeks smeared with brown smudges, delicate hands caked with clay, rushed from the room across from Zel’s, hands pushed against the trembling walls. On her wheel, she crafted intricate clay figurines that hardened into quartz statues. “Nochel?” Her low voice rose to a soprano pitch. “Nochel!” She fell to her knees beside Zelmyr, frantically wiping her clay-stained hands on her red kimono before checking Nochel’s pulse.

Zel’s knees banged the steel next to Reuvena, next to Nochel’s unmoving body. “I didn’t, I don’t know how—“ she stammered.

Reuvena was only a few years older than Zel, but still newer to The Artisan than the other women. She was as close as Zel had to a friend, but now she looked at Zelmyr with eyes awash in disgust. “He’s not dead.” She stared at the jeweled rings on Nochel’s hands, touched the ruby on his ring finger that she had sculpted from clay shortly after arriving at The Artisan. “Not yet, anyway.”

Another woman, corseted in emerald, thundered down the hallway in her bare feet, black-hair-dyed-auburn coming undone from her top knot bun. “What have you done?” Pi’el pushed Zel away from Nochel and knelt next to Reuvena, tears running black down her face.

Mahol, the matron--in age only--of The Artisan, ran to them in her violet silk dress, graying head held high above a disciplined posture, her small, ballet slippers gliding across the quaking floor. Her eyes flashed. “You killed him!” She growled at Zelmyr, like a stray feline yowling before a fight. Her scorn electrified the air. Glancing at the others, she said, “We need to get out of here. Now.” She pulled Pi’el to her feet.

But Pi'el swatted Mahol and reached instead for Nochel. “I'm not leaving. We were supposed to get married!” Pi’el whined. "He just proposed!"

Zel’s face contorted, breath catching, unexpected grief stabbing her chest at Pi'el's declaration, as hideous as it was. “Please, I didn’t know this would happen.”

“Of course you did!” Pi’el snarled, diving for Zelmyr to pummel her with her fists. “I’m going to kill you!”

Covering her head, Zel curled inward, bracing for the attack.

But Tzaya, the quiet, big-boned gypsy who painted sapphires and diamonds, appeared and caught Pi’el in a firm hug. “Enough, Pi’el. She’s just a child,” she said softly into the weeping woman’s shoulder, ever the peacemaker.

The ground beneath them trembled in yet another aftershock, and once it stilled again, Tzaya eased her hold on Pi’el. “Reuvena, help me pick him up.”

Bolts and beams crashed down behind them, artwork encased in glass shattering on the floor as the end of the hall caved in.

Reuvena lifted Nochel’s head and shoulders while Tzaya hefted his legs, and together they hurried him to the entrance of The Artisan.

Mahol picked up her flowing skirt in one hand and grabbed Pi’el’s hand in the other and cast a glare behind her at Zel. “Let’s go. The Artisan is dying.”

They tumbled into the main road, where The Artisan took up space as the last establishment of the town. It was the fine destination of main street before the stagecoach parted ways with civilization for the next fifty miles.

Zelmyr inhaled sharply and gasped and coughed, chocking on the clouds of dirt churned from horses and coaches. Her ears rang with the yells of drunks calling to each other from opposite sides of the street. It was a tumult of humanity, the kimonos of the women like bright, bold children's toys in a dingy, dirty sandbox. Those closest to the traged had the decency to stop, to solemnly witness the disheveled beauties spewing out of The Artisan’s quaking mouth like a coal mine in the final throws of life.

The pink and turquoise songbird stared at Nochel’s body, wondering why she was not overjoyed that Nochel was as good as dead. It meant no more torture, no more singing, no more muzzle. Why did her heart feel like a boulder in her chest?

One man, hat in his hands, stooped down to poke Nochel’s shoulder. “You alright, man?”

Zel blinked. Did Nochel’s finger twitch? She leaned in and crushed her ear to his chest, holding her breath. Please, Eliakim, let him be alive, even if for Pi’el’s sake…

Tzaya lifted his wrist to check his pulse, and after a moment, she shook her head, brown waves bouncing over her bare shoulders. “He’s gone.” 

And the building that the five women called home gave a heaving breath and collapsed with a great and terrible sigh, her travail finally over.

Pi’el wept over Nochel’s body, wailing, while the other women looked on.

Without a word, Mahol stood and disappeared into the crowd. Out of respect, the people parted before her as she made her way toward the other side of town.

Reuvena stared blankly at the tangle of steel and stone, arms wrapped tightly around her middle.

“It was held together by the will of his power,” Tzaya said quietly, more for Zelmyr’s understanding than anyone else’s. “He could craft metal of all kinds. He did not leave her because it took so much out of him to keep her standing.”

The explanation did not move Zelmyr’s heart one way or another--she was already basking in the freedom that was now hers. She pulled up fabric from her kimono and wiped the paint and mascara and lipstick off her face. She was no longer a slave. Homeless, but no longer would she be forced to perform against her will.

Maybe she’d sing herself a little pile of gold. Perhaps a big one.

The crowd began to murmur and shuffle sideways. Zel looked up when Mahol stepped toward her, accompanied by a man  in a black vest and cowboy hat.

“There, Sheriff,” said Mahol, pointing at Zelmyr. “That’s the one who killed Nochel.”

 

#

 

It was a long night in the town jail.

To Zel, it was the same cage, just a different gild, the black slatted pattern of “justice.”

Deep down, she knew that her tongue was powerful. It had the power of death and life, the old proverb said, power separate from her ability to sing-spin gold. She just didn’t think it was actual death.

But what other death was there? She asked herself, turning from stomach to back on her bunk. It wasn’t like Nochel was just figuratively dead. Zelmyr sighed and stared at the bottom of the upper bed, wishing for the hundredth time that she could sleep.

Tzaya had come shortly after dawn to tell her about the funeral, and to request that Zelmyr be granted an hour to attend the funeral.

Zelmyr wasn’t sure why she’d done so. She was glad he was dead. Mostly. Except for the small part of her heart that adored her mother and the instruction she’d walked out before Zel, even unto death. She’d given kindness and mercy and compassion, even to those who’d abused her.

Nochel had reaped what he’d sowed. Who knew how many women he’d manipulated and abused! It was true justice he’d gotten. She had cursed him, not quite believing that it would do anything but make her feel better.

But it was more than just words, Eliakim, her god, whispered to her.

As the Sheriff tested her handcuffs before opening her cell door, Tzaya waiting in her quiet way on the other side, Zel realized she might have changed her mind.

Zelmyr followed Tzaya’s past the grocer’s, the barber, and saloon, and people paused to stare at the former creatives from The Artisan. They’d never seen his exotics outside; some cast their eyes away, while others studied them with fascination.

“You didn’t wear black,” Zelmyr commented to Tzaya before they reached the door of the schoolhouse. It was the biggest room aside from the church that could hold a large crowd, and no one was going to suggest a church for this event.

“You never said you were innocent,” Tzaya replied, throwing a glance over her shoulder at the younger girl.

“I’m not sure I am,” Zelmyr said.

Pi’el’s crying echoed in the street, and Zel steeled herself against the guilt pressing in on her from all sides.

Nochel's coffin was set up near the front, and apart from the four women, only a handful of people were in attendance, and these few seated in the back. It stank worse than the trash heap at the back end of the saloon, and Tzaya whispered that the mortician was out of town that week.

Pi’el sat closest to him, black handkerchief matching the rest of her, but her tears stopped abruptly the moment Zel stepped into the room. “What’s she doing here?”

Tzaya pulled Zelmyr forward by the handcuffs. “Paying her respects,” she said, leading Zel to the coffin. “Be at the back when you’re done,” she told her.

Nochel’s supposed beau huffed and tsked, but Zelmyr ignored her.

The songbird peered down at the man who had been alive and childlike twenty four hours before, skin pale and slack in repose. He was nothing like her father, but all at once a strong memory surfaced of her petite father, lying in the shallow grave it’d taken her all day to dig, his hands crossed over his chest, a frail shell of the man he’d been.

Then another memory. “Eliakim delights in showing mercy to people, Zellygirl,” Father had said to her the day he’d discovered their well had been destroyed by their neighbors. It was the same day that her mother had taken a small basket of the last oranges from their orchard to the same neighbors who had been so cruel. “I know it doesn’t make sense now, but the merciful are the most blessed, for they will receive mercy,” Father had said, wrapping her in his arms.

Tears fell from Zel’s chin to her handcuffed wrists as sorrow and hope rose in her spirit. She may not be able to sing over her father’s grave, but she could honor her father and mother by singing over Nochel.

And so she sang a song of life, of sweet fruit and laughter and memories, of abundance and the love of a father and mother. Gold swirled around Zel and above them all, yet no one moved to collect it. Some of it settled on Nochel’s body. The rest fell to the ground.

As Zelmyr sang the final notes, a deep tranquility filled the schoolhouse. She closed her eyes and inhaled.

“Who are you?”

Zel blinked. Nochel--Nochel!--was sitting up in the coffin, staring at her, his blue-tinged, ‘O’-shaped lips turning pinker by the second. Alive! Eyelashes blinking rapidly, breath parting his lips, his ringless fingers shook as he touched his face.

Behind her, Pi’el screamed and ran to him, and Mahol and Reuvena gasped.

Everyone flinched when Tzaya clapped her hands from the middle of the schoolhouse. “Draw him a bath and find him new clothes.” She ran and clasped Zel’s shoulder. “Come--I must get you back.”

Zelmyr staggered backward down the aisle, stunned.

Nochel reached his hand toward her. “Hey, wait! Do I know you?”

Eliakim, is this real?

Afraid of him and afraid of the power of her tongue, she bolted through the schoolhouse doors and ran back to the prison.

 

#

 

Zelmyr was declared innocent at trial. No one could confirm whether she sang his death over him, but most of the jury was convinced that you couldn’t sing murder while crooning gold dust into the air. (A vial of gold from Zel’s last song had been found in his pocket by the Sheriff.) Cursing someone was different than killing, they’d insisted…because if it was the same, they’d all be guilty of murder at one time or another. And now that the victim was alive again, well, there was no murder to prosecute.

 

Nochel married Pi’el eventually, once he remembered who she was and that she loved him. They built a house next door to ‘The Creative Way House’, so he remained close to his new establishment. However, the reader will be pleased to know that revised contracts were offered to Mohal and Reuvena, allowing them more freedom, individuality, and a greater percentage of their earnings than ever before.

 

Tzaya quickly became Zel’s best friend, and together, they took the stagecoach east to flee the memories of their captivity. Tzaya became a famous painter of ‘normal’ paintings, outdoor watercolors and pastels (since she hated being inside), though from time to time she was seen selling beautiful sapphires to wealthy jewelers in towns they traveled through.

 

Zelmyr became the most gracious, kind woman anyone could ever hope to meet east of the Mississippi. And you can be sure she sang herself a little pile of gold so she and Tzaya never had want for anything for the rest of their days.

 

 

Inspired in part by the song, Mercy by Steffany Gretzinger and Amanda Cook.

“For You delight in showing mercy, and mercy triumphs over judgement.”

https://youtu.be/hQu-VctDAwA