Is my ceiling actually...moving?,’ I think as my eyes slowly begin to open. My candle chandelier sways above my bed, as though I am on a ship, and dust falls on my already paling face. I sigh heavily, “Ms. Irsonja..” I groan to myself. Only such a heavy flat foot cube woman could ever produce an earthquake, during every star and sun, by simply walking.
My assumptions are proven correct when I heard Ms. Irsonja’s heavy Irish accent calling as she stomps up and down the halls upstairs, banging on doors with her meaty fist, “Girls! Girls, wake up! We’ve got a mule’s cart of work to get done today, and it won’t get itself done if you’re still in Dream World! Come on, now, hop to it!”
I groan again and rub my clammy hands down my face, pulling the skin beneath my tired eyes down until I feel a cool breeze on the whites of my eyes. Soon, Ms. Irsonja would be making her way downstairs to club my door, as well as the other seven, so I decide to go ahead and save my ears by clambering out early.
I pull the covers back and toss my legs from beneath the sheets and onto the floor, expecting to feel the usual cool wood beneath my bare feet. At the feel of something soft and furry grazing my toes, I gasp and jerk my leg back up on the bed. The worn bed creaks and squeaks at my sudden movement, and it feels as though it would collapse beneath my weight. But I know matter of factly that after sleeping, jumping, leaping, and knocking against said bed for eight years, not even the weight of a building could shatter it.
Slowly, I peek over the edge of the bed with caution. My eyes level with a pair of glistening deep ocean blue eyes. I let out a relieved sigh and my thudding heart slows its galloping tempo back down to normal.
Istaqua.
Half-heartedly rolling my eyes in annoyance, I hop out of bed and lift the curled up cat into my arms. Typically, Ms. Irsonja does not approve of having animals in her orphanage, but if you rub her the right way, she’d probably let you keep an elephant .
“Istaqua, you nearly scared the life out of me.” My stubby fingers soothingly massage the area between his ears: his favorite spot. He purrs and begins twitching his leg. Apparently, he enjoys this. I laugh quietly, forgetting that I am suppose to be getting dressed before she got down here. It was only when I was around Istaqua that my problems and worries seemed to wither away. It was as if he had a type of magic that consumed my mind and soul.
I startle at the sound of stomping and thudding nearing my room, followed by, “Come on, ladies, wake up! Up, up, up! Let’s get a move on, now!” She thuds upon my door so hard that I fear it will dislodge itself from the hinges and come crashing down, “Rise and shine, girls!” Istaqua leaps from my arms and barricades himself beneath my bed, as if he is a predator ready to pounce on some helpless prey.
“I’ll be back, Istaqua. Stay quiet and please try not to dash about in here. These walls can hardly hold this place together as is.” My eyes do not plead with him, but they aren’t scornfully cold either. He knows that I was serious, so he only tucks himself even further into the shadows.
I take that as his understanding and gather everything I need to wash up: a cloth to wash, my daily clothes, and a cloth to dry myself.
— — —
I’m pretty small in my waist, compared to the more plump girls here in London, and I am a little self conscious about how my dress, the dingy daily outfit that we all must wear, fits me. The fact that I stand out like a sore thumb doesn’t really help either, being as I am the only Native American girl here.
- - - - - -
As I walk down the hall to get back to my room, fully dressed in my ankle-length tanned dress, I feel completely out of place. I see the young light-skinned girls with their pretty brown and yellow hair, rosy cheeks, jelly bodies, and brightly colored lips. I, on the other hand, have messy black hair like a wolf mane. My cheeks are not rosy, but rather dark and shaded; my skin is more so like the thin deer skin that my father used as a rug and my body is unsculpted. My lips? Mother called them “cocoa beans”.
Instinctively, my arms encircle my waist and I use my waist length hair to cover my face. The other girls whisper and giggle as they pass one another, and I do not know whether it is me they are laughing at, or if it is just a humorous comment that was spoken. Either way, the laughter only makes me quicken my pace to get back to my room.
What am I so afraid of? These girls do not give an owl’s hoot who I am, never mind how I look!
“Do not be so flexible in trusting every person who casts you a friendly glance, Taigi,” Father once told me, “for not every person who casts you a friendly glance can be trusted.”
More giggles and whispers reach my ears. I run towards the spiraling staircase to make my way downstairs, but my feet trip and stumble over one another, and I find myself kissing the floor with a loud THUMP. Now, I know that the giggling and whispering is directed at me.
“Did you see that?” quietly one girl asks her small clan of friends.
A curly-haired girl grins and whispers back, “Are you kidding me? How could you not? She fell harder than a log!” They all giggle and walk past me, trying to cover their smiles with their hands. The humiliation is too great, and I find myself blushing furiously. A buxom girl comes over to me, grinning all the while. She kneels before me, still smiling, but pins her eyes on all of the girls that surround us.
“Come on, gals,” she giggles in her Scottish accent, “Don’t be so cold. Can’t ye see she’s already embarrassed enough?” Her efforts are not helping me at all, because the laughing and whispering become suddenly louder. At this moment, I decide to save what dignity I have left and leave the room, just as the kneeling girl turns back to me. When she sees that I’m no longer there, her eyes glitter with confusion and she tries to seek me out amongst the crowd.
She catches a quick glance of my hair, just as I near the bottom of the stairs and make it around the corner, completely gone from view.
I don’t think I’ve ever felt so out of place in my life; I feel like a swan wandering about in the ocean.
— — —
“Oh goodness, Atulia, you’ve missed it! You’ve missed it all!” Mippy Tipplon, the head mistress’ daughter exclaims. The only reason why I remember her so well, is because of her bee stung lips. They’re huge! She doesn’t mind flipping them about either, talking about ‘who did this’ and ‘who did that’ and ‘what she said’ and ‘what she wore’. She’s truly the key to all gossip, and the source of all headaches.
The girl in the room with Mippy places her hairbrush down to gaze Mippy in the eyes, a confused expression etched across her face, “What are you talking about?”
Mippy flops down on the bed, pulling her roommate down with her, and takes both her hands into her own, bringing her voice down to a hushed whisper as though weary of someone eavesdropping on their conversation, “That girl.”
Lillia, the equally as much of a big mouth, scoots closer to Mippy. Her eyes glitter with curiosity, her voice rising slightly in anticipation, “What girl?”
Mippy giggles like the dirty rat she is, “The Indian girl! You know, the one who wrestled with pigs last week?”
Lillia searches the memory vault in her mind before realizing who Mippy was talking about, “Taigi?”
Mippy nods her head furiously and sends her messy brown tendrils flying, “Taigi!”
“Oh dear,” Lillia laughs, “What happened?”
“My goodness, Lil,” Mippy slaps her knee and rises from the bed. She jumps up and down like an excited five year old waiting for a Christmas gift, “You’ve missed it! You’ve missed it!”
“Please, Mip, my anxiety is driving me insane! What in the world have I missed?” By now, Lillia too has risen off from the twin-sized bed, and so stands beside Mippy with a grin.
“She stumbled!”
“Stumbled? What's so exciting about-”
Mippy nods furiously again and interrupts, “And fell!”
“Oh, she did not fall, Mippy, she did not fall!”
“Yes, yes, yes!”
Lillia can hardly stifle her laughter. She takes Mippy by the hand and pulls her along as they race out of the room, Lil yelling all the wall, “Come, let us go and eat first, and then you must tell me more!”
— — —
‘Ah, you are back so soon, Tai?’
“Not now, Istaqua,” I do not mean to snap at him, but my nerves are so frazzled, I could bury myself alive, “I am not in the mood, nor do I have the time, to speak to you!”
‘Aw, I am hurt now, Tai.’
Under my breath, I simply mutter, “And I'm not?” and briskly exit my room with what I hoped was a confident smile and posture.
— — —
I notice that I am alone walking down the hall. No one is around and all is quiet. ‘They’re probably outside already’, I think with a sigh, ‘and Ms. Irsonja has probably already started naming off the chores on her panel.’ I take my time on making my way to the courtyard, to admire the paintings on the walls. I hardly get the chance to spare a glance at the paintings and sculptures that Mistress Tipplon has decked the Home with; I'm too busy always getting from room-to-room with head hung low.
The hall is long and seems to widen somewhat as I make my way to the end. The light brightens, and the paintings look as though they are ready to leap right off the wall to greet me.
Mistress Tipplon has wonderful taste in artwork. She’s got an old soul that takes her back to the times of...of...of, “Oh, what’s that word?” I ponder, annoyed that the word has escaped from my mind, “It was...was...was...Neo-classicism! Yes, that is it.” I smile triumphantly to myself, for it is not easy for me to remember the English ways of this country. The ways that they act, speak, and even the way that they eat is different from my tribe. The Taino Tribe.
Their styles are so...different, that it was very hard for me to adapt and adjust. Just by looking at the paintings by Jacques-Louis David, J.A.D Ingres, and Anton Raphael Mengs; the sculptings of Antonio Canova, Jean-Antoine Houdon, and Bertel Thorvaldsen; the architecture of Robert Smirke and Robert Adam. It is all so interesting that I cannot take my eyes away from them! All of my embarrassment from earlier on today has been forgotten. The idea that the other girls do not like me is forgotten. Even the thought of me having to hurry to the courtyard is forgotten!
That last one is my biggest mistake.
I startle at the sound of the heavy wooden doors, that lead to the kitchen, being slammed open and banging roughly against the wall. In comes a rather bone thin girl, that I do not recognize very well, being roughly pulled along by two grizzly looking men: one with long brown hair, and the other with short curly red hair. The girl does not look like the other girls around here. Her skin is far too much like fresh soil. I had no idea that anyone could actually be darker than me! She is dressed in a dirty shirt that is far too big for her bony frame, and her hair does not look as silky and oily as the rest of ours, but it seems to be more like...thick wool. By the glowering look in her deep brown eyes, she does not look too friendly either.
Suddenly, one the men, the brown-haired man who looked to be in his forties, calls out loudly, “Madame Tipplon! Madame Tipplon, we need to speak with you!” Remembering where I was and where I was suppose to be, I make ready to race straight for the opposite end of the hall, but something seems to tug at my conscious and tells me to stay. And, very stupidly, I do.
Instead of leaving, I take a spot behind the nearest sculpture just as the head Mistress bursts into the main hall. I move further behind the boulder and peek around just far enough for my eyes to see what is going on.
Mistress Tipplon makes haste to the scene, her small feet tapping furiously across the floors. She makes her way into the room and stops abruptly before the three people when she sees the girl. Madame Tipplon’s eyes begin to widen, in what I cannot distinguish between either shock or disgust, and she takes a few steps back, almost as though the girl is plagued, “Oh my, what have we here?”
“We found this slave girl,” responds the man with curly red hair, roughly yanking the dark girl by her forearm; she winces slightly, but otherwise makes no sound, “wandering about your terrain. We were wondering what you would have us do with her?”
“Hmm,” Madame Tipplon takes a while to think it over. She lightly taps her pointer finger against the base of her pointed chin, and her eyes fully take in the girl dressed in rags, “You say she is a slave, eh?”
The brown haired man nods, “That is correct, Miss.”
“And she has wandering about my Home?”
“Snooping, is what we believe she’s been up to,” replies the red haired man.
I watch the scene with curiosity, and my eyebrows begin to furrow as I continue to watch what is happening. Madame Tipplon again takes a moment to think over the situation. Her long chestnut toned hair is pulled into a sloppy mess atop her head, and it begins to fall into her face as she bobs her head this-and-that way while speaking with the two men. She does not look too angry, but then again, she doesn’t seem too pleased either.
It seems almost as though decades go by before Mistress Tipplon gives a final nod toward the two men, her hand motioning for them to follow her, “She can stay and serve as a housemaid until I figure out what I wish to do with her. Come along.”
‘What?’ I scream in my mind, ‘This is an orphanage for young girls! What young girl serves as a housemaid in an orphanage?’
The two men drag the dark girl by her arms and follow Madame Tipplon towards my direction so they can get to the main office. I gasp and try to hide myself even further behind the statue, but it is no use. I stick out like a sore thumb.
Madame Tipplon heads to her office, and notices a rather odd shadow on the floor. She slowly moves closer to me, and I try desperately to tuck myself further behind the sculpture, but it does not help; she notices me.
“Taigi? What in the world are you doing in here?”
I hesitantly move out from behind the statue and into the light like the child who ate the cookie before supper. Seconds later, I am standing before my confused mistress, the angered dark girl, and the two strict-postured men. My head lowers and my waist-long hair begins to veil my face from view, but I immediately tuck it behind my ear before daring to level my chocolate eyes with Madame Tipplon’s bright moon silver ones, “I- I was looking for- for my shoes?”
All eyes go straight down to my feet. Madame Tipplon brings her eyes up to meet mine once more, “Are you not wearing them, Taigi?” I look down at my feet stupidly and begin to blush; I am such a terrible liar.
I look up at her again, “I mean- I mean the ones I wear while I work.”
As though reading my mind, Madame Tipplon shakes her head disappointedly at me, “You are a ghastly liar, Miss Taigi.” I blush again and lower my head once more as she continues to scold me, “You wouldn’t be happening to try and...skip out on your work, are you?”
My head snaps up and I gaze at her with wide eyes, “Oh no, ma’am! I would never even think of such a thing.” The dark-skinned girl snorts in a very un-ladylike manner, but I ignore her as the two men yank at her arm to keep her in line.
Madame Tipplon also ignores the snide gesture and all attention averts back to me, “Then, keep yourself off of trouble’s road and take yourself out to the courtyard!”
Without hesitation, I mumble a low, “Yes, Ma’am” and sprint towards the end of the hall to the courtyard. I have a very weird feeling that if the new girl does stay here, we could get along very well, since we already have three thing in common thus far: We are both dark. We are both treated differently. We are both outcasts.
Take some time to let the reader know the characters. In this you introduced one, and then before I could breathe and accept it, there was somebody new. Bringing in that many characters in such a short ammount of time is confusing, and often puts a reader off.
Other than that it was good, although I don't know enough about the storyline yet to tell, it seems intresting enough. I'll go read the next chapter.
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