Violet's Fingers Ch. 03

The beast in the cage

Narrated by Klavdiya.

As I sit against the shutters of Pim's rooms, no heart beats in my porcelain chest. But in the scene where he now begins Sudarynya's story, Violet's heart is racing.

'Fialka's fingers grip her bars,

knuckles white, seeing stars.

Blooded and raw,

they release and withdraw,

To dance their way through stench thick air.

Lifting shredded lace to shoulder,

waiting till her pain grows colder.

When fingers trace,

with hidden grace,

The silken shadows of her hair.'

Dilli's words, and Violet would have laughed and congratulated Pim on how his translation had improved his mother's awkward original. Her fingers were graceless and her hair a bloody mess. In her filthy cage she was trying to loosen her tangles, remembering the braids her maids once made for her in the bay windows of the summerhouse. She tried her best to make herself attractive, but her fingers shook and her torn nails caught on the sticky strands until she finally abandoned her coiffure.

Knowing she had only one chance to capture the attention of her saviour, Violet needed to clear her mind. She flexed her shoulders, clenching her fingers around the bars and focussed on all she had, the pain of her bruised limbs and torn skin, soaking it in like fuel. She was strong and fast, but Violet knew she needed to learn to restrain herself. The day before would have been a good time to practice, but instead she had killed Vasya, Matron's new attendant.

She had discovered him to be not as he seemed, but an assassin, sent to kill her saviour. Violet had a habit of solving problems with her hands. She knew talking to him would only make him aware she knew. On the other side of the courtyard, even the guards were relaxed, smoking and enjoying the sun. When she heard the sound of him swallowing his drink on the seat beside her, she launched herself at him, driving her fingernails into his eyes. Her fingers clenched in his eye sockets, she tore into his throat and face with her teeth. I said she was strong and fast. Even the cook, well accustomed to cutting meat, was surprised by the amount of damage she was able to inflict in just a few moments.

When Violet pulled herself upright, straddling his body, I was reminded of the little statue of Freyja that used to sit next to me on the mantelpiece, the goddess of love and war, riding into battle on Hildisvíni.

Her face glowing in the ecstasy of her victory, Violet felt hands lifting her. For a moment she must have thought the others in the courtyard were taking her on their shoulders to parade her as their hero. Then I saw the surprise on her face as she was slammed against the wall, the guards making up for their lack of alertness. They hammered into her with their fists.

Luckily, the matron of Chistilishche saw from her window and called them off before her bones were broken. Oksana Koslova came downstairs and took control, glancing grimly at the attendant, covering his body and ordering the onlookers to their dormitory. She then turned to Violet, crouched against the stone wall. Winded and still clutching a branch of ivy torn off trying to escape, she was a mess, a guard's fingers still clenched in her hair.

"Bring her to my room," Matron said.

Violet did not resist being dragged, spitting blood up the stairs, even held her arms out patiently as the guard fastened her to the rusty rings on the wall; she had done it before. To me, she was being transformed into a marionette, except here, the purpose was not to enable movement. I must point out this room was no grim dungeon, but the bright windowed study next to Oksana's office. Her reputation, the muffled sounds through the walls and the evidence on the survivors was all she needed to ensure obedience.

But Violet was relaxed facing Oksana here. She knew the familiar sound of the bluebird on the sill, pecking at the seeds placed for him, the smell of the fresh polish on Matron's boots and the leather of her glove. Violet was expecting the bout of rage and held her head high, taking the blows without flinching or making a sound. Then Oksana controlled herself.

"Why? What did he do?"

"Nothing yet. But he is here to kill Dilli. An assassin." Violet's words were slurred and Matron thought she said -----.

Violet flexed her shoulders against the ties, ready. Oksana turned away and pulled on her glove, clenching her fingers so that Violet could hear the scratch of its hooked spikes. Her immediate need was to show the inmates the retribution for such a terrible crime, she felt bad hurting Violet, even when she had done such a terrible thing. But worse was thinking ahead. Ultimately, Violet would have to be executed and with this on her mind, Oksana's cold countenance was dissolving even as she sent the guard outside and closed the door. She could not bear the thought of this dreadful place without Violet's company. She looked forward to the evenings when she would poke her head around her partly opened door, her long, dark hair curtaining her face.

Asking politely if Madam Koslova would like a game of chess, she would slip past without waiting for a reply. She greeted the pieces on the chessboard near the window with her fingertips, checking their positions before making her move. Oksana would bring a bottle of vodka and contemplate her response. Violet, far ahead of Oksana, laid bare her strategies, making the chess pieces characters in a story laced with fragments of unfamiliar language to keep her on her toes. Oksana didn't mind, she was learning and she could listen to Violet's voice all night, watching her fingers flitting over the board, being led to faraway places, described in cryptic detail. Her stories were never predictable; subtly didactic, they showed how intensely aware she was of the diaphanous edges of her student's understanding.

But now Violet had brought it all down, forcing Oksana into a corner. She squared herself in front of her adversary, the same irreverent, unfathomable woman in her room, but smeared in the attendant's blood and tied out like the Christ above the altar.

For her own survival, Oksana began laying into Violet with her spiked glove. Dear reader, in case you are imagining Oksana the master of this little theatre, I must point out that she was much the lesser force. Though restrained, Violet showed no restraint, circling her torturer in a flamenco-like dance of the mind, a bullfight, a masked theatre, taunting and teasing her. Violet made Oksana work hard for the cries she needed everyone to hear, but she spoilt it by adding giggles, making it sound like a game. She had a talent for handling pain that quite surpassed Oksana's skills in inflicting it. She knew her friend's mind well. While Oksana turned to take a drink, Violet focussed as well as she could on the unfinished chess match by the window, recalling the layout and running through sequences of moves to find one that exposed Vasya symbolically. Oksana needed to be broken through the back door of her mind, defeating her at the same time was easy.

Violet shook her head, took a deep breath, turned her face towards the window and mumbled her black knight's move. Waiting a moment for it to sink in, she added, "Voilà, échec et mat en trois coups." The words came slurred from her swollen lips, but she hoped Oksana would see the ruse, that it was a feint, the white queen would be taken unless she helped her dear Violet, the little black pawn.

Showing again she was losing control, Oksana clenched her gloved fingers in a soft spot, extracting a cry that was heard all the way to the kitchens. Turning away to examine the board, she could not see what was coming, but had no doubt Violet had worked it through correctly, on the board and, yes, with Vasya too.

She turned back to Violet. Hanging from her ties, she looked tired, her arms outstretched as though waiting to receive a congratulatory embrace. The matron of Chistilishche was confused. She had to protect Dilli, her most important inmate, but she was struggling with the prospect of executing her only friend.

Sýla was four years old when she slipped past the yawning guard to find Violet tied against the wall of her mother's office.

She would normally have offered up her cup of water; Violet looked like she needed a drink, but Sýla just wanted to hurt her badly. Sýla thought Violet had killed the one who told her bedtime stories.

Violet knew the light footsteps and smelt the girl's unwashed dress. "Sýla. You must help me."

On the small table beside her were arranged the implements her mother used to punish people. She picked up a sharp pronged fork and started jabbing Violet with it, trying to reach up to her heart. Violet tried to explain between screams who Vasya really was, but Sýla was even more stubborn than her mother. It was only when Oksana returned she called Sýla off, raising the spiked glove and threatening to chase her.

Violet had to try to get Sýla's help before she ran from the room. "Kommst du später zu mir. Ich brauche einen Schlüssel."

"What did you say? What have you been teaching her?"

Sýla called back in French, "I will bring you some of mother's sweets. I shouldn't have hurt you, should I?"

"Out!"

Oksana turned to Violet, her voice trembling. "You know I cannot save you. Nobody can save you." She called the guard to untie her, castigating him for letting Sýla sneak past. She looked Violet up and down. At least she was going to be a sight when they passed the dormitory.

"Take her. Give her the dress. She can make herself up for her execution. Goodbye, adova dochka. " Violet still held her head up as the guard led her away to the cages, his hand on the back of her slender neck. She was hurt, but it was clear Oksana was the more damaged of the pair. Washing her trembling hands, she left the blood on the floor for the cleaner and returned to her desk. The attendant's family had to be informed, then she had an execution to arrange.

Violet didn't care much for Oksana. It was Dilli Novikova, the one she named as her saviour, by whom she was entranced, hiding in the shadows near the kitchen, hoping to catch her scent over the cooking smells. Even the simple rhythm of Suda's footfalls or the sound of her singing as she washed dishes made her go weak at the knees.

In her cage, Violet was clinging to the ludicrous dream of being rescued and fleeing together to freedom. It was true Suda was planning to escape. Violet had noticed the changes. She was using a little more than the usual dab of her French scented oils. Her sweat smelt of fear and she could not hide the tremor in her voice. Violet guessed what she was planning and desperately wanted to be included. Dizzy with the anticipation, she knew she had to capture Suda's attention when she came past from the kitchens. She had done the best she could with the dress in the tight space of the cage, but more importantly, she hadn't decided at all what to say, or how to say it.

Unsure of herself now, Violet listened for the uneven rhythm of Suda's sandals over the stone. She whispered her verse, twisting the English girl's rhyme that repeated her saviour's name, easing her racing heart.

"I hear your voice, Dilli, Dilli, your song divine,

You know me not, Dilli, Dilli, you'll soon be mine."

Too soon came the footsteps that set her heart racing, lithe and confident despite the lingering limp which filled her with pity. Holding her breath, she turned her head and expelled in a whisper, "...I hear your steps, Dilli, Dilli..." falling to silence with the diminutive, "Dillochka." Violet could not be deluded; her dreams were drenched with her Dilli.