Genesis
by Sarah Joy Freese



I am going to die within a month.

Maybe longer, maybe sooner, but approximately a month. I'm not quite sure what I think about this whole dying business; I only know it is what is supposed to happen and that I will do my best not to struggle. I hear that if I struggle in this life, the afterlife will be one continuous struggle. So I practice holding my breath and placing a knife to my heart.

And while I am practicing, I am interrupted with shouts of "Tóra! Get the Mistress her tea, now!"

***

You can see it.

A single tear falls from above or below and lands nowhere, accompanied with the melody of silence. A harmony plays on: the backdrop of the ocean roars with the timbre of heavy rain.

All is wet. Nothing is land.

Somewhere, a snake hisses, luring you into its slithering skin. Its yellow eyes penetrate into your skull, seducing you to take a bite of the apple. You ignore the allusion and press further into the draw of the curse, smiling and humming a tune.

You've no need to worry about poison. You hold the anti-venom in your heart.

***

Morning tea time is one of my favorite activities. I wrap my dress around my waist, and have no need to brush my hair, kept short by the crew members who swear by not having lice on their ship. Exiting my room, I immediately enter into my Mistress's chambers, a room decorated with every color and shape of candle one could imagine. Red. Tall. Fat. Orange. Green. Purple. Chunky with crystals like rock candy on a summer day after July. And my favorite: A skinny one with purple stripes that smells a bit like peppermint intertwined with chocolate on early fall mornings. The scents will ease her spirit into the afterlife.

As I enter, I curtsy slightly, and wait for the small smile she will give me. A hand extends toward me, and I know that I am to come to her so she can caress my face. She does so, in a way I can only assume is motherly, having had neither mother nor father.

"Tóra, my tea, sweet one." I take leave of her side to the hot water brought in by the water boy, Abbi. Choosing a particularly spicy orange flavor, I hope to awaken her spirits to the dawn of the new day. Too, orange is the next path of our journey. But this you will know later.

"A good choice, my Tóra." A touch of her hand on my wrist.

And now it is story time.

She tells tales of the old days when men were seven feet tall, or maybe eight, and could kill dragons with their bare hands. My eyes widen in horror as she describes a bloody battle in which one victorious army slit open the stomachs of their captives and ate their innards for dinner, and shift nervously at the recounting of a spearing contest in which the goal was to gouge out the eyes of the other players, with the winner wearing the eyes as a necklace.

A final story—my favorite—that of a prince in a far away land traveling to find his one true love. As the prince passed through dangerous valleys filled with deadly beasts and over slippery, craggy rocks, through fierce winds and tempestuous hail storms, his determination to press on became obsession. The look in his eyes told of a man who had not eaten or slept in over a week. His right foot, frozen by below-zero temperatures, had become frost bitten and began to fall off in chunks of flesh while brittle bones would chip and break away. Still, true love's song called the man further toward his destiny.

Having only heard of the princess in stories told by the King and Queen, his faithful parents, he had no reason to doubt her real beauty. His mother had told of her long, golden locks which turned a shade of pink in a just-right sunset and her elusive gray eyes that always seemed to be searching for the truth. Her honor and grace had been described by his father in a clear and focused voice, as if he were listing the qualities of a ship to be purchased for his newest army. With her beauty and character close to his heart, the prince had no choice but to find this beautiful maiden and bring her home to live with him forever.

Without a word to his parents, he departed on his journey, where we have left him in the midst of physical and emotional despair.

The prince carried with him an artifact—one that would change the events of a century—a photograph of a young girl encased in a wooden locket, the latter engraved with purple lilacs, white daisies, and spirally, snaky vines. A darkened tree stood in the background telling of foreboding, desolate times. But who would listen? Those who told tales were just that: storytellers. The story-doers were either predestined to follow a set course, or free to make up their own rules. But it is not the locket or predestination upon which we must focus.

The girl.

Her eyes, brown and hazel and green and wild, looking longingly over her shoulder at the place she called home, yet daring to move them forward, to look ahead.

Into the vines.

Tiara cockeyed, one purple shoe discarded among the trestles below, our girl was desperate to leave behind what she once knew to press on toward that which she hoped to have the joy of learning. Clouds in the blue skies above would quickly form into storm clouds—snow, rain, or something much more perverse.

And the tree on the locket; a tree of the knowledge of good and evil. Only, to eat of this tree placed one back inside the garden; in paradise, in a place where the future was always the same: Tomorrow would never come.

Also in the picture, an owl flew overhead—a messenger of great importance, warning the girl by the sheer span of his wings, not to leave-leave-leave forever.

He wanted her to stay. You need her to stay. But no matter. The girl had made up her mind and she was off to see the world, all that lay beyond what she once knew. She knew she could become so much more than who she was, had only dreamed and imagined and thought until all wishes became reality, and then escaped into the vines. Still, something held her back. But it was too late.

No longer within eyesight or hearing distance from her castle—she had always loved the architecture of that old building, despite its trapping flaws—she pressed ahead with the determination she still knew. Her childhood fantasies often told of this moment, though it wasn't what she envisioned; she was free.

The girl had no convention to hold her back. She could move about gracefully without fear of condemnation, even from herself. The choice to go forward was all she could do. No longer was she a part of the life she left behind. There would be no more claustrophobia, and any fear of danger for what lay ahead would only be an adventure that would serve to test her character.

She had left her tiara behind, and now pressed on toward a crown. And this, my Queen said, is where the story ends—not focusing on the prince moving toward his journey, but on the girl in the picture escaping.

I knew to ask no questions. For doing so would either kill the prince or doom the princess.

***

Before leaving on the death journey, the queen put me through a rigorous set of studies. Though rather unnatural for a servant, the queen was determined to have an educated personal slave accompanying her to the afterlife. While many advisors fought her on this, education was my life for eleven months; I learned culture, mythology, and geography. The latter was my favorite subject, and as we journeyed I often reread my notes:

Within the world tree, Yggdrasil, four worlds exist—Asgard, Midgard, Utgard, and Hel. Midgard is the defense fortress built around the middle portion of the world to protect it from the giants, while Asgard is located in the heavens, accessible only through the rainbow bridge, Bifrost. Within Asgard, various lands exist: Nidavellir, the land of the dwarves, Svartalfheim, land of the dark dwarves and evil elves, and Totunleim, the land of the giants. Valhalla, the most beautiful mansion in Asgard, is where our death ship, Johrasar, is sailing.

The path we are taking is one unknown to the rest of the world. Each color of the rainbow will represent a different emotion through which the Queen must pass before she draws her last breath. And that—the ending of her time—will co-mingle with the birth and placenta of a new creature. Each life must be replaced with death, so that when Odin (chief ruler of all things Yggdrasil), his eye plucked out by his own sacred raven, passed into the afterlife, his successor—Solomon, of the Christian faith—would become the most wise man on earth.

A spear is a tool used as a weapon for killing. And nourishment.

***

Being the only female on the deck besides the Queen, I have come to the attention of many of the young men on board the ship. I shiver as I wrap a shawl around my shoulders and try to stall just a bit longer before the dreaded seven hours of scrubbing the deck floor, oiling the lamps, and scouring the laundry.

Johrasar, the vessel upon which our voyage is made, is a dirty ship. Covered always with a shield of fog and dirt, the weight of swamp-smelling air will never leave. My work is but a token, a sacrifice for Freya, the goddess of beauty and love. While the death ship can never be clean, sacrificial servants will allow Johrasar to travel between the transition of colors—the place that isn't really red and not quite orange, but white.

Evil enters our ship always. A snake's constant hiss-hiss-hissing replacing that of tar and oak and reeds against cool water. Breeze does not exist.

No one walks on the water in our story.

With these thoughts in mind and heart, I look back at my now sleeping Mistress—it is for her I will do this work. For her, I will do any task.

I will die.

I will live.

I will die again.

"Tóra!" I am startled as a friendly hand slaps me on the back. My friend, Abbi, looks forward to scaring me at every chance. Most times he hides behind skull-filled barrels (a collection of bones from the last victorious battle of the army of Our Land for both luck and protection) while I am cleaning, as he knows that I hum and think of stories and far away places.

"Where was your head this time, Princess?" Princess—a nickname given by Abbi after seeing me in my death gown—a lengthy blue-violet silk gown with rubies and diamonds accenting the neckline, fading slowly into purple, lilac, and finally an innocent white. Most of the men on board thought it was too extravagant for a servant girl, but the queen had chosen it especially for me before we left for our voyage. Abbi thought it looked good with my eyes and said that it spoke to the truth of passion and power within death for the Queen—the only time I heard him speak positively about my impending death. Perhaps the gown was magical? At the very least, the moment I showed it to him, late, and by the light of Asgard's two-and-a-half moons, he said it made me look like the Queen's daughter. I could only hope for that fortune, having imagined such a fate many times.

"I was thinking of all the laundry I have to do, no thanks to you." Abbi had often joked that I would make the perfect wife for him as I already had all of the skills that one could wish for in a fair maiden. I laughed, head thrown back in vicious amusement, telling him that I would rather lick cow shit off of his bare feet than clean his house. He would always laugh back. Now, he stops laughing.

He knew I was going to die.

As the Queen's right hand servant, I had been chosen to accompany her into the afterlife. And while this would frighten most, I saw it as the honor it truly was. I would live my life with the Queen forever, if only to feel her hand on my cheek and forehead every morning, the caress of love.

I am Freya. I am beauty and love. I am truth. I am not.

I Am.

"Tóra! Stop daydreaming, and start working! You will earn your wage on this ship if I have to beat you senseless! Crazy girl of the Queen, thinking you can just play in your head all day? When you're at sail, you abide by my rules—and that means you clean!" Vladenberg, the ship's first mate enjoyed exploiting his firstmateness. I envisioned him being slit in the gut and having his innards eaten. Still, a shudder waved through my body as I rushed to get my bucket and scrub brush to clean...what? The dirt that was already there or the blackness which pervaded our days and nights? The bloodstains that would appear after the Queen's heart was cut out and placed on the third step of Valhalla?

My own blood. The blood of the child I would never have.

The flesh of the prince's foot, dying to reach his one true love.

As I begin cleaning at the starboard side of the ship, my mind begins to wander to other stories that the Queen has told. Lately, the stories have been those of the afterlife.

"What do you think the afterlife will be like, Tóra?"

In my head, I picture peace. The picture of peace is, in fact, more clear than the picture of the ever-after. I see purples and pinks—the colors of a sunset against a cloudy sky after the first snowfall of winter, muted yet comfortably so. Sometimes, I see what might be an angel or perhaps a woodland fairy with wings beating quickly and hum-hum-humming, sparkling silver, then shifting to blinding light.

It is not a scary place, but rather a place where the constant pain from loss and rejection in the pit of my stomach is no more. The tears that fall everyday in remembrance of lost loved ones or those never met will not be there. I suppose I think of a heaven, though I am not entirely sure that's what it will be called. I also believe that there will be things to do in this heaven. We will be a productive people, growing and changing the world around us, and making ourselves and our surroundings into more than we could have ever possibly hoped to be here on earth. In essence, we will transcend what we once were and become what we were always meant to become. And what will I become?

A princess.

Though Vladenberg would slap me if he ever heard such words coming out of my mouth. Once a Queen's servant, always a Queen's servant. I know that I can be so much more than that. I see it in the way her hand touches my cheek, the way she tells me stories and allows me to picture myself in them just as if I were there. She sees me as more than a servant girl, though she must never say that.

"Why must I die with you, my Queen?"

"Because those who do not enter into death with the Queen will never truly live. Others may strive and live good lives here on earth, but they can never come with me into the afterlife. Only those servants who are willing to lay down their lives with mine will truly experience life with me in the eternal."

Thunder cracks and I am reminded of the omnipresent Thor, Odin's son and the god of war. I look to the sky and see his hammer, belt, and iron gloves. He is the red of the rainbow, his hair ruddy.

"But will it hurt?"

"Oh, yes, my Tóra. The brokenness you will feel and the pain will be like none other that you have ever felt. But in the end, when the executioners come to take you with me, you must say, 'I choose to give my life and heart to the Queen forever.' If no such words are said, your life in the afterlife will be painful and you will struggle."

"I am afraid."

"You will be at times, but choose to trust in the life which I will have laid down before your life is taken. Choose to trust in my love and honor for you—I will have gone on before you, so that you will know the correct path to follow."

"I choose to trust you, my Queen."

"I love you, my Tóra."

My love for the Queen grew stronger daily, and I continued to live my life in service for her, by daily cleaning the grimy deck and hoping for the possibility of becoming a future Princess. Vladenberg, however, hated the joyfulness he saw in me and began to give me more work. I only ever complained to Abbi once I was sure everyone was asleep. And he would hold me, and I would feel whole. One night Abbi found me crying quietly, as I was trying to not let anyone hear. I had been to see the Queen moments before, presenting her with her nightgown and her evening meal. Being too weak to accept her dinner, the Queen had asked me to kiss her cheek goodnight and then requested that I leave.

A look in his eyes told me that he was concerned and feared for me. But I also saw another look, one that intrigued me and drew me closer to him as a confidante. Perhaps in another life he was Frey, brother of Freya, god of fertility, peace, and prosperity, holding with honor his sword high above his head, ready to protect me and the Queen from all evil in the afterlife.

Or was he my prince? But I could not think that, for then he would die and I would live in freedom.

"Tóra, I have figured out a way to prevent you from dying."

I refused to repeat what we both knew.

"Do you trust me?"

"Of course I trust you, Abbi. You are my one true friend." I reached out my hand to hold his.

"Then you must follow my plan."

***

You want her to die.

Trust me.

Her death is better than your life.

The poison is getting stronger.

The tears fall harder.

***

"Do you trust me?"

A world begins to form.

There is no big bang, only the quiet existentialism growing deep within you. A light, and then a dark, a sun and stars, and then the moon, man and then beast. The snake will come later.

I am in a desert. A sandstorm is brewing to the Southeast, waiting to capture me in its blinding presence. I pull my cloak closer around my mouth and turn my head toward the ground in preparation for the blow.

The storm hits. Sand blinds my path before me and my path after me. And as quickly as it has started, it has finished.

The sun is shining. I walk on. A prince leaves his home.

The world outside the smog turns orange.

A locket is opened.

 

 

 

Sarah Freese is currently attending the University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee while pursuing her MLIS in library science and her MA in English creative writing. She is president of the School of Information Studies Graduate Student Organization and creative nonfiction editor for the Cream City Review. Besides reading, writing, and researching, she enjoys dark chocolate M&Ms, diet coke, and is passionate about community. Some favorite authors include John Green, Britta Coleman and Aimee LaBrie. Prick of the Spindle is her first literary publication, although, she would like to note that her mom has prominently displayed her work on the refrigerator since she was 2. For more of Sarah's writing and reviews of young adult literature books, feel free to explore her blog.