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Once Upon A Time
by Beverly A. Hale
"Once upon a time, I tell you . . . Once upon a time," she called to the passersby. Yelled at them when they ignored her. "I have stories. Who will buy?"
Today, like always, people turned their heads and hurried past, pretending interest in piles of vegetables, coils of rope, cloth, anything but her. Townspeople muttered as they passed, "Hush Halla. Be quiet, Halla."
"Can't someone silence her?"
"What will people think if they see her, hear her?"
Those forced to walk close to her tattered rug tugged the hems of their bright robes back as they crowded through the narrow paths between booths. Mothers tucked children behind their skirts, hissing at their little ones when they showed too much interest or lagged behind to listen.
Halla
snickered to herself as she rattled the few small coppers in her bowl.
‘Afraid. The fools fear my madness will rub off and
stain them.’
A man dropped coins into her bowl, but wouldn't meet her eyes, wouldn't stay when she opened her mouth to tell. Halla felt the hot rush. Didn't he realize? The stories were the important thing, not the paltry few pennies he threw her.
"Stay," she called to his retreating back. "Stay. Hear my sagas. I have legends and myths, I have fables for you. Stay. Won't you hear my imaginings?"
‘Useless, worthless. Miserable excuse for a person,' the voices
hissed inside her. 'They pay you not to speak.’
"Fool," she muttered, and threw a clod of dirt after the man. At one time she would have thrown the money back at him--in anger, frustration, pain . . . she no longer knew which. But long ago she'd learned that would not make people listen either. She'd resigned herself to accepting the coins they tossed her and sending the stories after them whether they wanted them or not. She was no beggar, no matter what she heard the people whisper behind their hands and scarves.
Old, mad Halla, dirty beggar. Mostly they didn't even try to keep her from hearing them. Mad? Mad she would give them. She was mad, and well she knew it. Voices inside and outside confirmed that. No shame there. She could not change what she was. And dirty she might concede as well. What with all the dust the animals and shoppers kicked up, she'd wager none of them were too clean at the end of the day either.
But not old. She was not old. And no beggar. There she drew the line. It wasn't age that withered her body and wizened her features, only long days of sun, wind and rain while she crouched in the port bazaar.
She'd never sought their cold charity either--she had goods of worth to offer. merchandise to trade for the coins that bought what little she ate--stale bread, a handful of overcooked rice or lentils, a few limp vegetables.
Still she tried. ‘If they take my stories I am a Storyteller, not a beggar.’ Halla smoothed the ragged mat back down, dusted her hands off and shoved her hair away from her face, preparing for the next customer.
"Once upon a time, there were wonders . . . who will come and listen?"
‘`Storyteller like my mother, and my grandmother and back through time to when tales were valued. And soul-hungry crowds gathered to hear the wonders my ancestors spun in the moonlight or in front of warm fires.’ Halla stood up, moving her mat a bit to the left to catch the afternoon sun between the stalls. Then she pulled her duputa back up over her hair. The long scarf had once been covered in a pattern of bright emerald flowers. Now it was only a shabby gray rag, but as long as she wore it, it lent her respectability.
"You, gracious lady, would you hear a parable to make you weep for all the lost love in the world?" Halla reached a thin hand toward a young woman dressed in vivid silks who shrieked and backed away. Quickly a group of bazaar merchants gathered the maiden up, dusting away any supposed touch, and offered chai and sweets to distract a rich patron. Other merchants yelled at Halla, chased her away from their storefronts with much waving of hands. She obliged them by moving a few paces further down the row.
Still, Halla felt luckier than many who scavenged about the market. Her madness kept the worst of the waterfront scum away from her, it kept her mostly safe. Safe from attack, safe from the voices which whispered and refused to be ignored in the dark as she lay alone, wrapped in her mat. She ignored the voices when she could, tucked them away in the back of her mind when possible, yelled and raged to drown them out when they grew too loud.
‘Useless, useless,’ they whispered. Words like burning oil.
"Come back, lady, come back and let me tell you of romance." She called to another woman and two merchants rushed at her.
"Get out of here, old fool! Go, go, you're scaring our customers." They shook threatening fists at her as Halla scrambled up, grabbed her mat and bowl, scurried off to hide beneath the dripping edges of the docks until the merchants calmed down. It would only take a few hours for them to forget her. Meanwhile, she'd listen to sailors from her hiding place under the pier. Sailors always had adventures to tell each other, though even they never made them into proper stories.
#
In late afternoon Halla finally gave up for the day. Wearily she leaned back against sun-warmed stones of the wall, closed her eyes and whispered her fairy tales to herself. She often filled the empty hours that way when no one else would listen. Sometimes long epic poems, rocking back and forth on skinny haunches to the rhythm of the verses. Then, oh then . . . it was like Grandmother had told her. The richness of words and sentences, the music and feeling filling her throat, spilling out into the air. Warm it was, warm as the sun on her upturned face. Sometimes, if she wasn't too loud, they let her finish one or two stories before they came again to silence her and drive her away into the alleys.
Several of the merchants, grown used to her, promised her gifts. "Here Halla, food and blankets, Halla. Only be silent! Don't scare away the customers and we'll all profit."
She'd wanted to tell them yes. She wanted to be still and, maybe, silence the voices inside her with warm food and a dry place to sleep. Still, she could hear Mother's and Grandmother's stories more clearly than the shopkeepers' voices. And, as hard as she tried, the stories still spilled out of her, dribbling from her mouth like drool from a teething babe.
Most of the merchants had ceased trying to bribe her, and simply shook their heads at her foolishness. Some ignored her, a very few threatened or chased her away with brooms and sticks. She always returned. This spot in the marketplace was hers, earned by all her years of trying. Halla sat up, opened her eyes. The sun made everyone drowsy and slow this time of day. Maybe this time they would stop and sit. And listen.
"Come, come hear a story. I will make you young again. I will make you see your past or your future," Halla called out. "Listen to your dreams, spend a few moments in the magic of them. Come, come." She watched warily as a gaggle of sailors turned at her calls and stumbled toward her. They were laughing, already drunk on sour wine and landfall. Not her type, but still a possible audience. She smiled slightly, cautiously.
"Will you hear a story, kind sirs?" She added a touch of the mysterious to her voice, pitched it just loud enough to tease them, draw them closer. "Shall I spin a tale of lost loves or high adventure?"
"Well, Auntie," slurred the filthiest, shoving a huge, scarred, stained hand toward her face. He almost fell on her, to the great amusement of his friends. "Tell me my fortune." A rattle of small coppers sounded in her bowl.
It surprised her. "I, I can't tell you that."
The voices in her head warred with those around her. ‘Fool, useless fool, can't even call the audience correctly. Worthless.’
"Wants more money, she does, Nath, like all these sister-humping landers."
"Raise prices when we reach port. Thieves, the lot of 'em."
"Make her tell, you've paid for it."
"Take it out in trade." This was followed by harsh laughter
The confusion of voices scared Halla. She shut her eyes, covered her ears to block them out. "Stop. Stop."
Rough hands pushed and shoved. Someone shattered her clay bowl against the wall, someone else slapped her. More than once.
"Teach you to cheat your betters." Thrusting her back against hard stones, they kicked her and lurched off down an alley.
‘Stupid, like they say. Swindler, they know what you are. Useless.’
"I tell stories," she mumbled through bruised lips, gasping for breath, coughing, "only stories. Not fortunes." Halla curled up round the sharp red hurt, trying to become small enough to hide under it. She tasted salt and metal, licked away the blood. "They didn't want stories."
‘Who wants stories from a poor, mad fool?’
After a time, a hand grasped her bruised shoulder. Halla jerked away.
"Hush, it's only Roshi. Can you get up? Wife, Wife, come and help me with Halla." The baker gently helped her sit, then stand, although Halla was capable only of a crouched shuffle. "Come on, come with me now. This way."
"My money." Halla tried to turn away, wincing with the effort, to look for scattered coins. "They took my money."
"Hush, hush old woman, you don't need it for tonight. We'll feed you. Come now."
"Not old," she mumbled, “I’m not old.”
"Hush." The baker's wife was brusque as she guided Halla. "We’ll put her in the back of the shop tonight. I'll make a pallet for her. No, I have her, go fetch water to clean her up. I'll expect your help. You wanted to do this. But something will have to be done with her in the morning."
"My money." Halla focused on the only thing that didn't hurt.
‘Worthless. Beaten and starving. Not even a good beggar. Useless.’
"It's only a couple of pennies." Roshi saw her tears. "Hush, I'll have the children gather them up. Come, there's food, warm food and a bed for you. You'll have your money back in the morning."
Whispers mixed and flowed together around Halla in one long hum of buzzing, like bees on a hot summer day. "Awful, isn't it terrible, well, what can you expect, still it's horrible, something should be done, she will cause such problems, shouldn't something be done, I say she called it on herself, still something should be done, a menace to children, just an old harmless woman, all that blood, isn't it terrible, something should . . ."
#
Warm water soothed aches and bruises. And the pallet was softer than Halla remembered bedding to be. Her body, warmed by a full belly, relaxed under rough blankets and she fell away from the pain into a sleep without voices.
When she woke, Halla peered at the shadowed lumps around her in confusion. Roshi's, she remembered. The storeroom. Her pallet lay hidden, a small, warm nest between sacks of flour and potatoes. She smelled spices and onions cooking, she heard Roshi's wife in the front of the shop.
"It's all very well to help the unfortunate, but you can't leave her back there forever. Husband, our customers will turn to Mehorta, gods curse his shriveled soul. They won't remember he uses wormy flour, only that he has no lunatic in his shop."
Halla tried to sit up, the pains in her sides and stomach forced small grunts out of her. Nausea swept over her and she swallowed back the bile.
"We'll move her to the house then, only for a day or two.” A pause. “Wife, the gods exhort us to care for the sick and injured."
"Well I don't understand why they always expect you to be the one to do it."
Halla crawled off the pallet, pulling herself up with the help of the stacked bags. She limped through the door. "I'm grateful for your kindness, Roshi-janab. I must go now."
"No, you're still hurt. Wife, fetch Halla a cup of chai. Here, woman, I have fresh roti." He handed her two hot rounds of bread. "Eat, eat. I'll help you outside to sit in the sun." Roshi slapped flour from his hands, took her arm and guided her outside to a thick mat of woven reeds. "When you're finished, my wife will take you to our home to rest until you're well."
Halla smiled up at him, patting his arm. "The gods bless you, baker." Her voice was rusty. "I would return your kindnesses. Once upon a time . . ."
"No, no, I've no time for that." Roshi brushed off her hand and turned away. "You rest."
Halla began a protest, but the aroma of hot chai and fresh bread made her weak. She grabbed up the mug Roshi's wife had placed beside her. The chai was strong, fragrant and sweet, with plenty of milk. She almost sobbed at the taste, remembering long ago mornings with Mother and Grandmother, watching the sun rise through the steam from chai mugs. They told her stories and poems as they fed her, laughing and encouraging her when she attempted to join in.
"Are you finished yet?" Roshi's wife blocked the sun, staring down at Halla. "I can take you to the house before I take the wash to the dohbi."
"Bhaibi-jan, it is not necessary. I thank you for all the generosity you've already shown." Halla wobbled as she tried to stand and hand back the mug at the same time.
"No. My husband said you're to stay with us, and he will never stop complaining if you don't. Come." The woman took the mug, setting it on the stool. "Do you still need help walking? Take my arm."
The baker's wife was not really unkind, Halla decided, just filled with her own concerns. She bobbed her head. "Thank you, Bhaibi-jan, I can walk--if we go slowly." Halla watched her own feet, counting each step. One, two. She found that the pain lessened if she held her breath and moved very cautiously. Seven, eight. Still, she was grateful for the short distance between the baker's stall and his home.
Roshi's many children hovered and gabbled around the courtyard like a flock of ducklings. The movement and noise made Halla dizzy enough to close her eyes.
"Boys, fetch the charpoy and put it there. Can't you see she is about to fall? Hurry, I can't hold her forever. Run, don't just stand there staring or I'll box your ears."
When the wood and rope frame pressed against the back of her knees, Halla gratefully sank down onto the cot. Eyes closing despite her efforts, she curled into a tight ball and slept again. When she woke, Halla found she'd been covered by a light cloth. On the ground beside the charpoy her belongings made a miserably small pile. Her mat, lay washed and folded along with her only change of clothing. On top sat a small bowl with coppers in it.
‘My money.’ From behind doorways and furniture, Roshi's brood stared at her and whispered loudly. One tot of three or four years of age stood only a few feet from her bed. Halla smiled at them and the littlest girl tentatively smiled back. Encouraged, she sat up, with only the vaguest suggestion of a headache, but still with a nagging stiffness and pinpoint aches from assorted bruises. "Hello. Do all of you belong to Roshi?"
The girl nodded solemnly and stuck a grubby thumb into her mouth.
"Shall I tell you a story?" Although the older children looked hesitant, the smaller ones crowded closer. "Come. What shall it be?" Halla beckoned to them. "Sit. How about, oh yes--Once upon a time . . ."
"Children, come away this instant. Don't bother the woman." Roshi's wife rushed up, waving off her youngsters. "Come. Now. You've chores. Hurry, there's much to be done before your father comes home. Go, go now." When the group somewhat reluctantly scattered to their tasks, she wheeled about to face Halla. "Don't ever try that again. You know how your ramblings upset my husband. And I'll not have you filling the children's heads with your stories. They're useless. Worse than useless, stories are dangerous. We don't need stories. Stories don't put food in our children's mouths."
Halla hung her head. "I'm truly sorry, I only wanted to amuse them. I meant no harm."
‘No good, miserable. Even the children know that no one wants your prattlings. Useless. You are unworthy of your mother.’'
"Well, we need none of that here. Stories are nothing but trouble, and we've no time for it. Hush now, I'll bring your supper soon. Just lie down and wait. The more you rest, the sooner you'll be well."
--and out of my home. Halla could hear the unspoken portion. She pulled the cloth back over her head and lay down. And if there were tears, the soft cotton soaked them up before anyone else could see.
That evening, she pretended sleep when Roshi came to check on her. Through slitted eyes, she saw him set down a covered plate along with a water jar and a thick blanket. Although the spicy scent near drove her mad with hunger, she waited until their house grew dark and quiet before sitting up to eat. Then she wrapped the blanket about her shoulders and spent the night telling the stars her best stories in a whisper.
#
Even with the morning sun shining full on her face, Halla pretended sleep until Roshi and his wife left for market. The ayah kept the children busy and away from her while she washed at the small courtyard well. Without soap she was less successful than she'd have liked, but still she felt better, cleaner than the stock tanks or sea water she was used to. Then she stepped into the storage shed to change out of her wet clothing and into her only other shalwar cameez. She washed the wet things a second time and spred them in the sun to dry.
Edgy and impatient for something else to do, she folded up the blanket and cloth she'd used, placing them on the end of the charpoy. Then she washed the food plate and water jar. She looked toward the main room, thinking she could see the children peeping from the shutters, but she didn't wave.
She sat down, recited the longest poems she knew, practiced her intonation, her vocal control. She watched the sun climb the clouds until she could wait no longer. Gathering up her belongings, still slightly damp, she left for the bazaar.
Halla spread out her mat in her usual spot and sat, trying to find a comfortable position. "Once upon a time . . . kind sir, will you hear a tale to brighten your day? You, compassionate lady, I have children's fables for your daughter. Who will listen to my stories?"
People hurried away from her---as usual---merchants shook their heads looking at her swollen face, bruised arms. "Doesn't she ever learn? Something should be done about her," they told each other.
In the heat of the afternoon she took her coppers from the bowl and went to Roshi's. "I wish chai and paratha," she told him with as much dignity as she could muster. "And I thank you and your family for your generosity. I'll repay it when I can."
Roshi waved her money away. "I heard you in the market today. Why do you persist, Halla, when you know it angers so many? Do you want more beatings? I'll give you a warm place to sleep nights, after I've closed up, of course. But you can be out of the rain. Others will help. Food, clothing--not new, but clean. You can rest. Simply stay out of sight." Roshi swept the crumbs from his counter and pulled a straw platter off a shelf. “Stay silent.”
Halla inhaled the yeast and spices of the parathas. She ignored the scent, though her mouth watered at the thought of pastry and potatoes. "Who will be your dreamer then?" she asked him, wiping the edge of her mouth. "Without me?"
"We need no dreamers, and none of your dreams, woman. We've no time or taste for your prattle." The baker gathered the parathas left unsold from the day into a small pile. He tied them up roughly in a bit of cloth, ripping it badly on one side.
"Then who would remind you of the magic?" Halla couldn't tear her eyes from the packet. Her stomach rumbled so loudly she feared it would drown out her words.
"Magic! Let us never again hear of magic! Magic almost destroyed us. Seba curse your tongue if you speak of those foul practices again!" Roshi slammed the packet down. “Stories remind people that magic used to rule us. Do you want to bring that back and destroy the remaining half of our land?” He leaned across the counter. "Why do you do this? We're ready to care for you, keep you in more comfort than my own mother had during her life, and still you--" he muttered in disgust and turned back to his shelves. Roshi continued without turning, "Leave us in peace, fool. Stop badgering us with your noise or . . ."
"Or you will stone me?"
‘Like Mother, like Mother?’ the voices shrilled in her head.
Halla knew she treaded forbidden places, dangerous memories. But if they remembered, she might still tell her stories--their stories.
Roshi paled, whirled and thrust the bundle at her. Halla smiled, clasping the warmth to her chest. "Once upon a time . . ."
"No! Go, get out of my shop, you stupid old beggar!" The baker shoved her.
"I'm no beggar, I have stories to trade. And I'm not old," she yelled back, stumbling into the sunset.
"Shut up! Just, shut up."
#
In the cold damp of the night, Halla huddled in the shallows of a doorway to sleep. She’d wrapped her mat about her, hid her sandals and bowl between her body and the wall. But she couldn’t rest. The voices whispered things to her for hours--vile wretched things--until she drowned them with a recitation of a historical epic of several hundred verses. Somewhen, she slid into sleep.
Water splashing against a wall somewhere and the smell of piss woke her. Halla shrank into the shadows. Slowly, move slowly like a cloud over the moon. One of the sailors, can't tell if he's one who beat me, but he stinks the same--vomit, sweat, wine. Seba protect your daughter, Bhima damn him, blind him to me. Let him finish his business and stumble off. Halla held her breath.
The sailor wobbled, lost what little balance he'd had and fell forward, throwing a heavy hand against the wall to steady himself. Halla choked back a gasp, but the drunk heard her and peered into the black shadows of her doorway.
"Whossatt?" he muttered and grabbed at her, his head bumping loudly where it hit the wall. He splattered her with his last drops of urine. "Ow. Bhima's backside! Curse it." His pants slipped down his hips and when he snatched at them, he fell back into the wall. He cursed loudly and fumbled with the drawstrings, holding them in one hand while he righted himself and staggered back toward her.
Halla tried desperately to untangle herself from her bedding.
"Damn. Wha ya hiding for? Thief, huh? Think ya can rob me, huh?" A rough hand dragged her from her shadows into the uncertain moonlight. "Whassis? Well, girly. I know wha ya want, girly, I do. Thinks ya make some money from old Musa, huh?"
He shoved her against the wall, roughly fondling her. Halla pushed him away, but he slapped her hard enough to make her ears ring. "Zhats wha ya want, huh? Musa show ya somethin, good. Have some fun, huh, girly?" He shoved her harder against the wall, pinned her with an arm across her throat. As he pressed against her, she felt him stroke himself and he laughed at her struggling.
Halla gagged at the stench of him, his body, his poisoned breath. She ripped at him, kicked him, beat at him and he stopped fondling himself long enough to clout her above the ear. Pain took her breath and vision. She felt sick enough to vomit on him, and a part of her hoped she would. She tried to scream, but had no air.
Skin scraped off against stone as he shoved her to the ground. Then he fell on top of her, crushing the breath from her again. He ripped at her clothing, yanking at the drawstring of her shalwar, tearing the loose pants down her abraded body. Halla fought, but he smashed her again. And again. Until she lay in a black haze of pain. She vomited then, and the sailor slapped her hard. Cursed her, perhaps--she couldn't understand him. She could only hear the blood pounding in her ears. She focused on that.
Eventually, he rolled off her, finished. He stood up. "Stupid whore, I won't give ya nuthin for that. Ya not worth nuthin, not a pias. Damn bitch." With one final kick at her side, he stumbled off down the alley toward the piers.
Halla lay on cold stones. She waited, unable to flee if he should return. The stickiness of him ran down her leg. The pounding receded with the pain into a foggy blur that swirled around her. Vaguely she wondered if she would die.
She didn't much care.
‘Miserable shabby whore. Worthless---even on your back. Useless.’
Halla couldn't summon the strength to answer the voices, could only watch as the world slid into sable shadow.
#
For an eternity there was only agony and blackness and confusion. Voices came and went--bidding her to eat, to drink, to lie still--or cursing her stupidity. She kept very still. Movement meant nausea and pain, and a whirlwind in her mind which tossed her thoughts like leaves in the wind and forced hot tears down her cheeks. Voices whispered comfort to her between the curses, and Halla was grateful.
Sometimes she felt cool hands stroking her forehead, or warm damp cloths that cleaned the sweat from her face. She tried to bless them through bruised lips which wouldn't form the words. It was simpler to stay in the darkness, to sleep away the days.
Finally, the voices separated. Those outside offered her food, helped her creep the endless steps to the privy when need or nausea came upon her. They assured her she would be well soon. Voices inside muttered things she didn't wish to know, so she talked to Mother and Grandmother to drown them out. She tried to retreat to the blackness, but the lights grew brighter and more frequent. Halla yearned for the ebony silences or at least surcease from the cursing voices. Sometimes she thought Mother and Grandmother sat beside her, but they would never answer her questions. So she ignored them.
#
Seasons changed, more once, before Halla noticed anything more than a bowl of food thrust into her hands or the privy door. She felt odd, cumbersome---a stranger in her body. A stranger to the place around her. No, maybe not. It was, she realized, Roshi's storeroom, though efforts had been made to convert it to a sleeping chamber. The door opened and she jerked back, startled.
The baker's wife stopped in the doorway, her arms full. She stared sharply at Halla. "Ha. We wondered if you were permanently addled." The woman placed a tray of dishes and mugs on a small table next to the charpoy. "It will be a relief, I can tell you, not to have to handle you like a baby any more. All that feeding and washing up after you."
"How long?" Halla whispered.
"Since we found you?" Roshi's wife sat down on a short stool. "Sprawled and bloody you were. Why, my husband thought you were dead." She picked up a bowl and placed it in Halla's hands, then began to feed her. "Well, you almost did die a few times, but here you are. I will have you know that my Roshi had the basharas say prayers for you, even though it cost us more than a few pias."
Halla gently stopped her hand and took the spoon away. "How long?"
"Yes, well, let me see . . . hmmmn." The woman counted on her fingers twice, muttering under her breath. She shook her head and repeated the operation. "Five months, and a few days."
Halla thrust the bowl onto the tray and tried to stand. She felt so clumsy and thick. Looking down over a belly which bulged her tunic, she sat down abruptly.
"Wondered when you'd notice. I can tell you it's a relief that I won't have two babies to care for. Now that you're back in yourself, so to speak." Roshi's wife nodded in satisfaction. "I'll tell my husband you're well now. Well, when he comes home--it can wait that long."
Watching the woman leave, Halla laid a hand tentatively on her protruding stomach. Something tapped against her hand and she sat lost in the wonder of it until Roshi came in hours later.
"You are recovered?" He frowned. "We thought you lost for all time. All the other merchants have sent food, clothing,." He looked down at his feet. "We don't know who did this to you. He's probably gone by now with one of the ships." Roshi's face twisted with revulsion. "Unless you know him?"
Halla shook her head.
"At any rate, we’ve had a meeting and a place will be provided for you. You'll have your own roof. We'll give you what you need to live."
"And my stories?" Halla looked up at him, continuing to stroke her belly. "I need my stories. I'm a storyteller, like my mother, my grandmother. I can't live without my tales."
"Othin damn you, woman! Have you learned nothing from this? You see where your stories got you---scars and a bastard in your belly. You could've died in that alley. It could happen again. It will happen if you stay in the bazaar." Roshi shook his head. "If you persist in this, no one will help you. No one."
"I am a teller of tales, a dreamer of dreams. If I stop, I lose all that I am. And the day I stop or die, you will lose all that makes you real."
"Go on then. No one listens to you anyway. No one will ever listen to you."
#
Halla leaned over the child who suckled at her breast. She smiled slightly as she stroked soft skin and dark hair, kissed tiny, perfect fingers that clutched her thumb. She pulled the edge of the blanket up over delicate curls and caressed a downy cheek. "Once upon a time, beloved," she whispered. "Once upon a time . . ."
The End