Alisha Walkerden
THE STRINGLESS
Copyright ©2019 Alisha Walkerden. All rights reserved. Except for brief quotations in critical publications or reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without prior written permission from the publisher. Write: Permissions, Wipf and Stock Publishers, 199 W. 8th Ave., Suite 3, Eugene, OR 97401.
Stone Table Books
An Imprint of Wipf and Stock Publishers
199 W. 8th Ave., Suite 3
Eugene, OR 97401
www.wipfandstock.com
paperback isbn: 978-1-7252-5645-3
hardcover isbn: 978-1-7252-5646-0
ebook isbn: 978-1-7252-5647-7
Manufactured in the U.S.A.
Cataloguing-in-Publication entry is available from the National Library of Australia http://catalogue.nla.gov.au.
Typesetting by Ben Morton
One
Just before dawn, a symphony of strings descended from the heavens. A low hum reverberated through the sky as they slipped through the wind and wisps of clouds. The opaque tendons lingered in the early rays of sunlight. They crept towards their targets with precision—attaching themselves to heads, hands and feet.
The stillness of a sleeping woman was disturbed as the strings forced her to wake. Serie groaned, squeezing her eyes shut just a moment longer, but the pull of her strings to raise her from the bed took over.
Her feet stomped over to the dresser. Her hand clasped onto the drawer as she pulled it open. In her head, she counted every second it took for her to perform each action—the same ones she had done every day of her life.
Serie gazed at herself in the mirror and watched her hands straighten her work shirt. Her fingers combed through the tangles in her hair.
“Serie,” her mother called. “Breakfast is ready.”
She sighed as her feet walked her to the kitchen. Her mother stood over the kitchen sink. The pipes groaned as the water flowed into the tub.
“It’s on the table, dear,” her mother said.
Serie’s arms pulled out her chair to sit down.
“Serie, your hair is a mess,” her mother called. “Lord Maître will not be impressed if you turn up to the palace looking like that.”
“Thank you, Mother. Breakfast looks wonderful. Could you please braid my hair? It’s getting rather long to do it myself.”
Her mother left the kitchen to fetch her brush. Serie’s hand reached for her spoon, her mouth ready for the first bite of porridge. She cringed as the spoonful of flavourless goop dripped on her tongue. Serie did not stray from her task as her mother’s footsteps returned to the kitchen. Her mother lifted Serie’s ebony waist-length hair into her hands, driving the boar bristles through the matted mass of hair.
“Your father was called to help with the harvest at Mr Hollow’s, so he’ll be gone for the next few days. It’s a bigger harvest this year,” her mother said. Her mother’s hand rested on Serie’s shoulder; the warmth of her touch was something that Serie always savoured.
“You’d best be getting to work, my dear,” she said, picking up Serie’s empty bowl.
“Have a lovely day, Mother.” Serie rose from her chair and walked out the door of the cottage. Her strings slipped through the timber as they carried her towards the day.
The wind swept up the hillside causing Serie to hurry towards the shelter of the woods. The grey aftermath of the evening storm still lingered in the air. She trudged through the path that led to Kalan, avoiding the puddles of mud as she walked.
The usual aroma of wildflowers was mixed with damp earth and hints of rain. The smell stirred her attention to the morning dew that clung to the petals of the wildflowers. Their colours of crimson and lilac had been awakened by the rain. She was mesmerised, her mind wanting her hand to reach out and touch the flowers. But her hand did not obey her commands. Instead, the incessant nudge from her strings brought her back to reality. She had defied her string’s bidding longer than she should have.
Her pace quickened as the strings dragged her along the path. Her heart yearned for a moment where she could be still and wander in the beauty of the world. But the strings had somewhere for her to be, things that she needed to do. There was no time to be fascinated with wildflowers.
The strings dragged her forward, but her eyes stayed glued to the flowers. She had only taken a few steps when her body jolted as she ran into something unexpected. Serie slipped in a mud puddle, splattering it all over her pristine clothes. As her hand wiped away the mud from her face, her gaze lifted from the ground to a pair of muddy leather boots. Her eyes met the smiling face of the man who stood between her and Kalan. His appearance intrigued her: he was slightly unkempt, his chestnut hair held back with a thin piece of cord, his clothes worn and ripped. His beard appeared to have been hastily trimmed. His dusky brown eyes filled with something she had never seen. His most defining feature was his complete lack of strings.
“Excuse me, sir, please may I get through? You’re in the way. I’m already late for work.” She scrambled to pull herself out of the mud. The stranger offered his assistance, but she refused. Her strings lifted her to a standing position. As she attempted to move forward, the stranger still blocked her path.
“I only wish to take a moment of your time, Serie.”
She froze, forcing her eyes to look at his face again.
“How. . . how do you know my name?” she stammered, ignoring the forceful tugs of the strings to remove her from the encounter.
The man’s lips parted to show his teeth. She followed the edges of his mouth as they curled towards his eyes. A fire danced in them, burning with a life she had never witnessed before. She was engrossed in the fire, letting it seep into her own frozen soul. For a moment, she had forgotten her fear of this stranger. Her intrigue far outweighed the pang of fear in her chest. Even the pull of her strings could not dampen her curiosity. Her mind snapped out of its trance when the stranger spoke.
“How long can you withstand the pull of your strings?” the man asked, his fingers hovering over the string on Serie’s left hand. Her eyes widened as his fingers wrapped around her wrist. A pulse of energy zapped through her. Within moments her strings dissolved into thin air. She watched her fingers curl up, the mark from the string red raw. A wave of pain crushed her body, forcing her wonder to disappear. The man caught her just before she fell. Her lungs begged for air and her mind attempted to fathom what was happening.
“Serie, it’s going to be alright. Just breathe. The strings don’t do that for you. I want to help you, but you have to trust me.”
Serie focused on the fire in his eyes again. With every new breath, her pain subsided.
“Why are you trying to kill me. . .sir?” Serie gasped. Her jaw cracked with every word she spoke.
“My name’s Tristian, and I’m not trying to kill you. I want to help you be free of your strings.”
She stayed silent, replaying Tristian’s words in her head.
“How can I be free of my strings? I’d die if I didn’t have them.”
“Do I look dead to you, Serie?” he said, showing her his hands that were free from the strings.
“How. . .?” she stuttered, unable to form the rest of her question.
“I can show you. Now let’s get you up on your feet,” Tristian said, lifting Serie to a seated position.