Blood Thirst

By Kelechi Rosanna Hannah

What happens when private grief turns into public catastrophe? In this tale of three ill-fated cities, a queen chooses duty and vengeance over fealty, and now consequences are far too heavy to pay.

Patrick stepped out of the carriage as it stopped right at the border separating Tsela from Arta. He waved his men and the carriage back, then hoisted his leopard-skin duffel bag and walked toward the low stone wall marking the boundary.

He paused, letting the misty rain soak his face. It was 4 a.m. on a cold morning, and a light rain fell—the kind that soaked through clothes and skin. Others might hate it, but for him, it was proof that he was alive right now. Right now.

He looked back at the retreating steps of his men, loyal servants and soldiers who had followed him to conquer territories and cities. He knew their hearts broke for him—for what they knew he was about to do, for what he knew he must do—and yet, they were powerless. He had made them swear by the Oath of the Kings that they would not accompany, interrupt, or speak to anyone about his mission.

He smiled ruefully, capturing one last image of them in his mind as they retreated, heads bowed, walking up a hill, disappearing from his sight. But Patrick was a man of action. He stepped forward across the wide expanse of land toward the low stone wall that marked the border between Tsela and Arta.

As he walked, he breathed in the misty air, drawing it deep into his chest, enjoying the feeling of being outside and alone for a few more moments. Lord knew he wanted none of this. He wanted to go back—back to the comfort of his kingdom, back to his room where he could think and plot in peace, back to the arms of the woman he loved. Oh, how he loved her! Back to her bed, where she would set his body on fire with a single touch and look at him with eyes that both begged him to uncover all her secrets and dared him to try. His woman.

He sighed as memories of just hours ago flooded him—bittersweet, now. Then, as if to wipe them away, he waved a hand in front of his face and marched on, recalling the story his grandfather had told him about the stone wall when he was only a boy.

*****

For centuries, Arta and Tsela had been rival cities. Legend had it that the two cities were birth sisters who became avowed enemies when they were in their prime and ready for marriage. It was said that Arta had been born beautiful, with a lovely singing voice, but she was dumb, while Tsela lacked good looks but was intelligent and skillful on the battlefield.

When they came of age and were ready to be married, Arta drew all the young and eligible men to herself with her beauty and voice. Tsela, however, had only an old and wealthy farmer, bent over at the hip. She had endeared herself to him by fighting off poachers who had attacked his farm. Arta, jealous that Tsela had secured a wealthy man, poisoned the farmer’s meal. When he died, Tsela was furious and hunted every young man in the land, killing them all.

Both sisters hated each other and divided the land equally, building a stone wall on one end and a river on the other to mark their territories. The river, however, belonged solely to the people of Arta. Later, each sister found men from other cities with whom they had children. They lived shunned from one another for many centuries, until the emergence of the great King Kolian—Patrick’s grandfather—who restored peace between both cities by bringing foreign experts to teach them to till the soil, plant cocoa and palm, rear animals, and mine gold.

Arta flourished in the production and commercial supply of cows, goats, cocoa, and palm, while Tsela became known for the best ammunition manufacturers and gold mining. And so it happened that both cities flourished and lived in peace.

Now, that peace was hanging by a thread.

And for what? Patrick wondered as he reached the low stone wall, his knees seeming to weaken. He sank onto a stone and cried. His tears mingled with the rain that was now heavier. A roll of thunder above his head made him shiver with fright. But he sat there and cried as he never had before, like he would never cry again—deep sobs wrenching from his bowels. The sound was as lonely as it was heartbreaking, and as loud as it was terrifying.

When he had emptied himself, he stood, took a long drink from a can in his duffel bag, dropped the can at his feet, threw his leg over the stone wall, and crossed into Arta with a stoic expression. The rain receded, and the first light of dawn began to filter in. This had to be done before the first cock crow.

*****

At 5 a.m. that morning, Awele woke with a faint throbbing in her head. She knew the source. It was not from the red wine she had shared last night with her husband. Her husband. The word still felt strange to her, but she had no time to dwell on it. Still in bed, she reached over for her husband, and when she did not find him, she leapt up to search the adjoining rooms. Three minutes later, she sat in front of her dresser, content that he must have gone for a run. She wanted to see him; she had a lot to say.

She had finally made up her mind last night, and had been eagerly awaiting today, but she could wait. It had taken her a long time to get here; a few more hours would not hurt. She unbraided her long hair and ran a comb through it without taking her eyes off the mirror. Today was her redemption. She could almost taste the freedom—a freedom she would pay dearly for, and she was ready to pay.

She had the perfect plan: her husband would not support what she was about to do, so she would hide it from him. What was one more lie? She would get dressed, wait for him, sit him down, and tell him everything, and then, while he was mulling it over, she would excuse herself to fetch water, and that was when she would make her way to Arta to make amends. Awele laughed as she stared into the mirror. Her mother would be mad right now in her grave. She could hear her mother’s voice in her head:

“You silly child! How dare you choose the fool’s way out? You cannot abandon your responsibility.”

She laughed again, this time with tears rolling freely.

“Oh Mother, how I hate to disappoint you, but you see, this time you were wrong, and now I have to do the right thing,” she said to the mirror, finishing combing her hair.

As she dropped the comb on the table, her eyes caught her trinket. Last night, she had taken it off for the first time since her father placed it on her hand when she was born. Now she picked it up and held it close to her face. It reminded her of Kwase—her beautiful and peaceful village.

She saw it clearly: the crisp, crunchy sounds of red, beige, and orange leaves falling in late September, the wind sweeping them aside, creating a path she and her father would follow hours later while riding his bicycle, he giving her a tour of the village, his earthy breath brushing her face as he said: “See, Awele, you are the Princess of this land. Soon you’ll be the mistress of all you survey.” He would smile and tickle her, and she would erupt into laughter. The frosty wind on her face by day and endless nights by the fire, naked trees, grey sun, and floors in need of dusting—everything was vivid. Her village was beautiful.

The people of Kwase were self-sufficient and happy. They had farmlands, farmers providing food eaten and sold within the village, a little stream for water, a wood shop, a small chapel, and even a flower shop. Kwase was every girl’s dream castle—and hers had been stolen at the age of thirteen. She wore the trinket again and stood to put on her running shoes. Memories came flooding back; it was time to take a run. If she was going to speak to her husband today, she needed a clear head.

******

If the people of Arta intended to hide the murmurs and wild stares they exchanged as Patrick walked among them, they were doing a terribly poor job of it.

“Is that not him?”

“Could he be responsible?”

“Why has he come?”

“Oh, I bet he did it. I always knew he had it in him.”

“Perhaps he came to broker peace again… what a joke!”

Try as he might, Patrick could not block out the voices—worse still, the venom in them. It was hard to imagine that just six weeks ago, these same people had shared a loving relationship with his people. But six weeks was a long time, and a lot had happened since then. He walked up to the palace, its sturdy walls and tall windows with oak floors standing solemnly. He wondered if things would ever go back to the way they were once his business here was finished.

He arrived at the palace and, without a word, stretched out his hands to the King. The King of Arta rose from his throne, as if expecting him, and stepped forward.

“Your Majesty, Son of Kolian and King of Tsela, why have you come?” he asked.

“You wanted a head. You may have mine,” Patrick said, a satisfied scowl playing on his face.

“Very well then,” said the King of Arta, without so much as a blink. He signaled to his guards. “Prepare the gallows.”

*******

Exhausted from her hour-long run, Awele lay face up on the bed she shared with her husband. Anxiety gnawed at her. If she did not have enough time to tell him the whole truth, she at least wanted to tell him she loved him—that she was in love with him. Not in a million years had she imagined this happening. She had entered his life an unwilling bride, pushed by circumstances and betrothed in grief.

As a child, she had dreamed of a fairytale love story, where Prince Charming swoops her off the ground and carries her to their own private castle. Instead, her father had given her away without a second thought—and who could blame him? The man only wanted to save his life, and in the end, he didn’t.

The trinket jingled in her hand as she scratched an itch, forcing back the memories she was running from. Oh, how badly she needed her husband right now. She sighed and hugged her pillow, giving in to the tears threatening to fall, as the memories pushed through.

It was a cold and bitter morning ten years ago when Kwase—her village—was raided by soldiers from Tsela and Arta. Kwase was small and supple, making it a target for larger villages. Her people were not spared: mothers, fathers, children, young men and women, animals—everything was killed and destroyed.

She, her father, and her mother were spared because her father was king, but they were taken captive and brought to Tsela to serve under King Kolian, the then King of Tsela. Awele watched in horror as her childhood land was utterly destroyed and spoils shared between Arta and Tsela, but that was not the worst.

After three years of living in the palace as servants, King Kolian demanded her father’s life because he had no further use for him. To save his life, her father begged that his daughter be taken as a wife for King Kolian’s grandson and heir apparent in exchange. The King had no son and was aging quickly; and as per tradition, his grandson could not ascend the throne until he was married. The idea pleased him, and at the age of sixteen, a very unwilling Awele was given as a wife to the King’s grandson, Patrick.

However, that same night, King Kolian demanded the head of Awele’s father. Thus was born the hatred and quest for revenge in young Awele. Her home had been destroyed, and she had been married off to the son of the man who had ruined her life and taken her father’s.

Her mother could not bear the pain and died three nights after her father was killed.

But not before leaving strict instructions for her daughter: “You must use your position to avenge your father’s death. You must destroy Tsela and Arta, and you must make sure King Kolian and his family beg for their lives.”

Her mother had repeated this in countless ways until her death.

However, King Kolian died peacefully in his sleep just a few days later. Enraged, Awele began plotting her revenge. She waited four years to hatch it, wanting it to be grand and deadly. It was.

Just five weeks ago, the people of Arta were struck by a deadly pandemic. It began slowly: a cow or two found dead, then a child or two. Soon it escalated. Dead bodies lined the streets and corners of Arta— men, women, children, even animals. For three weeks, the plague raged, until the source was traced to the Arta River that separated Tsela from Arta. More specifically, a white cloth bearing the seal of Tsela Kingdom had been used to wrap a very poisonous piece of wood, which was thrown into the river.

The King of Arta went mad with rage and gave Patrick, King of Tsela, three days to produce the culprit, or face war. That was when Awele finally sighed in satisfaction. It was not the dead bodies of Arta people she had wanted; it was war, war between Arta and Tsela. She knew the culprit would never be found, as she had left no traces. She knew Patrick loved his people too much to offer any of them as the culprit. She also knew that if Tsela and Arta went to war, more than half of both cities would be destroyed, giving them a taste of their own medicine, and avenging her village. But there was a flaw in her plan —just a few days after enacting her vengeance, she realized she was carrying Patrick’s child.

As if summoned, Awele went to the half-length mirror that stood at the opposite side of her bed—the bed she shared with Patrick. She took off her running clothes and stared at her reflection. She wasn’t showing at all; there was no physical sign of pregnancy, it was just the one in her heart and in her guts, and it was that one she needed to deal with. She still remembered the day she found out she was with child. It had been bittersweet: bitter because she had suddenly realized that she was destroying her child’s home. What had she been thinking? She was pregnant with Patrick’s heir, the future King or Queen of the land that she had just plotted to destroy. She was taking away her own child’s castle just as hers had been taken; she was repeating history.

Awele remembered how she had broken down in tears the day she realized she was pregnant, wailing at her stupidity and thinking of a way to turn back the hands of time, but there had been nothing she could do. There was nothing she could do.

Then came the worst part: she had gone into Patrick’s quarters to tell him the news, but the unbelievable had happened. Patrick had carried her up and twirled her in the air, laughing so heartily. She had not expected him to be jubilant, because she had been a terrible wife to him. Not one day did she make him forget that theirs was an arranged marriage and one she hated. They had had separate rooms and she’d never visited his. When he visited hers, she would lay like a log and let him perform his marital duty, and then she would wash herself afterwards like she couldn’t wait to rid her body of his stench.

For four years she lived with him in separate quarters as strangers. Not even when his mother—King Kolian’s daughter—died did she show him any tenderness, and all his efforts were met with a shrug, a frown, or an insult. She’d been a wild wife and hadn’t missed a chance to show it. So when he threw a party in her honour to celebrate her pregnancy, she almost choked from the weight of guilt on her neck.

Patrick had not seemed to mind; he’d made it perfectly clear to her that he forgave her. He said he understood her grievances towards him and his family. He said he owed it to her to repair the damage his grandfather had wrought when he destroyed her village and killed her father—and he did. He spent time with her, paying attention to the littlest things, so much that the people of Tsela began to whisper about how their King Patrick could not take his hands off his wife suddenly after four years.

He took her on horse rides and told her stories, ate with her and carried her on his back. He brought her into the palace when he and his men met to plot missions, asked her opinions and did most of what she said. When he made love to her, he told her he worshipped her body. He told her, over and over, how much he loved her, how he had loved her all those four years but had given her the space she wanted, waiting for her to come to him. He shared his body and bared his mind and soul to her. In fact, they were in bed so much that it only made sense that she moved into his quarters as she should have from the beginning.

Awele did not—could not—figure out the exact time it started, but gradually she grew to love him until she could not live without him. And as her love grew, so did her guilt. Every day when he looked at her and touched her body, she wanted to tell him. She wanted to say that she was the cause of the noose around his neck, that she had made the plague that befell Arta, that she did it to take revenge, and that she was sorry. But she couldn’t.

She couldn’t bear to see those eyes that gleamed with love and devotion suddenly turn cold. She wanted his love, not his anger, and boy, did he have a temper!

In just four years, he had led men who had conquered twice as many lands and villages as his grandfather had. Her husband was a lion all right, built at slightly over 7 feet with a face that looked like it was carved to with extra care and a body that carried both scars, sinews, and muscles with flair. But he was a beast on the battlefield, and a king who was respected, loved, and feared. It was almost unreal that this glory of a man was her husband— even more so that he was in love with her, ready and willing to give her the world. So she had kept quiet, hoping that somehow the guilt would pass together with the problem, but the dawning of each day brought it even closer.

Last night, he had been even gentler. He’d had the cooks prepare her favourite dishes. He’d carried her gently into the bathing bowl where he gave her the warmest bath, staring into her eyes the whole time. She’d felt like her heart would explode. They’d shared a bottle of wine, ate, laughed some, and then he’d taken her to bed. The lovemaking had been fast and slow and rhythmic at the same time, like they spoke one language with their bodies, drawing frantically from each other yet giving earnestly. She could swear she heard his heart sing the same tone that hers did when they finally climaxed together—only to start all over and over and over. And when they were finally, gloriously spent, he had slept on her breast, the sweetest smile playing on his lips. That was when she’d decided that she would come clean.

Not just that, she would tell him the truth, and then she would go and submit herself to Arta as the culprit. She owed it to the man who so selflessly loved her, she owed it to her unborn child, she owed it to herself. She would beg the King of Arta to delay her sentence by nine months so that she could give Patrick an heir, and then she would welcome her punishment.

Awele put on a plain green gown and tied a scarf over her head. It was almost midday, and she was starting to worry about Patrick. He never took this long for a run before.

She stepped outside to get some sun and move around the compound. The compound that housed their quarters, the palace, and 17 other smaller quarters was the biggest building in Tsela Kingdom, and it sat right at the heart of the city. Its giant doors and furniture were built with mahogany. Servants and guards all littered the compound, performing one chore or another or going in or out of the compound. They all bowed to her as she passed. She was Queen Awele, wife of King Patrick, son of Konian. She had carriages and servants and all the jewelry and stones she could ever want. She got her Prince Charming after all, with her very own castle. How did she not see this all these years? She smiled sadly, wondering why she did what she did. She loved this place and was beginning to love these people. The compound was decorated with daffodils and lilies, with tall trees all around. It was so beautiful that she broke down crying. How stupid was she? What had she done? She gathered her scarf around her face and ran back into her quarters. It was on her way back that she heard her servants whispering, so she slowed down and listened to what they were saying: Patrick had left the village before daybreak, and no one knew where he was going, but he’d been spotted at Arta with cuffs on his hand.

Awele’s heart sank to her feet. The worst of her fears had materialized. She ran back down, jumped into a carriage, and headed for Arta—alone.

*******

The noose was already on Patrick’s neck when he spotted her, so he asked to be able to speak to her for a minute. Awele ran to him, with tears in her eyes, panting and saying a million words in quick succession—words he didn’t understand, words he knew he didn’t want to hear.

“Ssssshhh,” he said to her. “It’s almost over now, my darling.”

The noose was tight, and he was getting too tired, so he spoke weakly. He held her face in his hand firmly. “Listen to me, Awele, listen to me.”

She stopped talking, but her tear-filled eyes were alive with fright.

“I know, I know it all. I had my suspicions, but you confirmed it last night.” He smiled sweetly and kissed her teary lips. “I guess I should’ve told you all thes years that you talk in your sleep.”

“Now listen to me,” he said, looking at her firmly but lovingly. “I have left strict instructions with my chief guard. You will be crowned queen after you have mourned and buried me, and all that is mine will be yours.”

Awele shook her head furiously, crying bitterly.

“Please tell our son what a brave man his father was. Today, I will repay the evil that my grandfather did to you. I forgive you, my love, and I love you and our son forever. Now go and rule, Queen Awele.”

He was still smiling at her, and she was still wailing when the guard released the rope.