The Punishment that fits the Crime: Day 2

Day 2

It shames to write of this, but as my punishment, I must report. Mohan has secrets. She has a secret lover, a secret wound. I caught her today, healing her own self with songs. It is more than a flesh wound of which I speak. It was a deep gash. I asked what had happened. She asked me what I had done to deserve the tower punishment.
“My father, the king, was trying to marry me off.” I told her. “He said, ‘Sweetheart, I won’t be here forever. You need protection. I need to be sure you’re looked after.’ I didn’t like the suitors. He became upset. ‘Marian! You won’t even try! Prince Ababa of Russia did not come to England for the scenery!’ I refused. He gave me the tower punishment. I refused the suitors. Angry, he reminded me what the punishment was: a year locked up in a tower with only a jailed servant to accompany me, food to eat, and a diary to fill. But I care not. My heart yearns for Lord Robin, not for some silly, posh, stuffy, tripped up prince! That is why I forbid you to ever call me Princess, my official title. I want a lord, I get a prince. If I call myself a lady, somehow, it makes Lord Robin more reachable, not just a foolhardy dream. Sometimes I ask myself if he really is so wonderful, or if I merely conjured him out of my imagination.”
“I am a poor servant.” Mohan told me. “Just one of the singers on the street. Well, we needed food. A kindly pirate-girl struck a deal with a baker. It was a challenge to duel over bread. They fought, a mighty good sword fight, but then, when he was about to lose, the baker pulled out a pistol. Shot down the pirate-girl, then came after me, saying it was my fault. Struck me with his sword before we were both arrested.” Mohan is required to keep a diary as well. I stole it, which shames me, and I read it.
It tells of a regular raggedy homeless boy. He has longish black hair, and tan skin. She has roughly sketched out his face, and his handsome features. She tells of her adventures with this boy, Koran, he is called, and the love they share. He seems nice enough, but oh how I long for my Lord Robin! If Robin were here, I would not be writing by the burning candle, weeping too many to count tears. Oh, no.
He would be telling stories in that deep voice, and then we would be laughing, him with his low rumble laugh, Mohan in her light fluty laugh, and me just laughing at the pair, glad to be alive with Robin. No, if he were here, I would have no worries, no worries.
For dinner we had meat, heated over a weak fire built from pages of this diary, a few strands of Mohan’s silky black hair, and wood Robin lowered to us. It is long past sundown, so I will retire to my bed for the night.

The Punishment that fits the Crime: Day 1

Day 1

The screams had ceased, so my lord, Robin, snuck a peek through our prison window. “Marian! My lady!” he gasped. “The screams have stopped.” I smiled, and ran toward his smile as bright as day.
“My lord! I was waiting for you!” I blushed. “I knew you would come.”
“Who was screaming?” I gestured to my maid.
“My maid. Her name is Mohan.”
“Mohan.” Though the tiny window was too small to see properly, I smiled at him. “Give me your hand, dear. I want to see you.” I stared down at my hands. Though Mama had said I had beautiful hands, I hated them. I noticed Mohan gazing fondly at her tiny perfect hands. I made her stand, and pushed her right hand through the window. She jumped, probably at the feel of Robin’s gloved hand.
“Mohan.” I ordered. “Mohan, sing for Lord Robin.”
“Which song?” Mohan is a holy girl who sings certain songs which seem to make people heal or do whatever the song is about.
“The song of healing,” Mohan licked her lips nervously. I could tell that this was the highest ranked person she had ever sung to – besides me.
She began singing about a little lost bird that flitted from branch to branch, looking for its home. Finally, the bird finds its mother and its nest, and the two share tales of their adventures. I pulled Mohan’s hand out of the window, the song having given me courage, and stuck my own hand through the window.
“I brought you something, dearest.” He pressed a large bag into my hand. “Sassafras seeds. I also included a sassafras branch, for you to snap and smell.” I pulled in the gift, and reached back out. He held my hand in his big one. I used my left hand to reach into the basket of laundry and pulled out my prettiest evening gown with tiny ivy leaves embroidered on it.
“It’s mine.” I said, pushing it through the window. “But I want you to have it.” He lost his grip on my fingers through the cloth, and I instinctively reached for him again. I write now from the bed in the second floor. Mohan snores from below, so I shall get some sleep.