The prompt was: Describe your house (or somewhere else) using only the senses of hearing, feeling, smell, and taste (no sight!).
Terry went with "somewhere else" and definitely knocked it out of the park. Enjoy.
The sharp clatter
of hooves on cobblestones vanished at least an hour ago, replaced by rhythmic pounding
on a hard-packed dirt road. As we make a sudden turn to the right, their gait
slows to a walk, and deep grass muffles their progress.
No more dust
at least, I think. I try once again to clear my throat, to cough up the cloying
dirt, but the gag makes it impossible. The weak spasms bounce my body against
the back of the man who guides our horse, scraping my cheek against his coarse
shirt.
Murmuring voices
drift from ahead, but they are too indistinct to make out over the jangle of harnesses,
the rustle of slender legs through tall grass, the blowing of the nearly
exhausted horses.
A swirling
gust dries the dusty sweat on my face, carrying with it the scent of orchids
and cowberries. The meadow we’re crossing must boast a respectable display of flowers,
but the men were quite thorough with my blindfold and I can’t see a petal. I wouldn’t
even be sure the sun was still up were it not warming my hair.
A moment
later, the world grows suddenly colder as the sunlight vanishes and the thump
of hooves on grass is replaced by rustling leaves and snapping twigs. A patch
of woods, perhaps a forest. The trees could not have been too thickly
clustered, as we ride another fifteen minutes before finally pulling to a stop.
The man
before me dismounts and unties the cord that bind my legs to the horse. I am dragged
from my seat and unceremoniously dumped on the ground. Before I can stand up,
or even work some circulation into my dead legs, my ankles are pushed together
and wrapped with rope.
“Comfortable,
your Lordship?” a cruel voice asks, before breaking into a raucous laugh. Coarse
hands drag me across the ground and prop me against a tree. Another rope is looped
under my arms and wrapped around the tree, tugging against my chest as it is
tied on the far side.
Over the next
hour, they unsaddle the horses, build a fire, cook their dinner. My stomach
rumbles at the smell of a savory stew, venison as near as I can tell. Despite
my hunger, I don’t think I could keep anything down. Not that it matters. No
one offers me even a single bite. I taste nothing but the dust of the road that
still clings to my gag.
The men are
careful. Far more careful than I would have credited. Talk is minimal. There
are no threats, no boasting, no banter. Not a single name gets used, nor any hint
of where they are taking me, or why. Though why seems obvious. It must be for
money. My family has no influence at court that might be manipulated, but they
do have plenty of money.
Tree frogs
and crickets begin their nighttime song. The breeze has died, but the cold
seeps in from every side. I am too far from the fire to enjoy any of its
warmth. No one offers me a cloak or a blanket. It will be a long, uncomfortable
night.
I lean my head
back against the tree. Coarse bark grinds against my skin. When I tip my head
forward again to try another angle, strands of my hair cling to the tree.
Great. Just what I needed. Pine sap in my hair, on top of everything else. There
is nothing for it. I settle my head back again, hoping to find a more
comfortable position.
I know I must
have dozed off somehow. The frogs have quieted enough to tell me a couple of
hours have passed. Now their mating cries vie against the snoring of my
captors. I am just about to try sleeping again when I realize someone is right
next to me. I can feel the radiant warmth of their body on my cheek.
“Don’t make a
sound.”
The whisper borders
on the inaudible, the speaker’s lips so close to my ear that they tickle it.
The words bring a smile to my face and hope to my heart for the first time
since I was seized.
Irina. I
should have known she’d find me.
Cold steel
rubs against my wrist as a wickedly sharp knife slices through my bonds. In a moment
my hands are free. I work to silently rub some feeling back into them as the
knife moves to my feet, to my gag, and at last to my blindfold. The knife vanishes,
to be replaced by strong, slender hands. Irina helps me to my feet. She doesn’t
make a sound. I do. But not so much that anyone could hear it over the
reverberating snores.
“Don’t move
unless you have to,” Irina breaths. “If you must, head left. My horse is near
the road. I’ll be right back.”
The night is dark,
the fire down to the last faint embers, the leaves blocking the starlight. I
can barely make out the tree next to me, can’t see the sleeping shapes on the
ground at all. That’s okay. I don’t want to.
I close my
eyes and listen to Irina work. I hear nothing of her movements, but I can track
her nonetheless as she moves through the camp. One by one, the snores go
silent. I almost feel sorry for them.
Almost.
