Content Advisory: violence, allusions to prostitution, child abuse

Honey, baby, darling, lovely, my lady, harlot, filth, witch. They all had their names for her. They called her whatever they wanted. Whatever they liked best. Not her name. Not her real one, anyway. Whatever they called her from across the street, from windows, church steps, perfumed rooms, and cold alleyways. That is when they weren’t spitting on her, glaring, hiding their children so they wouldn’t see her. That was the business. They loved you until they paid, even assuming they didn’t think they could get away without paying or deserved not to pay. Otherwise, you weren’t worth the dirt on their boots.

She hadn’t always been this way. Nobody was really born into this business. Mother hadn’t. Father wasn’t supposed to get sick either. They weren’t supposed to be left destitute when he passed, coughing, lips covered in his own blood. Father Macready’s kind heart wasn’t supposed to betray him and stop beating. Father Chiswick wasn’t supposed to take his place. She and mother weren’t supposed to be cast out into the street. Mother shouldn’t have had to get the only work she could to keep her little girl fed. She, herself, wasn’t supposed to have to follow her in her career.

The world was like that- full of shouldn’t-haves and would-haves. All she had now was her next meal, her next place to sleep. She washed her hair when she could, bought cheap bottles of perfumes, and smiled her oft-practiced smile at her next “suitor”. They loved that term, made them feel like they weren’t buying what they were buying. The more sensitive ones asked her name. She’d reply with their favorite phrase: “You can call me whatever you like.” They’d stay a few minutes, throw her some coin, and leave to go back to work, back to church, back to wives.

“You can call me whatever you like.” It was automatic now. She didn’t ever say her real name, even to herself, even in the dark, or in front of a mirror, or in prayer (which she had also long since abandoned). There was no need for defiance, some quiet pride, some belief that she was better than this. That was a luxury she didn’t have enough to pay for. It WAS. All she could do was stay alive, smile, make enough to see another day.

She woke quietly, a light smile on her lips. Light shone through the old curtain she used as a tent, falling softly on her eyes. She’d dreamt of home, something she hadn’t seen or thought of in years. Father pushing open the door, running to greet him, mother throwing down her apron to join her. A warm fire, a bed, a roof. The scene had changed to Father Macready’s kindly old face, smiling at her. He’d ruffled her hair in a grandfatherly way, told her to go to the market and get some bread, always giving her just a little too much money so she could buy a small cake to eat on the way back. She could just taste the honey and berries in the cake.

Pain in her back shook her from her reverie, and her smile faded. She sat up from her mat, groaning. She felt weak today, her legs sore, her back aching, and she felt a headache crawling up the back of her head. It had been some holiday or other yesterday. That was good for business. Not good for the day after. She was so worn out, she might not be able to work much today. She’d have to make the money last until tomorrow. She climbed to her knees and pushed her curtain aside. It was midmorning, which usually meant people bustling about in the just-visible market down the street. Most were probably still hungover from the night before, save those whose work required them to get up early to take care of livestock, or…

“Mmm…bread.”

The smell of yeast and honey wafted down the alley from around the corner, from Billings’ bakery. She rarely had enough to buy more than a slice or crusts from Mr. Billings, assuming the respectable folk didn’t glare her out of the building first. Perhaps, with money from extra customers yesterday, and with everyone sleeping off the festivities, she’d have the bakery to herself long enough to get a belly full.

She stepped lightly down the narrow street, following that wonderful smell. Her mouth watered at the prospect of a real meal. As she left the alley, she glanced around quickly at the road. People were starting to get up, leaving their homes with bleary eyes, off to perform the day’s work. She would have to move quickly. She turned and strode up to Billings’ bakery, pushing door open.

It was warm and smelled absolutely delicious. The inside of the bakery was lit by a few lamps and sparse sunshine through a curtain over a small window. Billings stood in the back of the room, kneading a large mound of dough with massive, meaty hands. He turned to her as the door closed behind her. He squinted, sniffed, and turned back to his dough. “What do ya want?” he said, his voice low and gruff.

She approached the counter. Sitting on a shelf just beyond it were various loaves. Some were dark, likely wheat, others were lighter in color, with specks of herbs or spices. Some were smooth while others had a rough, lightly toasted crust. They made her mouth tingle just looking at them. Her eyes settled on a round loaf of a light grain with specks in it. Even from where she was, she could smell rosemary. She pointed to it. “That one, please.”

Mr. Billings stopped kneading, turned, and picked up the loaf she had pointed to. He laid it down on the counter. “The whole thing?” She nodded. “Twelve shillings.” She reached into her money bag and pulled out the money, laying it down in front of Mr. Billings.

“That all?” Billings wrapped the bread in a thin cloth and eyed her, raising an eyebrow. He gave her the same look passersby did, looking at her face, her dress, her hair, before they narrowed their eyes in recognition. Mr. Billings didn’t glare though, just looked at her.

She nodded her head, before a glass case to the side of the room caught her eye. The sun streaming through the window had just illuminated the case, which contained two small cakes, drizzled with honey, a single strawberry sitting on each one. Her heart sped up, her thoughts immediately leaving her. She didn’t care if she couldn’t afford to eat the rest of the day. “One of those, please.”

“Hm?” grunted Mr. Billings he turned to the cakes. He looked back at her a moment, seeing the delight in her eyes. He lifted the top off the case and picked up the two cakes. He carried them over to her and placed them next to her loaf of bread. She began rummaging through her coin bag, but Billings held up his hand. “Nah. Made ’em yesterday. Not worth sellin’. Go on an’ just take ’em. An’ don’t go ’round tellin’ folks I’m handing things out.” He pointed a finger at her.

Her jaw dropped. “No, I, I really…” her voice faded, her eyes looking up at Billings, then back down at the cakes. She licked her lips. “Thank you,” she whispered.

“What’s yer name, miss?” asked Mr. Billings.

“You can call me whatever you like.” It slipped out without thought. Before she could recollect her thoughts to apologize, Billings laughed, a deep, throaty chuckle.

“Eh? Ya have a name, don’t ya?” He turned his nose downward, eyeing her closely. “Can’t go ’round saying ya don’t have a name.”

“I, well, I don’t really say…” she stammered. Usually, she’d give a man any pretty-sounding name. Isabel, Eleanor, Colette. Jezebel was a popular one from Chiswick’s congregation. Mr. Billings’ sudden kindness had utterly thrown her, and she suddenly couldn’t think of a name. She just stood there, staring at him stupidly.

Billings waved his hand. “Bah. Don’t matter, I s’pose. Go on then, take yer breakfast.”

She shook herself, tucked the bread under one arm, gingerly took the cakes, and stepped away, pushing the bakery door open, and stepped into the sunlight.

She walked briskly away from the bakery, looking for a place to sit down and eat. She found a bench a few streets down, and sat to enjoy her bounty. She set down the cakes for a moment to enjoy the bread. She wanted the cakes to be the last taste in her mouth so she could savor it. She dug into the bread, each bite a wonderful sensation. The herbs were aromatic and flavorful, and the salt dusting the bread was savory and lent a marvelous crunch to each bite. After devouring a quarter of the loaf, she turned to her prize. She set the loaf down next to her and softly lifted a cake to her face. She closed her eyes, soaking in the smell, transported instantly to her childhood, to home.

Her hand was slapped, hard. The cake flew from her hands, landing upside down in the dirt. She cried out in shock and anguish, her hand red and stinging. She looked up to see a snarling Father Chiswick. His robes were immaculate as always, gray creeping into his dark, shining hair, his eyes black and cold. His lips curled in disgust at the pained look on her face, tears beginning to well up in her eyes.

“Harlot!” his voice rang out, sharp and unnecessarily loud, drawing the attention of people walking by. “You dare show your face on a public street? You can’t find any of the other sinners to breakfast with, so you thought you’d spend time in decent society, did you?” His cruel voice dug into her, making her turn her head away. The cake she’d lost sat on the street, its strawberry fallen beside it, bruised and dusty. The smell still filled her nose, smelling like her last good memory.

A crowd was growing behind Chiswick, muttering and glaring down at her like angry bees. Chiswick, encouraged by the following, flushed slightly with pride. He gestured at the bread next to her. “And look, she has enough money to buy herself a full day’s worth of food. Not the daily bread the Lord offers, no, but bought!” He loomed over her. “Where did you get the money, harlot? Working, perhaps?” The last two words were icy, filled with loathing. The crowd’s voices were louder, angrier. Chiswick turned to the crowd. “What day was it yesterday?”

The people cried out in unison. “The Sabbath!” Chiswick whipped around on his heel and pointed at her. “The Sabbath! And not only was it the Lord’s day that this vile woman chose to defile herself, but on a Feast Day! The day of Saint Jude Thaddeus!” The mob roared their disapproval. “Chiswick smiled widely, turning his chin up pompously to look down at her. This was a man in complete control, and a man who loved it, at that. “So, tell me, harlot,” he shouted, holding up his arms dramatically, apparently enjoying his own showmanship, “what devil possessed you to do this thing? What great evil power has driven you to fornication on the Lord’s day? Unless,” he stepped back in mock fear, “you do this great evil of your own choice? You know, after all, the Lord’s penalty for breaking the Sabbath?”

The crowd called out. “Death! Death! Death!”

She kept her head down, weeping. This is just what life was, wasn’t it? Just smile, bear it, avoid the ire of angry men. Just smile, just smile just-

NO! This wasn’t fair! This wasn’t right! Chiswick was an evil, horrible man! Enough!

She bolted to her feet, startling Chiswick and the crowd, who stepped back in real fear. “Yes!” she cried. “Yes! I am possessed by a devil! I have been since my childhood! Since I was a girl, placed in the care of the church, I have been possessed! It has stripped me of life, of love, of a chance at happiness! A devil has had its way with me since I was a child, and visits me oft in the night to remind me of its power over me! I AM POSSESSED!” she screamed.

The crowd, utterly thrown by her reaction, called out in fear. “Who is this devil? What manner of demon is this that causes you this?” Others called out, “Beelzebub! Legion! Satan himself!” Chiswick, however, stared in horror, his eyes widening. The mob continued calling, “Who is the devil that wrought their will upon you, a child?”

This was stupid. This was going to get her killed. But it was true. A devil had taken everything from her, even as a child, and had often visited her to cause her agony. She raised a hand to the heavens, and lowered it, finger pointing.

Directly at Chiswick.

The crowd gasped in horror. Someone in the crowd shouted, “She lies!” Another called back, “She is a sinner repentant! She tells the truth!” Muttering grew into shouting, all divided as to her truth or lies.

Chiswick sprang forward, fist clenched, and struck her on the side of the head. She cried out in pain, stars dancing in her eyes. She fell heavily to the earth, ears ringing. “LIES! LIES FROM HER MASTER THE DEVIL HIMSELF!” He turned furiously to the crowd. “Don’t you dare believe the lies of this filth, this succubus! Her crimes are known, and they are many! There is only one punishment befitting your sins!” Chiswick stooped down and picked up a stone. He held it up to the sky. “The Lord’s will be done!” And he hurled it at her head.

She braced, lifting her feebly to cover her face, but the rock never connected. It didn’t even clatter to the ground. The crowd gasped. Through streaming, hazy eyes, she looked up. There was a man standing in front of her, wearing long, gray robes that brushed the ground. He was very tall, his head and chin shaved so that the sun gleamed off him. The stone was clutched in his outstretched arm, inches away from her head. The man straightened and stepped in front of her, shielding her from the crowd. She clambered to her knees and backed away.

The man lifted the rock to his eyes and stared out at the crowd. “The Lord’s justice…” he whispered. His voice seemed to echo in the silence, making everyone shiver involuntarily. He lowered his arm again. “I’m not a believer, but I’ve always felt that if there were any real gods, particularly the one you claim to worship,” he stared pointedly at Chiswick, “he wouldn’t be so concerned with stoning women in the street, than finding ways to get them off the street. What’s more,” his words turned to cold steel, “the justice he would be interested in is punishing those that harm children, and profane his name.”

A sudden wind whipped at the man’s robes, making them flutter behind him. Clouds covered the sun at that moment, casting shade on the street. Chiswick stared at the man in barely concealed terror, a snarl returning to his lips. “Heathen,” he whispered, venom dripping from his lips.

The robed man nodded slowly. “I’ve been called that, yes, among other things. You know, I was once a shepherd? It’s true. As a boy, I was charged with a flock. It required a great deal of care and wisdom to keep the beasts alive, fed, and watered. Not to mention,” his grip tightened on the stone in his hand, “safe from wolves.” The air seemed to grow colder, and the man continued. “If a sheep was sick, you didn’t allow it to remain so. You had to wash it, care for it, find healing herbs for it. You did not cast it out, nor did you kill it. You.”, he pointed to Chiswick, “are a shepherd for your people, yes? Should you not be caring for ALL the flock? What good is a shepherd that keeps casting his sheep away, killing them…devouring them?”

The people began talking amongst themselves. Despite their fear, there began to be murmurs of assent. Macready had taken care of folks, hadn’t he? What if Jezebel was telling the truth? Could Father Chiswick really be-

THWACK!

In a lightning-fast motion, the man had hurled the rock at Chiswick, cracking him directly in the forehead. He dropped instantly, blood sprouting from his wound. It was immediate pandemonium. People fled from the scene in all directions, screaming. Chiswick fumbled on the ground, crawling on all fours, clutching his head.

The man strode forward slowly, almost gliding. He stood over Chiswick, staring down at him. Now that he was turned, she could properly see his face as her vision cleared. He had a narrow face, sharp nose, and light brown eyes that stared coldly down on the man in the dirt. He reached down and effortlessly pulled Chiswick from the ground. “Here’s what I think of men like you,” whispered the man. “Men like you have claimed rulership over those that were never yours to rule. There are so many like you, and several of them have powers and years beyond your comprehension.” He pulled Chiswick close to his face, the former mutely hanging from the man’s hands. He whispered, so low that no one should have been able to hear, but sounded perfectly in her ears,

“And I’m going to slay them. I’m going to slay them all.” He threw Chiswick bodily to the ground, where he lay, gasping. The man lifted his foot and placed it on Chiswick’s throat. “No gods, no kings.” And stepped down on Chiswick’s throat.

The wicked priest choked and spluttered, his hands and legs flailing uselessly against the robed stranger’s stonelike strength. Several heavy, choked seconds passed, and Chiswick fell still. Slowly, the man lifted his foot and stepped back. He turned his head toward her.

Her eyes widened in panic. She scrambled backward, bumping into a wall behind her. Her eyes darted from side to side, looking for some way to escape. She had been locked in place, as if by a spell, and only now was she thinking. She needed to run, to hide from this man, to-

“Easy there, easy.” the man said. He held up his hands, standing still. “I swear I mean you no harm.” He took one cautious step forward, and when she did not immediately flee, he took another. “I’m sorry for all of this, truly I am. It’s done now. He will never harm you or anyone else ever again.” He took three more long steps, and he was in front of her. He knelt down on one knee, eyeing her with pity.

She stammered weakly, her whole body shaking. “You… you killed him. How did you… could you…”

The man grimaced. “I did. I’m sorry you had to see it. I hope it will grant you some peace, however.” He looked at the forming bruise on the side of her head. He reached out, causing her to shy away. He withdrew his hand. “I’m sorry, that was careless.” He paused a moment. “You haven’t experienced much kindness from men, have you?”

She laughed a short, sobbing, laugh. She shook her head.

“I’m very sorry to hear that. May I look at the wound on your head?” She hesitated, then nodded. The man softly pulled her hair away from her head and looked at the bruise. He lowered his head and met her eyes. He studied them for a moment, then nodded shortly. “That will hurt for a day or two, but no serious harm has been done.” He hesitated. “Are you going to be alright? Do you have somewhere to go?”

She paused, then shook her head.

“I understand.” He stood, then reached out to her. Slowly, she took his hand and allowed him to pull her to a standing position. He gave her a sympathetic smile. “Would you like to come with me?” She shrank back, pulling away. He held up his hands again. “I’m sorry, I should have thought- I meant, would you like to get away from this place? You could travel with me and never have any man touch you again. Life on the road is hard, but I can promise you your own tent and complete safety. You will be safe with me, I promise. I know you likely have little reason to believe in the kindness of others, but for what it’s worth, I promise you can trust me.”

She stood there and stared at him with wonder and suspicion. Was this man even real? She weighed her options. Even if the people around here believed what she’d said about Chiswick, IF they believed, many would still blame her for Chiswick’s death. Aside from that, here, she would only be a harlot, unclean, a lady of the night. But this man, with his simple clothing, his eyes, seconds ago terrifying, now kind, could offer her freedom. Could she trust him? Did she dare to hope?

“What is your name, miss?”

She immediately blurted out, “You can call me what-” she choked, her throat suddenly dry. “I…I…my name…”

The man tilted his head, pity adorning his narrow face, his eyes welling with tears. “I’m sorry. I’m sure you haven’t given it in a long time. That’s okay. You can tell me if and when you feel like it.” He reached out his hand again. “Would you like to come with me? Get away from all of this? My mission is hard, but I can give you purpose, friend.”

She looked up and down the street, thought of her life here, her mother’s grave outside the city limits, her small makeshift tent in the alley. She absolutely wanted to be away from here. If this man slew men like Chiswick, saved people like her, she could follow him. Slowly, she said, “I will follow you.” She took his hand

He bowed his head, touching it to the back of her hand. “Your willingness is precious to me, and will be remembered. He stepped forward and held her by the shoulders. They turned, and began walking down the street, walking out of this town.

She turned her head to him. “Could I ask your name, please?”

He smiled warmly at her. “My name is Atimanyu. Since we are friends, you may call me Ati.”