Marek (Buried Lore Book 1) by Gemma Liviero Read Free Book Online Page A

    Esme left. Good riddance to the lazy cow. She had stood by and watched
her sons beat me, spit on me, her daughters kick and
mimic me. And all the while she did nothing. This was no act of kindness. She
was glad to get rid of me – to clear her conscience. I had a new master.
His carving hung on a strip of leather around my neck hidden under my dress, a
token that I belonged to him.
    Marek looked at me as if I might bite him before retrieving the bag. I
commenced our departure to show the route and he followed, his head bowed
slightly like a lost lamb, deep in thought, wondering how he could take care of
me. He needn’t have worried. I was not like the girls on the farm who needed
constant attention.
    I
wasn’t always mute, and I have another name. My real name is Celestina , the one my mama called me. Mama could no longer
find the money to feed me so she sold me. It would only be a short time, she
said, and this family was kind with plenty of food to help my bones grow.
Later, said Mama, she would come back for me and buy me back.
    For
six years I had waited for her. I had endured the cold, the loneliness, the
constant feelings of hunger, the family of bullies,
all with the hope that Mama would return for me. It was not until Marek came that I knew she wasn’t coming back.
    My
mother was a singer. She and others of her troupe would camp at the edge of
towns beside creeks. They would dance and sing, performing in town centres or for wealthy homeowners. It was exciting because
sometimes we would meet up with other travellers and all perform together. At
these times I got to play with others the same age.
    Mama
had several lovers who came and left the troupe. I never knew my real father.
Each time my mother found a man I would be asked to call him Papa. Sometimes they were kind , sometimes they
were not . Sometimes my mother would argue and scream at them; sometimes
they would argue and scream at her.
    Mama’s
last boyfriend was Sasha. His name is etched in my mind, and I will never
forget that he is the reason I was abandoned. I dream of
finding him one day and putting a dagger through his heart when he is sleeping. Sasha performed acrobatic tricks in the troupe and women always smiled at him.
When the weather turned bad one year we headed for the sun in the south.
Halfway there Mama got sick and couldn’t sing for
weeks. Sasha resented me even more when he had to pay for my food while my
mother was ‘confined’ as they called it. There was little to eat, and while
Mama and I remained in our tent, the others performed. They came back often
with no coin. There were few people out and about, preferring to stay indoors beside their fires.
    We
performed mainly in busy towns, since villagers were often too poor to pay for
entertainment. Some threw rocks at us and called us names like gypsies and
beggars. But we were more than that. My Mama said so. We were talented
entertainers, she would say, who earned an honest living.
    It
was a difficult and hungry time. We resorted to begging at convents and church
doors occasionally receiving bowls of gruel with milk, or sometimes onions and
beans, which Sasha said were not good enough for their own tables. My mother
seemed to survive on air, so bad was her illness. She would drag herself
around, her face grey, her eyes red-rimmed and puffy, all the while shivering
and muttering. I tried to take care of her and bathe her forehead like she did
me sometimes. I would brush her hair and plait it around her face. I would
scrub her clothes in the creeks. The men stayed away from us. Sometimes after
we slept I would wake in panic to see if they had abandoned us completely.
    Eventually though, Mama recovered, threading silver loops through her
ears again, and wearing her blouses off the shoulder. She was a lot scrawnier than she
once was, but she was back to singing. The weather got warmer and for a time
Sasha was happier after suddenly coming into some coin.
    Then
the arguments between them