Choosing

The silent girl concerns you. You’re told she materialized from the sea, naked and speechless. She follows your betrothed like a besotted puppy and dances with a grace that makes your chest constrict. Nevertheless, her agony is evident in every step. She has no name and apparently no past. Yet she’s a mystery that troubles no one but you.

You try to show her kindness--she seems to need it--but you are overwhelmed by the preparations for your wedding. You’re only fifteen; you do not wish to marry. You campaigned tirelessly to be sent to the temple. It was the first time, the only time, you stood up to your parents and demanded to be heard. And remarkably, after months of arguing, you were.

You had just begun your education, just glimpsed what your life could be, when you found a man lying facedown on the beach. He was half-drowned, shivering and delirious. You couldn’t know that when you brought him inside and sat him in front of the fire to stop his teeth from chattering you had sealed your fate. But when a prince declares you the only woman in the world for him, and your parents, recognizing a profitable alliance, give their enthusiastic consent, what choice do you have?

Many choices actually, none of which matter. How many gowns for your trousseau? Which strangers from your fiancé’s court will be your ladies-in-waiting? A diadem or a floral wreath for the wedding? Every choice made leads to a dozen more. You begin choosing at random.

This frees you to focus on the silent girl. You have yet to find a puzzle you could not solve if given enough time. You request that she be added to your retinue. You attempt to find ways to communicate that do not require a voice but she is reticent. You show her maps, hoping she will identify her homeland. Despite your best efforts, you learn nothing new. The only thing you are certain of is that she is in love with your husband-to-be. You come to realize that your presence is compounding her pain. You are nothing but a reminder that the one she loves has chosen another. You yearn to tell her that you are equally unhappy with his choice, but the duchess tasked with molding you into an appropriate bride for a prince is seldom out of earshot.

On the day you are to be wed, your mother tells you what to expect from the wedding night. You listen with growing distaste. Once, at the temple, when it was your morning to call the scholars to breakfast, you found two of the girls entwined in the same bed. Theoretically, this option is slightly more appealing than the alternative, but for you, your body is little more than a container for your mind. In your studies of biology, you researched the reproductive habits of animals; you are aware of the mechanics. That it would one day apply to you was unfathomable.

You are so rattled by what is to come, you barely notice the ceremony or the following soiree. You don’t remember reciting the vows. Yet you must have; you are irrevocably married. You come back to yourself when the silent girl performs a solo ballet. A dance of impossible beauty and sorrow that causes you to weep into your veil.

After the party, you board the wedding ship. You’re led to the bridal suite where you change behind a screen, climb into the bed, and squeeze your eyes shut. Your husband, it seems, over-celebrated your union. He passes out beside you. One night’s reprieve.

You are woken by ragged breathing in the dark. The silent girl stands over you, a knife clutched in her hand. She’s trembling, staring at your husband. You wait, frozen, for her to strike. You don’t know which of you is her intended victim. A scream will summon help. You remain silent.

She exhales, drops the knife, and leaves.

You untangle yourself from the sheets and the stifling warmth of the stranger you married. You pick the knife from the carpet and follow the girl to the deck.  She stands at the rail, silhouetted by moonlight. She sways and goes limp. You catch her. She stares up at you, panic in her eyes. You signal reassurances and offer her the knife. She steps back, looking to you and then to the water.

A song swells up from the sea. Voices singing of freedom and fate. She closes her eyes. The distress slowly fades from her face; she opens her eyes, her decision made. She takes two running steps and dives over the side. You reach for her, but she’s gone. No splash, only froth. You stare at the water, tears on your cheeks.

The knife rests in your hands. Your husband still sleeps. You may come to love him or at least grow fond of him. You have a choice to make.

The knife severs the rope, sending your lifeboat bobbing away from the larger ship. The prince will wake to find both his pet and his bride missing. One drowned, one fled. It hardly matters which.

The sisters at the temple will hide you for a short time. Eventually, someone, your parents or the prince, will think to look for you there. You must make good use of your time. You dip your hand into the water, letting it skim along the surface. An unspoken farewell to the silent girl. You smile as the ship disappears from view. You have so many choices ahead of you.

© 2021 Susan Taitel

About the Author

Susan Taitel would like you to believe that she knows how to write a  pithy author bio. If that does not sound plausible maybe you could be  convinced that she is from Chicago and would like to write a pithy  author bio but will settle for a dryly amusing author bio. However if that is too much of a stretch, you could consider that she lives in  Minnesota and never breaks into a cold sweat at the words "author bio."  If you are foolish enough to believe that, you can find more of her lies in Cast of Wonders, Galaxy's Edge Magazine, and Cossmass Infinities as well as on her website susantaitel.com.