Mataya lie in her queen-sized bed fully awake with anticipation.
The final sounds of evening were typical. There was the ruckus of the hounds who refused to retire without a fight, first with their master, then with each other. Eventually, they excepted the will of their master and walked into their cage where they enjoyed their evening meal and prepared to settle down to sleep despite the bitter cold.
There were the raised voices of the laborers covered in mud rushing to finish their daily chores before darkness fell. A weary voice barked orders with a kind but commanding voice. Another voice, an angrier voice, made threats to make haste or suffer the consequences of deprivation. And yet a third voice, softer, wiser, and with encouragement, enticed his subordinates with the rewards that awaited them in exchange for their daily toil.
The predictable daily symphony of the ruffian orchestra began to tune their instruments. They began their daily performance. Although unbearably repetitious, the overture was nonetheless stirring. The percussion of rotten wood crashing down on top of hollow skulls. The grousing trombones with their outstretched arms pushing and pulling at each other’s greasy necks. The brash trumpet section announcing themselves with their trilled tongues, stylishly declaring threats of disembowelment, dismemberment, and death. A dramatic collective groan from the woodwind section in response to the first-chair’s suggestion that he had performed a lewd act with the mother of the second chair. The bellowing of the small but corpulent tuba section pinned helplessly at the bottom of a pile of writhing flesh. The effeminate high-pitched squeal of the sole piccolo player performing with one hand as his other arm was twisted behind his back. The cocky violins taunting with a melody reminiscent of classic children’s tunes such as ‘my poor poor baby’, ‘uh oh, someone poo-pooed in their diaper’. Finally, the conductor, with his arms frenetically thrashing and waving, lead the orchestra to the cathartic finale. The audience clapped and cheered but secretly was thankful that the performance was over because, truth-be-told, it was all rather droll and wished to gather their belongings and hurry back to the comforts of the place they called home.
Slowly, the chaos simmered as the orchestra gathered their instruments and forfeited their clenched fists in exchange for outstretched hands and man-hugs. Another job well done. Finally it was time to disperse only to gather once more to eat, sing, get quite drunk. Masculine bravado gave way to lighthearted male bonding. Laughter, whistling, lurid jokes already heard a thousand times, and howling at the moon. Mutual compliments between mates and the slapping of hands against bare backs and ruffling of overgrown hair. Gurgling accusations and admonitions through swollen lips, black eyes, and missing teeth. Grunts, groans, and myriad other inaudible conciliations, amends, and apologies. And finally, the oohing and aahing of fierce warriors comparing their fresh bloody wounds and proudly presenting preexisting scars.
Finally, the master-conductor placed two fingers within his mouth and blew his whistle. A few acts of disorderly conduct preceded the inevitable silence. It
was the final call to peace and order. An end to the roughhousing and the beginning of comradery. Abandoned arms and forfeited fists. For now it was
time to drink. It was time to drink and get drunk.
Doors and shudders rattled and slammed. The jangling of keys and metallic clinks, clanks, and clunks of iron locks, deadbolts, and cages. The ringing and rattling of rusty chains, some large and rusty, others new and smooth. Gates creaked as they rotated about their rusty hinges. The sound of muffled cursing in outdoor voices silenced by the enclosed space of the indoors. Cackling laughter as contention gave way to celebration. The sound of shattering glass. Chairs knocked over and fists pounding on the table. Cries for the quick delivery of potent refreshments. The songs of Human celebration juxtaposed with the mournful lowing of a lonely bull.
Mataya lie in bed with the covers pulled up to her chin and one pillow pressed against each ear.
Boys. Men. Such pitiful creatures. Well, perhaps not all of them. Father certainly never behaved in such ways. But here at St. Chastity they were a ridiculously inferior. Thankfully enough, they were kept clear of the student population, remaining within their world of dirt and mud alongside the other more sympathetic barnyard animals.
Only one more night.
The sun set and the air cooled. As the whistling of the winds died down, the primal cacophony was replaced with the delightful sounds of the city across the calm surface of Lake Megalopolis. First was the sound of tinkling bells. It was so soft and soothing that Mataya was not entirely certain whether it was real or imaginary. The fog horn, on the other hand, was quite undeniable as it echoed back-and-forth across vast smooth surface of the great lake from one natural barrier to the other. Water waves ceased to crash violently against the shore. Instead they licked, slurped, and sucked the large stones of the rocky shore. Up above the intersection of the solid earth and the fluid atmosphere, the wind hummed as it flowed through the tops of the towering thousand years old trees left unfelled at the edge of the foothills surrounding flat farmlands of the convent. A legion of small birds arrived and began chirping as the fire in the sky gave way to the infinite depth of a clear night sky. Eagle Owls, with their distinctive deep-throated hoots, announced that it was their time now, and that despite the fact that they were distant cousins, the smaller birds had best hide because they were fair game that could and would be hunted during the darkness of night. Leaves perched high above the ground, whispered amongst themselves, shushing each other to be quiet and go to sleep
And then, nothing but the sweetest song: the sound of silence. It was pure, and golden. Serene, satisfying, and safe. And despite its ominous name, The Hour of the Witch was Mataya’s favorite time of day or night. It was when she felt most alive. When she did her best thinking. When she could concentrate and do her best work. And there was important work to be done. One final client. A loose-end that could not safely be ignored. A diabolical creature known as Diablo. He had to be taken care of and she had been chosen to carry out the dirty deed. One last job and she was out of the game for good. One last brush with death and she would be home free.
Mataya began inhaling and exhaling, counting each breath inside her mind, starting from sixty. As the countdown terminated, she whispered ‘zero’, then pealed away her quilt, lifted herself up, and swung her bare off the bed and onto the ground. She tread lightly on her toes across the wooden floor making her way to the closet in the far corner of her chambers. The height of the doorway was only half that of a normal door. As she entered, she crouched and ducked to avoid collision. Once inside, she lit a single candle placed at the apex of an array of mirrors the cleverly multiplied the intensity of the flame, casting light to each wall and every nook, cranny, and corner.
Mataya ripped her sleeping gown up and over her head revealing a thin black garment that spanned from the top of her ankles to the base of her neck. The elastic fabric was so thin that if removed could be compressed into a ball small enough to fit within a single pocket. It was both cool to the touch yet kept her warm as if it were an extra layer of her own skin. Despite a die of blue so dark that it appeared black to the naked eye, it still managed to shine in dimmest of light. It was very chic, not that anyone would ever get a chance to admire it. That is, of course, assuming that she would not be caught.
Time to gear up.
First came the leather tunic. Days before, in preparation for the mission, Mataya surreptitiously soaked it in water and set it out to dry in the hot sun so as to shrink it to fit snugly. She threaded and tightened the laces starting from just below her navel to the top of her sternum then tied the laces over each her shoulder and across her chest. The thick leather provided core support and served as a layer of protective armor while nonetheless permitting a full and natural range of motion to her upper-body. She windmilled her arms, bent down and up, twisted her waist, and tilted in every possible direction until the leather fabric stretched sufficiently to allow her to move unencumbered and breathe freely. Using a wide black leather belt, she cinched the tunic tightly around her waist. The brass buckle, heavily tarnished, scratched, and dull, was still capable of reflecting light. It was uncomfortable and imperfect, but lacking an alternative, it would have to do.
Then came the khaki satchel specially designed to carry the myriad of essential weapons and tools necessary for the ancient and noble profession in
which she had chosen to enlist. Mataya slung the strap over her head and positioned the flattened purse to fit neatly within the small cave of her lower back with the strap crossing her chest diagonally, dividing her chest into two distinct halves.
Mataya’s mind paused to bathe in the all-to-familiar intoxication of anticipation. It was that acute high experienced by those confronting mortal danger and pure evil. It was an ethereal euphoria that she still relished after so many successful missions. A feeling to which she had become addicted, although it was merely a fringe-benefit. For her missions served a purpose. They served the greater good. And in return, they imbued her life with meaning. Only the mission mattered. There is nothing but the mission.
Someday, she supposed, the odds will catch up to me. After all, one can only ride a Siberian Tiger for so long before it throws you aside and devours you whole.
But these were the hard times. Just to be among the living meant life was fraught with danger. One could hardly avoid it lest one dig a hole in the ground and bury one’s head. Better to turn and face danger straight on. Stare it in the face. See the glowing red eyes of the serpent. Inhale the foul odor of its rotting breath.
Grab the unholy beast by the horns, wrestle it to the ground, and finish him off!
After all, the worst enemies were those you could no see or otherwise detect. And besides. Danger breeds heroines. And what the world needed now more than
ever before was heroines.
Mataya swirled a black velvet cape around and around over her head like a matador toying with a ferocious bull. Then, at precisely the right moment, she pulled down hard with both hands on the woven tassels. The cape flowed through the air, wrapping itself around her body until it came to rest, draping over her right shoulder and hanging across her back. The collar was lined with a thin strip of faux fox fur which, when properly fit, wrapped around the perimeter of her neck. The cape was relatively short, hanging just above her knees. On the other hand, it was sufficiently voluminous to encompass her entire body if used properly.
The choice of whether or not to wear a cape was a difficult one. Wearing capes, especially while climbing, was a disadvantage and often dangerous, but they offered one important advantage: they obfuscated the physique of her gender, and thus, masked her identity. A cape could be used to cover her face and conceal her feminine figure if need be, but more importantly: who would be so ridiculously vain to wear a cape on a secret mission? A man!
Plus, when she looked into the mirror, it looked way cool.
Mataya tied the tassels securely beneath her chin using a knot referred to as a ‘double-rainbow’, then tucked the knot and excessive string securely underneath the neckline of her tunic.
As Maataya lost herself in imagery, she realized something important was missing. Despite hours of mental preparation, she had forgotten a small but important detail. Then, she was overcome with momentary panic. How could she have erred? Miscalculated? Was this a dark portent indeed that her mind was not in the game?
The silk scarf! Where is the silk scarf?!
Failure to account for even the smallest of details could jeopardize the success of the mission. She had neglected to prepare her scarf, and the scarf was mission critical. Everything served a role, and the scarf served very useful. It could be used as a garrote. It could be used as a tether. Misplacing it was amateurish, dilatory, and inexcusable. Her head wasn’t in the game. Her heart wasn’t in the job. She slapped herself across the face, using the pain to heighten her senses.
Focus!
After the mission, she would have time reflect. But there was no time for that now. Like a dog frantically digging up the earth searching for a buried bone, Mataya clawed through a pile of dirty clothes lying on the floor of her closet. As she approached the bottom of the pile her heart skipped a beat. And then another. Only one more garment left and still no scarf. Only one item left. This had to be it.
Her sense of time became twisted, distorted, and tortuous. Her chest swelled as she held her breath. She reached down and lifted the very last item …
Eureka!
The scarf, made of very expensive silk, was paper thin, yet nearly opaque. Pausing to catch her breath, she rolled her shoulders, and then grabbed
her chin with her left hand, the base of her skull with her right hand, then twisted hard, applying just the right amount of torque, simultaneously and satisfyingly popping several vertebrae of her lower neck. Then, she reversed her grip and twisted in the other direction.
Starting from the back, she coiled the scarf clockwise around the exposed parts of her neck and face leaving small gaps for her mouth, nose, and
eyes. Someday, she would procure herself a proper balaclava — the tight woolen hood universally employed by professional assassins and thieves. As it was associated criminal behavior, any attempt to smuggle one into St. Chastity proved too risky. If found it would arouse unwanted suspicion and reveal her identity. So for now, once again, she would simply have to make do with the second-hand antique clothes which she managed to smuggle in through the convent’s underground blackmarket.
Lastly, she wrapped her small but strong hands with a pair of supple gloves with reinforced fingertips made of the finest goat skin — ideally suited for gripping, grabbing, and climbing. Mataya adored animals, especially sweet gentle goats, and therefore abhorred the idea of wearing the skin of a butchered animal. But theis poor creature would have been slaughtered in any case for its capretto, a prized meat eaten both by the unenlightened barbarians and the nobility. Plus, this particular animal had, despite the kindness it had been showed, unwisely rammed Aurea squarely on her behind whilst her back was turned sending her face first into the mud. Even the kindest of creatures may harbor the devil in their heart. This act of aggression against her dearest friend assuaged Mataya’s guilt.
The Universe, she mused, had a way of evening the score.
Mataya inched the sticky tight-fitting leather up each and every finger of each hand then pulled hard stretching the glove as far up her wrist as possible so that it be neatly ticked underneath the elastic sleeve. Her skin had grown quite pale of late and thus it was important that every inch of her body be covered to order to achieve maximum stealth.
The next item of preparation required equal parts of science and art. Supremely calm, firmly in control of her inner and outer world, Mataya summoned from deep within herself a plethora of dexterity, flexibility, and fluidity. She inserted a half-dozen pins in her mouth, spacing them evenly from one corner of her mouth to the next. With both arms contorted into positions nearly physiologically impossible, she twisted, twirled, and knitted her shoulder-length hair into an exotic and selfsame collection of intertwining coils and knots. Securing the complex arrangement with her left hand, she then inserted pins, one-by-one, into their proper position.
The color of Mataya’s hair — maple chestnut brown with streaks of copper — was sufficiently lustrous that it needed to be covered lest its
natural highlights radiate light detectable to the human. She pulled a tight thin black wool cap around her head, adjusting the outer rim such
that it was ran along the orbit of her hairline. Such a beautiful arrangement. Too bad nobody will ever see it. Its function, however, was not for the sake of aesthetics, but utilitarian. Pins are useful and there is no better place to place them so that they can be easily reached if necessary.
Mataya stopped to savor the moment and ponder the endless possibilities of life. So full of challenges to overcome. So many unknowns to discover. Such many exotic places to see and interesting people to meet. She was not going to fall victim to a cruel world. Instead, she would conquer the world and enjoy its many treasures. She was respected and feared. All this for a girl just shy of her sixteenth trip around the sun.
Mataya positioned herself within the nexus of mirrors and performed one final evaluation. Objectivity is important. Grandiosity and self-doubt were often fatal. She was remove her ego from the equation as for those within her secret profession, vanity no place. Yet, beauty could be a most powerful weapon if need be as it often distracted and confused the enemy. Ultimately, there is only the mission. But damn, I do look good, she smiled. She recited a motto in the ancient unspoken language of her creed. Mortem pulchritudo, which roughly translates into the common tongue:
Death by beauty.
As far as wardrobe is concerned, Mataya had mostly achieved the desired effect. Hers was almost a perfect resemblance to a tribe of history’s greatest assassins known above all for two things:
- The mysterious psychedelic and hallucinogenic herb they smoked in preparation before every mission.
- They never failed.
Mataya didn’t have access to any psychedelic herbs, and even if she did, she was fairly certain that this was a myth, a legend, or some form of propaganda. However, she strived to uphold her professional reputation and the fact she had never once failed to service a client.
“Game on, mother-#@&%ers!” Mataya whispered while repeatedly punching her left palm with her clenched right fist. The leather of her gloves squealed as she wringed her hands and summoned the strength of her deadly grip.
Then, in an uncharacteristic moment of weakness, feelings of doubt inserted themselves into Mataya’s stream of consciousness like filth polluting a crystal clear brook. With this, her confidence momentarily waned. She scoffed at the flickering multifaceted array of reflections.
Assassin? More like a cat burglar!
Cat burglars were kind of cool, but even burglars who possess extraordinary talent are not anywhere are not respected and fear as is a deadly assassin.
In any case, in the unlikely case that she were to be apprehended by the authorities, it would hardly matter either way. She would have a mighty difficult time explaining herself. Any assertions of innocence on her part would likely be met with amusement, scorn, and ridicule. She would of course use tears as a weapon, but the iron heart headmistress and her evil minions were no easily fooled and rarely showed mercy. If she was frisked and her satchel revealed, it would be game over. On the other hand, if captured by stupid and gullible men, she could manipulate them by appealing to their attraction to her youthful and innocent beauty.
As Mataya studied her image in the mirror, her chest expanded and her heart began to pump faster as her brain released a fresh surge of adrenaline into her bloodstream. A hormone that took mother-nature millions of years to concoct, adrenaline was the liquid fuel of courage. It was the elixir of the legendary, and, a legendary elixir. It was explosive, capable of unleashing incredible strength determination. Yet, its effects were notoriously unpredictable, often unstable, and frequently perilous to those who became its slave. Its raw power required a strong and disciplined mind. It was believed by many that control could only be attained through years of arduous training and thousands of hours of enlightenment through meditation.
Mataya had long ago decided that she would never insult anyone’s intelligence with claims of innocence. She would offer up a full admission of guilt with dignity. On the other hand, revealing the nature of her mission was obviously out of the question. On this point, she was adamant. She would never allow her enemies reason to besmirch her honor and her reputation. And above all else, the benefactor and client must remain anonymous.
So it is to be torture? Good luck!
Torture would be futile. She would endure any pain and suffering, both physical and psychological She could hear the diabolical voice speaking to her inner ear.
Vee have vays of making you talk.
Mataya cackled. Her resistance to pain and suffering notwithstanding, she would be exposed as a renegade. A subversive. And a traitor. No doubt she would be found guilty of treason; sedition; and sabotage. She would be pounded, punished, and imprisoned. A life sentence of hard labor was customary. In some remote gulag in the wasteland of a gods-foresaken frozen badlands. The guards would be barbaric. The bread rations pitiful.
In such a place, she would forever teeter on the brink of disease and starvation. And her comrades? Scum. The worst filth that humanity had to offer.
Mataya understood and accepted the risks. She had taken the vows. It was her time now. Time to do what she was born to do. She was a killer, and one cannot resist against one’s own nature.
Mataya’s mind paused to bathe in the intoxication of anticipation. It was an acute high experienced by those who embrace mortal danger and to face — or become — pure evil. It was an ethereal euphoria that she continued to relish even now after so many successful missions. It was a sensation to which she had become quite addicted, although it the thrill of the act was merely a fringe-benefit of the job. Her missions had purpose. They were important. They changed the world order. And in return, they give life meaning. As most do in her profession, Mataya kept an ordinary “daylife”, one which provided her with the proper cover. But right now, at this moment — only the mission mattered.
Someday, the odds will catch up to me. After all, one can only ride a Siberian Tiger for so long before it throws you to the ground and devours you whole.
But these are turbulent times. The world is a dangerous place, even for girls hidden safely within the confines of a highly secure and isolated convent. Perhaps, especially for girls who are hidden, as no one can stay hidden forever. Eventually, one must enter into the fray. Jump into the churn. Entropy is a beach, they say. Often a source of profound beauty that inspires awe, but that can also ensnare its victims and carry them out to sea to their death.
Danger and the fear it inspires are inherent to life. They are necessary elements in the formula of existence, much for the same reason that pain is unpleasant yet necessary. Remove one of these variables from the formula and the equation breaks, and if the equation is broken, then balance is lost. And every philosopher agrees that balance is the key to harmony and therefore content. One should be keenly aware of both. After all, the worst enemies are those you cannot see, hear, or detect.
And besides. Danger breeds heroines, and what the world needs now — more than ever — is heroines.
So it is better to turn and face danger straight on so you can look it in the face and study its hideous glowing red eyes and smell its foul rotting breath.
Grab the unholy beast by the horns and wrestle it to the ground!
Mataya revels in animals metaphors. She finds them to be useful as they are easy to understand; yet they are wildly vivid and inspire imagery and imagination. But, it just so happens that on this night, it isn’t a metaphor. The client is literally a beast who literally has horns.
I’m coming for you Diablo. I’m coming for you.