Chapter 28: I Hate Foreign Cities

I politely fought my way through the streets, ignoring not one or two but five people who slurred at me as I pushed by, sometimes conveying things far worse than 'filthy black.' I knew I didn't have the worst of it. I didn't have the curly hair or the darkest skin or the tribal scars.

I knew.

After what seemed like ten hours being knocked around in the streets, I finally reached the information centre. Thank goodness, there was a map plastered to the wall outside it. I didn't feel like going inside and saying excuse me to one more person today. I was already exhausted. I was done.

It was easy enough to read; the place I was standing was marked with a big red dot and the travel agencies where I could exchange money were marked with aqua suitcases. I followed my gaze to the nearest one and sighed. It was literally just a few side streets away from the place I'd started at. Unfamiliar cities. So annoying. I was about to go back, walking backwards so as to mentally mark where the agency was before jogging off, when I slammed into a wall. Funny. The wall definitely hadn't been there before.

I turned around, ready to curse myself for potentially damaging the books.

It wasn't a wall, but rather a person. "Oh! I'm s-so sorry," I stammered to the giant of a man now standing before me. I made to leave, but he stopped me with a step to the left. "I ain't seen yer around here before, lassie," he said. Who was he, this guy with a pirate accent and dreadlocks hanging down his back, a black tattoo crawling up his arm and sprawling out over the right side of his face? "Small town, don't think we met before. Traveller, eh?" Tattoos clearly weren't outlawed here. Interesting. Did that, and the outlandish holiday celebrations together mean that the East was laxer about religion?

"None of your business," I snapped, accidentally lashing out at him for the day's troubles. "Small town, you said, would I be checking out a map if I lived here?"

"A little bit o' sass," he grinned wolfishly, the movement distorting the spider-like tattoo on his right cheek. "I like it. Anyway, I own that inn jus' up the road dere, care ter join fer the night? All meals free at the pub, good nightly fee…"

"Where? I demanded before I could stop myself.

"Jus' up dere." He pointed with a finger as thick as a meat sausage.

Perfect. Practically next to the agency.

"It's a deal. When should I pay? I'll just stay one night."

"Nex' mornin' is fine," he replied. "Care fer a drive up?" He waggled his eyebrows at me, gesturing to the run-down truck beside him, and I rolled my eyes. "Roads are clogged as hell,"

Rule Number One: don't get in cars with strangers. But there was something about this guy. Behind the gruff voice and scarred skin, there was a good person. "I'm in," I decided.

"Welcome to the town, baby! I'm Jack,"

"Really?" His name was quite fitting.

"Nah, me real name's Henry,"

I gave him an incredulous look. "And I'm ruler of the world."

"I suppose yer mus' be, then!" He winked roguishly at me before striding over to the driver's side and firing up the engine. I got in the passenger side. The truck smelled like beer and cigarettes, hardly a nice odour. But he started the car and I was suddenly more than grateful as the roads immediately cleared to let us pass.

The earthy wind on my face was something I hadn't felt in a long time.

-----

Within five minutes he was at the door to the tavern, the inn situated above it, dropping a key into my hand. "Not a looker, is it? Too bad, it's on'er the best in town," he explained. "Yer room straight up, first on the right. Happy Ocean Day," was all he said before wagging his caterpillar eyebrows and disappearing into the room full of clinking bottles and rather raucous card parties. I heaved myself up the rickety staircase, locking myself in the first room on the right as Jack had said. I stashed the pack under the bed, covering it carefully with the moth-eaten blankets, before locking the door and going back downstairs with a full money-pouch in my pocket. The room was a far cry from the sleek, spotless white of the cabin on the boat. A staggering drunk leered at me just before he threw up on the floor beside him, but I ignored him and made a beeline for the door. I'd made sure to take off my small studded earrings, made myself smaller and let my hair run rogue over my forehead. Nobody would know that I was a Chieftess. A small black face hiding behind a curtain of hair, I was, for once, nobody.

Treat yourself, I told myself. Get something warmer to wear.

Take your mind off the world for an afternoon.

-----

Five hours later, I sat down on the bed, which protested and sank almost to the floor at my meagre weight, feeling clean for the first time in ages. I'd washed my hair in the lukewarm shower and combed it out, scrubbing the dirt out from beneath my fingernails, changing into clean clothes. There was a shower on the boat, but there was something about living wild on the sea with the salt wind tangling through my soul that made me feel restless and dirty. I had a bowl of lumpy looking soup sent up to my room. I took one sip of it and decided I'd rather eat instant noodles than that possibly poisoned gloop.

Of course there hadn't been a microwave. I'd had to watch and resist the urge to poke around the brick of noodles sitting in boiling water (from a kettle that took half a day to scrub clean) before it finally softened up what felt like hours later. I wolfed it down and burnt my tongue. That was my second-last container of the stuff. I'd picked up supplies from the coastal towns, each time casting off the aura of the Chieftess, but they were running low.

And now I was lying on the bed, trying to not care about the pillow under my head that had stuffing poking through its liner, contemplating existence.

I wondered if I should learn to control my magic. I really should be, but I had zero motivation. Everything I'd known had been taken away, replaced by a creaky bed in a rotted room. And I didn't particularly feel like using the magic that had caused it all.

I heaved a sigh and rolled off the bed. All it did was let me lie aimlessly on a slightly more uncomfortable surface.

Get up, you useless idiot. I stood in the centre of the room, trying to focus on summoning a ball of flame to my hands. There was nothing stopping me, but I was scared I might burn this extremely flammable hovel and the even more flammable drunks in it to the ground.

My hands lit on fire, pulsating with my frustration.

I directed it with my mind, willing it to smooth itself out, to become a sphere of orange in my palms. It became a golden orb, two seconds before shooting up out of my grasp and imbedding itself in the ceiling. I cursed rapidly at the large burn mark now the centrepiece of the roof. I supposed that was what earth was for: reparation. I directed my mind at the scorch mark, tugging on that rope of vines and lush flowers. It covered the mark but sent a sprinkling of dirt raining down on everything in the room.

Ugh.

Another hour of self-training that got me nowhere later, I was thoroughly ready for a good night's sleep.

I slumped into bed and fell into unconsciousness before my head hit the pillow.