PodCastle 823: Your Great Mother Across the Salt Sea – Part Two

* Author : Kelsey Hutton

* Narrator : Samantha Loney

* Host : Matt Dovey

* Audio Producer : Eric Valdes

*

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Previously published by Beneath Ceaseless Skies

Content warning for racism and racial slurs

Rated PG-13

Your Great Mother Across the Salt Sea

by Kelsey Hutton

 PART TWO

“And just like that, Endersby was eating out of the palm of my hand!” the queen crowed to Miyohtwāw a week later. Miyohtwāw still wasn’t entirely sure who the queen had bent to her will, but she understood he was important. From a neighbouring nation, perhaps?

They met in a small salon, this time a place of Miyohtwāw’s own choosing. She liked the large windows and the wheat-coloured wallpaper, even if it did still come with a faint smell of must. The queen had acquiesced.

“He is Gallish, you know, and has never truly forgotten the Hauthasan conquest of Gallish lands, generations ago. But I convinced him to let bygones be bygones. A woman’s touch, you know. We must all forgive and forget, don’t you agree?” the queen asked, her tone attempting to be light, but coming out forced instead. She paused intently, teacup halfway to her lips.

Miyohtwāw briefly allowed herself to close her eyes. She was tired; tired of this self-involved queen, and tired of this self-righteous land. She took another sip of her own weak tea, thinking of beaten-up kettles just starting to hiss over the coals; missing the smoky scent of leather stretched out to tan over the fire.

“If harmony and justice have been restored, then yes,” she said and tried desperately to suppress a sneeze.

The queen tsked, as if this wasn’t the answer she wanted. Words bubbled up Miyohtwāw’s throat, but she carefully swallowed them down. Miyohtwāw knew the queen was acting differently around her. She was not a servant, or a seamstress, or truly a friend. The queen’s upholding of her proclaimed responsibilities as a mother was . . . uneven.

But then the queen said, “He was reluctant at first, but the Earl of Endersby will be eminently suitable as the new governor of La Foursze, I am sure,” and Miyohtwāw allowed herself some hope.

“We welcome the opportunity to work with a representative of our Great Mother who respects the rule of law,” Miyohtwāw responded. She had yet to meet this earl, but thank the Creator that help was finally on its way.

She took advantage of a sudden surge of boldness. “This means I must soon make the journey home,” she declared, and set her teacup down with ill-disguised relief.

Which of her relations would still be there, holding out at La Foursze? Last year, three Otipēyimisowak women had been attacked by Hauthasan farmers. Several of their orators had been thrown in Hauthasan jails for little more than publicly defending their rights. Others — even much-loved mothers-in-law — were taken every winter by typhus. The outbreaks had been vicious last year.

It wasn’t a question of if there would be faces missing when she finally made it home. Only a question of which ones.     “Of course,” the queen continued. “But first, I need another dress.”

Miyohtwāw sagged back in the plush chair. It was not often she felt old, but her back had already been aching for days. “Great Mother, that will not be possible,” she said, trying to hide her frustration like new stitches in a seam. “The snow has already thinned to slush; there isn’t much time left before —...