Behind blue eyes."

The beginning.

My father and I found her about thirty sunsets ago. She smelled peculiar.

It's hard to tell her age, maybe around twenty... she didn't really look much older. Experienced, as my father said, but not old.

What immediately caught my eye was that her head was shaved. Later I asked why, and she replied that all whores had to shave their heads because they could get lice, and disinfection in a labor camp wasn't pleasant. I first asked what a "whore" was, but I don't think she believed me when I said I didn't know. I think she even got irritated for the first time. I asked about "lice," but she couldn't explain the concept. She doesn't speak our language very well. My father says she must come from the very far south. I also asked about disinfection and the camps. She replied that I wouldn't want to know, so I don't know.

She doesn't seem to mind my appearance.

She was very beaten when we found her. She said it was because she didn't want to please the man who was leading her to the sea. She wanted to see the sea so badly... I don't know why. Don't people in the south have a sea? My father says I don't think so. I, on the other hand, would like to see those large triangles she couldn't describe in words, so she drew them in the air with her finger. She was getting better at speaking, and I regret that she left. She said it was necessary. That she was putting us in danger.

Elaboration.

Twelve sunrises ago, I saw her by chance with Mr. Michał. I recognized her, even though she was wearing a quite nice dress, and she wasn't so dirty and bruised. I'd never seen eyes that blue on anyone else before. I don't think Mr. Michał either, because he walked along, staring at her as if she were a picture.

My father says his grandfather once told him about "ice." A pure blue crystal, extremely valuable for its properties. Apparently, the "ice" was first cold and hard, and then it imitated water. Real water, not the kind we drink now, and certainly not the kind we bathe in. I don't think I could have imagined "ice" if I hadn't seen her eyes.

For someone who barely understood our language, she asked a lot of questions. I had to tell her why there were no women or young men in our village. I outlined the Tricity District's Lords as best I could. She listened intently, not very well concealing a grimace of disgust. Only when I casually mentioned Mr. Michał, Mr. S.'s son, did she seem genuinely interested. This pleased me, because I loved talking about Mr. Michał. I was his secret admirer. Secret because my father seemed to disapprove. True, he also respected Mr. Michał's wisdom, and more than once, when drunk, he had let slip that he would make a better Lord than Mr. S., but he still didn't like him very much. He kept saying, "He's probably a scoundrel just like his daddy, he just doesn't know it yet," and other such things, which, in my opinion, were very unfair. As far as I was concerned, Mr. Michael was the smartest man in the world, even though he wasn't very good at hunting frog-rabbits. He could read, after all! She asked how I knew that, so I explained that our Lord's son had been educated at Refuge Three Hundred and Three and had read tons (I stretched my arms to show her how many) of books. She seemed clueless about the Refuge, but she took me at my word. She also said she could read. However, I'd never owned a single book in my life, so she couldn't prove it. Even if I had, I wouldn't have been able to check if she was bluffing.

We spent a lot of time on stories. I only went hunting at dawn, when she was still asleep. I didn't want her to see me tracking and killing. Maybe my mutation didn't bother her, but I still felt a certain shame in front of the Non-Radiated Ones.

Food quickly became scarce, especially since the tax deadline was fast approaching. If Father hadn't had any luck with that herd, we probably would have had to find shelter elsewhere. Personally, I think it was very kind of Mr. S to let us live in that clay pit for 30 furs a month.

When she learned that the Traders would be arriving in a few sunrises, she panicked. She started talking about being captured again, being murdered, and having big problems. The next day, she was gone. She left a crumpled piece of paper, scribbled in a small pattern. I guess she'd forgotten we couldn't read.

Her dress emphasized the color of her eyes and exposed the bulges in her chest. I think that was the first time I felt "jealousy."

She walked close to Mr. Michał, smiling faintly. She looked content. I think she was finally seeing her sea.

Three sunsets later, after dusk, she appeared at our door. She had a jacket with the hood pulled over her head, and if it weren't for her eyes, I wouldn't have recognized her at all.

She said she'd spoken with Mr. Michał about her compatriots in the labor camps and he'd promised her help. When I asked how she'd managed to avoid Mr. S's Tailoring Workshop, she bit her lip. She said my sisters, wives, and mothers didn't just sew clothes and armor for Traders. I didn't quite understand what she meant, but she wouldn't tell me more than that. She claimed I was too young, and that my dream of becoming a Trader wasn't a good idea.

She brought strange-looking, round objects made of some metal in a pouch. She said they might come in handy someday when we couldn't pay our taxes. It was supposed to be her way of saying thank you for the help we'd given back in the wasteland.

Saying goodbye, she said things would be different from now on, better. That Mr. Michał would help us all.

I waved my hand until it disappeared into the ruins of the city. I had mixed feelings. My instincts told me things weren't going to be good. He'd never been wrong before.

Last night she showed up at our place again, wearing worn jeans, a hooded jacket, and a heavy backpack on her back. A few feet away, I spotted another hooded figure. But she pushed me into the apartment. She looked frightened, yet very determined.

She asked me for "money," those small, flat stones she'd brought earlier. She apologized and said she desperately needed them now.

I shrugged and handed her the purse. I still had doubts whether the Traders would be satisfied with this "money" instead of furs.

She hugged me, and I was too surprised to react. She seemed to have tears in her eyes, so I asked what had happened. She replied that she and Mr. Michał had gone to his father to tell him about the labor camps at Łysa Polana and ask for help in liberating the people held there. Mr. S. just laughed and replied that he knew Jerzy Osik, the manager of this place, very well, as he had been doing business with him for many years.

I asked what that meant.

"It means that Michał and I have to flee," she said through gritted teeth, looking somewhere over my shoulder.

I turned and saw my father. He approached her with a bundle in his hand. I froze. I knew exactly what he was holding. I just couldn't believe it all.

"Take it. You'll need it," he said in a very tired voice. I wanted to protest, but he silenced me with a look.

He was getting rid of my grandfather's only memento. A memento that had passed in our family for generations, from father to son.

She gently unwrapped the package and quickly, surprised, looked up at the old man.

"But..." she wanted to say something, but he interrupted her.

"I hope you'll come back here someday. That you'll be able to make a difference. That I'll see my wife again before I die." His voice was hoarse. "At least this way you won't get lost. Go now, daylight isn't kind to fugitives."

I offered to escort them to Wielkie Płoty. I doubted they'd want to leave the official territory of the Tricity District via the official route. She agreed, and a moment later we were on our way.

I sensed she was hesitating about something. When we reached the other side of the Dead Forest, from where they were to travel together, the blue-eyed woman hugged me again, and Mr. Michał patted my head. She didn't say anything.

Once again, I watched her leave. I hoped it wouldn't be the last time. She was taking a piece of me, after all. Grandpa's old compass.

The ending.

Mr. S. was furious. He sent wanted posters with the pictures of his son and the blue-eyed woman to three corners of the world.

Someone happened to see the wanted men just before they escaped. In our clay pit.

They shot my father on the spot. But before they did, they brought my mother.

I can't talk about it, though they forced me to memorize the "lesson" precisely.

They weren't going to waste any more bullets on me. I begged on my knees to at least slit my throat.

They wouldn't make me a slave either. Instead, I ended up in the "underground" of the Traders.

I still remember her scent. I think I can find her. Mr. S. thinks so too. He feeds me quite well and doesn't beat me senseless. I think he wants me to kill her. He calls me his kitten.