Sarah Black
Stories
Leda on Trial
The prosecutor walked toward the witness box on pencil-thin heels, her nylon covered thighs making an unpleasant scritch-scritch-scritch sound as she walked. Leda stared at her. The woman was wearing a suit made of a thick, tweedy material the color of egg yolks. Leda shivered and wrapped her arms around herself.
"Are you cold, my dear? I can have the bailiff turn up the heat." The judge was leaning over the railing, gazing down at her in concern. His eyebrows were as thick and fuzzy as caterpillars.
Leda shook her head, fingers tugging at the neckline of her dress. "Thank you, but I'm quite comfortable."
The judge beamed happily at her. "Excellent!"
The prosecutor made a small spitting sound under her breath. "May I, perhaps, continue, Your Honor?"
The judge made a harrumphing sort of throat-clearing noise. "Of course, Madam. No one is stopping you."
The prosecutorial lip curled just a bit. The woman turned toward Leda. "Was this episode of bestiality with the swan the only one, or did you sexually abuse other barnyard fowl?"
The young defense lawyer leapt to his feet, shouting his objections. Leda smiled at him. He was so sweet, still wet behind the ears, really, and so earnest.
"Ducks? Geese?"
"Madam! Contain yourself!" His honor adjusted himself under his robes and glared down at the prosecutor. "You have already been warned about using inflammatory language! We agreed..."
Leda tuned them out. Those horrible, wrangling, angry voices made her want to cover her ears and cover her eyes and be very far away from them all. Far away from this stuffy court and this talking, talking, talking. Far away from this angry woman, far away from this judge who seemed short of breath much of the time.
She wanted to be outside, with the hot sun burning freckles on her nose and her shoulders. Outside where a pile of sweet-smelling hay lay against the barn, and a girl could lie down and take a nap. A girl could lift her skirts above her knees, twine some hay between her toes, lie back with her arms stretched over her head and pretend to sleep, listening for that low swoosh-swoosh-swoosh of massive wings, those luminous silver-white wings in the late afternoon sunshine.
He wasn't much of a talker.
She opened her eyes. The judge was leaning over her, pressing a wet paper towel to her neck, his face the color of pickled beets. Her sweet young attorney was holding a glass of water to her lips. "Just sip this, Leda. I think you fainted!"
His hand was trembling, and water spilled down the front of her dress. The judge blotted the droplets tenderly with the paper towel, and the prosecutor said, "I think I'm going to throw up."
"A recess," the judge said, breath whistling through his moustache. "Shall I have the bailiff carry you to the couch in my chambers, my dear?"
"I shouldn't be away from home so long," she said, biting her lip. "The twins, you know. I hate to think what they're getting up to..."
"A single mother, too!" The judge raised her fingers to his lips. "You need to be home with the children, my dear. I've a mind to dismiss this nonsense right now."
"Maybe I could just lie on your couch for a minute or two?" Leda fanned her hand over her neck. "It is warm in here, isn't it?"
"Bailiff! Bailiff, where are you? Now you just rest in my chambers, my dear. I've got a few little paperwork tasks to clear up. Nothing for you to worry about." His caterpillar eyebrows wiggled gaily. "But I'll be along shortly! Bailiff!"
The bailiff was dark — dark skin, black, cold, ferocious eyes. He stood looking down at her, and she could see the faint silver glow of feathers around his head and neck. They wrapped themselves around him like chain mail. He lifted her, his black eyes boring down into hers, and she was weightless in his arms.