He can't for the life of him understand why everyone says greens are good for you. The greens you get fed taste like mud slop and feel the same going down. The greens you run into scratch and cling stubbornly in your hair. He can’t stand any of it.
Then there’s a warbling in the air. The boy snaps to attention and sees a bird perched on a branch not too far into the trees. The mottled brown of its plumes blends in well with the forest pallet. It can barely be seen, but there it is. It repeats its brief chorus and vanishes.
The boy stares dumbly in the direction he thinks it went. He remembers this morning. Maybe greens aren’t all bad...
He strolls out of the forest shade and into the bright lanes of Glenholm town. It’s quiet today. He can’t hear the easy ebb and flow of the rumor mill drifting down the street. Come to think of it, what rumor mill? There’s nobody here! He drifts towards the town square until he catches the hum of someone talking very loudly coming from inside one of the buildings he passes. There's neither hide nor hair of anyone else.
Stranger and stranger.
He gingerly sidles up to the building and tries to eavesdrop through the door. Apparently, he's discovered another one of Glenholm’s trademark damn thick doors. At least the kook inside is hollering loud enough for him to make out the odd word.
Let’s see… “Father.” ... “Blood.” ... “Sacrifice.” ...
He backs away immediately. He doesn’t know what he heard and he doesn’t want to know. He runs the block's length before curiosity gets the better of him and drags him back. This time he decides the door is too risky. Anyone could open it and find him snooping, plus the door will give him a good whack as it swings out. This time he moseys to the shaded side of the building and crouches beneath one of the stained glass windows. With utmost caution, he peers inside.
It takes some maneuvering to find a piece of glass that’s clear enough for a decent look through. In the meantime, the warped panels stretch the building’s occupants into leering fiends, the coloured ones dye them into tableaus of ghastly red. Such visions make the boy uneasy. He hopes it’s the glass casting illusions on an otherwise ordinary and benign scene.
Finally he finds a section that doesn’t act as a grisly funhouse mirror crammed in by the right edge. Through it he sees people (not fiends) sitting in rows upon rows of long benches (there's no red, thank god). Moreover, these are people he recognises in passing from yesterday.
What in blazes is going on?
He notices the people’s stares fixated on a singular point toward the back of the building. His gaze follows theirs. There’s a broad, raised platform spanning the entire back wall. On it is placed a speaker’s podium. Behind that podium is a balding, middle aged fellow in long black robes swinging his arms in sweeping gestures. That's the guy who's making all the racket.
The boy studies the madman at the podium. What’s he doing? More importantly, why is anyone listening to him? And with a great deal of respect too. What gives? Then he spots the large, wooden emblem hanging on the wall above the stage. It’s a simple construction, two pieces of wood centered at eachother and joined at right angles. It’s a cross.
Ah. Now things make sense.
The boy eases immediately. There’s no stealth as he walks from the window. Why bother? Nobody was ever arrested for loitering around a church.
He strolls back to the tree line and finds himself a nice oak to sit against for a quick nap. The thought of joining the sermon doesn't cross his mind. The priest was in full swing and it’d be embarrassing to interrupt him. Like the sisters said, either you come on time to congregation or you don’t come at all. There was just one little catch: the sisters took attendance. Deserters were flogged.
The boy grimaces as he remembers how he got those particular scars. A few among many. He shifts on his seat of earth. Some of the marks on his back have a habit of pricking when he remembers how he got them. He curls up on his side against the foot of the trunk, shifting a few times to dislodge the edge of a spoon that's stabbing his stomach. He closes his eyes. He thinks of other things.
He thinks of bird songs and the graveyard calls of crows. He thinks of rolling green, blue skies, and fiends through red windows. He thinks of bright country lanes and long, dark corridors. He thinks of new beginnings.
Eyes spring open. If he falls asleep now, he’ll have naught but nightmares. He stills his nerves and tries to resettle himself. It doesn't work. He compromises for a light doze instead. Eyes close again and this time he thinks of nothing at all. He lets the sounds of the world soothe him; the rhythmic drone of the sermon, the flutings of birds, the spring breeze as it breathes through him.
It’s so quiet compared to the city. There’s no steady chug and clank of industry, a thousand iron arms strong. There’s no work whistle shrieking. There’s no gasp of steam through pipes. What was once an annoyance leaves a sense of loss in its absence.
The boy lays there, listening to the sounds of his new world spinning around him. He doesn’t know how long he’s been there in the dirt when the chapel doors finally burst open. He jumps at the sound. The town floods back to life in a steady pulse of people flowing out the door and into the streets. The boy staggers up, pats himself off, and follows.
The first place he goes is the general store. He didn’t need to pay last time. Maybe he’ll get lucky again. Or he could work for his food. That’s all he ever did in the workhouse, so he figures he’s good at it. There’s no machines to work here, but he could sweep the floors. He could wash windows. Or he could do... whatever else needs doing. He’ll figure it out when he gets there.
When he does get there, the door is closed and locked. There’s a sign left out, but he doesn’t know what it says. It may as well be written in Greek for all he can make out. Squinting at it this hard gives him a headache. He gives up and tries the pub instead.
This door’s not closed and locked. One good shove and it screeches open. The barmaid peers curiously at him. Her face lights up once she recognizes him. “Hullo again. Fancy meeting you here.”
The boy shyly hullos back.
The barmaid approaches him. “And why have you come this time? Still looking for that uncle of yours?”
The boy freezes. The less people know of his uncle, the better. “I- I found him, but I don’t think he’ll be coming anytime soon.”
“Is that so? A pity. I’d like to meet this mysterious uncle. Never did hear of any Myrs before. You’ll have to introduce me sometime.” She winks.
The boy laughs. He hopes to god he keeps the tension out of his voice. If not, it’s going to prompt more questions he doesn’t want asked.
The barmaid carries on as before. “Anyhow. We’re not ready to open yet. And,” she playfully points a scolding finger at him, “like I said before, we don’t let minors around here. Isn’t that right Gerry?” She yells to the kitchen doorway behind her.
“What?”
“S’alright Gerry. You’re doing a great job back there. Keep at it!”
“Err. Awright.”
The boy laughs at the exchange. Mirth smooths his frayed nerves.
The barmaid smiles back at him. “In all seriousness, what did you come here for?”
Oh. Right. “I’m wonderin’ if I could get a bite to eat.”
“Uh huh. And why here? Don’t your uncle feed you at home?”
Questions, questions, questions. The lady is full of them. He came here for a meal, not an interrogation. Why can’t she have the ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ policy his buyers did? He’d be served and digging in by now if she did. He wracks his brains for some excuse, any excuse. The pause stretches into stiff silence. The barmaid’s searching him for an answer he doesn’t have, doesn’t want to give.
She gives him a final once over. She shrugs and sighs. “Suit yourself kid, but if you get chewed out for ruining your appetite at supper, it’s your own fault.” She strolls back to the counter. “I’ll get Gerry to serve you a little something, but, in return, you gotta help me set up shop and you gotta be outta here before we open up. Do we have an agreement?”
The boy nods so fast you think his head would fall off his shoulders. The barmaid is surprised by his enthusiasm. She sets him straight to work wiping the countertop and tables while she calls in his order.
The boy, for his part, works well and works fast. He's a blur streaking from table to table to counter. He stretches himself thin to reach the far corners of the bar. Something writhes free from his pockets mid-stretch. It shines bright as a falling star and rings sweet bell chimes when it hits the flagstone floor. The small sound reverberates strong as a gong in the building. Of course someone's going to notice.
“What was that?” The barmaid asks. She was talking to Gerry through the kitchen doorway at the time and doesn't see the shimmering object laying on the floor. Not yet.
“Nuthin’.” The boy places his foot lightly on top of the silver spoon, hiding it from view. He acts nonchalant. “I didn't hear nuthin’.”
“Uh huh.” The barmaid gives the boy and the room a quick inspection. Seeing nothing out of place, she resumes chatting with Gerry.
The boy lets out the breath he’s been holding. The second he's certain the barmaid isn't keeping a corner of her eye on him, he dips down in one fluid motion and snatches up the spoon. He checks the kitchen. The barmaid’s still laughing at Gerry’s stories. Good. He puts the spoon back in his pocket and gets back to work. He moves carefully. He doesn't like to repeat past mistakes.
Yet another target of the edit hit-squad here.
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