Dust and Water: A Song For The Stained Novella (A MAGICAL SAGA) (2 page)

The lodgings are acceptable. A horse stall, which is actually bigger than the corner of the cellar I have back home, and the straw is fresh. I bury my hoard under the straw in the corner. Now, to con some food out of these mountain folk.

The father and two rotten sons are busy grooming their horses, walking about the stables with tack, that sort of thing.

I lean against the wall and eyeball the one who was giving me grief earlier.

The older son walks his horse past me and I take three steps back out of the way. Those crazy animals can kick for no reason.

The boy chuckles. “Afraid of the horses are you?”

“So what if I am? They’re crazy.”

He laughs and disappears into a stall. I look at the younger brother. “What do I have to trade to swing a tray of grub?” I ask.

He tweaks his eyebrow and visibly tries not to laugh, then fails. “Are you even speaking my language?” he asks.

“Of course not, I don’t speak pig,” I spit back.

The older brother stalks out of his stall and towards me. He’s older than me, but even if we were born on the same day, he’d tower over me. I’m short, and short people have to stand their ground.

“Pigs are more noble animals than scum like you,” he says.

“Noble? Who’d want to be noble? I’d settle for smart, and I outsmart you any day,” I say.

“Now boys. Dom, steady. He’s our guest,” the father says.

“Yes, Dom, listen to your da.”

Dom swings his fist, but I hardly even need to duck, his fist glides right over my head. I stomp down as hard as I can on his toes and watch him crumple. He grabs his foot and hops over to the wall.

“You little –”

“Dom, go tell your mother we have a guest for dinner,” the father interrupts. “Now.”

Across the stables the other boy, same orange features but slightly younger, is trying his best not to laugh. Figures, he’s the younger brother, he’d have tried to beat Dom up plenty of times before.

“You,” the father says pointing at me. “You can water the horses.”

Then he turns and leaves, but the younger boy hesitates.

“And wash up. I’m not kidding; if you enter the house looking like that Ma will swing a carving knife at you.” He leaves me alone.

There are three lamps on and outside darkness has settled like a heavy blanket over the land. One of those big dogs trots in and sniffs around the door of my stall. I get it now; the blood is attracting him.

“Get,” I say, waving my arms.

He cocks his head to one side and backs up, an amused look on his face. With my eyes locked on him, I feel for the stall door and swing it shut. He’s big, like almost as big as I am, and there’s no one to call him off me if he decides to attack. Slowly, I reach one hand out, thinking just maybe I’ll give him a scratch behind the ear.

He lifts one lip, showing long canine teeth and rumbles a growl from deep in his throat.

I yank my hand back. Nope, not a pat-me kind of dog.

“Ok, fine,” I say, throwing my hands in the air.

He growls again and I jump.

Right, I need to ignore the dog and get this watering done or I’ll miss out on what meagre scraps they decide to throw my way. The watering is hard, tipping buckets of water over the stall door because there’s no way I’m going into a box with a horse!

Back home, if I’d have made it there on time, Pa would serve me half a bread roll and the tavern broth from the lunch soup. Mmm, yes, believe me, broth is tasty. All the juices and none of the chunky bits. Perfect for dipping bread into. Then I’d sneak a few sweet rolls – the staff never mind me slipping into the kitchen after dark, so long as Pa doesn’t notice, nor my cousin Mercy.

I almost wander straight out of the stables, then my last job busts out of my memory. I have to wash. Just the thought twists my lips up into a scowl.

Who do these people think I am, a ruddy noble? Bathing… just to eat? It’s the wildest thing I’ve ever heard!

My stomach growls and I resign myself to the bath idea. Pulling my vest off, I scrub my arms, my hands, my face and my neck in the water trough.

“Not that it makes any difference,” I mutter.

Still grumbling I march across to the house and let myself in, following my nose to the kitchen. The room is small compared to the dining hall at the tavern. The table would be as big as one we use, though, ten seater it is. And so far there’s eight people sitting.

“This is the lad,” the father says, nodding in my direction.

Everyone turns to stare.

“Er,” I grunt my version of ‘hello’.

“Right, wild thing is he?” The mother says, standing up and walking towards me. She’s a big, eats well, kind of woman, with very blonde hair. These kids had no chance, with dad being ginger and mum blonde; at least they never have to wonder who their real parents are.

The woman walks around me and I turn to watch what she’s doing.

“He did look worse, Ma,” Dom says.

“I think he scrubs up quite nice,” the girl says.

I stick my tongue out at her and make the sign to show I’m looking at something smelly to Dom, known in the capital as flipping someone off.

“Never seen a mirror, have you?” Dom asks.

The ma steps in front of me before I can say anything back.

“I don’t make rules for what my boys do in the stables, but in my kitchen I’ll have no tormenting, no tantrums, no teasing –”

“Pretty much anything beginning with a ‘T’ is banned in this house,” the girl says.

“That isn’t true, Jenny, we’re allowed to talk,” one of the little boys says.

The boy next to him just waves his arms around, like they’ve taken on a life of their own.

The ma counters with her own sharp hand movements, a flutter of her fingers, a touch to her chin, a brush of her arm, and I think they’ve both lost their marbles.

“Right then, tea’s getting cold,” the da says.

“Took your sweet time, didn’t you,” Dom says.

I flip him off again and stand waiting for a bread roll – or bread roll and bowl of broth, which would be even better – to get tossed at me.

The ma pulls a roast from the wood oven, and the da sets about carving it up whilst bowls and plates containing all manner of vegetables, salads and steaming slices of bread are passed around the table. My stomach growls loudly and Jenny turns to laugh at me.

“You not hungry?” she asks.

I try to speak, but the smell of roast pork hits me and I just stand there with my mouth hanging open.

Dom laughs and this time I’m ready to pounce on him and beat the dung out of the pig-kissing-son-of-a- … I don’t finish that thought-sentence.

The da clears his throat. “Sit, boy.”

“We’re not going to throw the food into that open mouth of yours,” Dom says.

Their father’s at the head of the table but the other seat left empty is opposite him. Possibly the only seat I don’t want to sit in. My style of eating is grab it, and get out of there. So, sitting at the table is an issue – sitting opposite the guy in charge is just crazy.

I grab the chair, and the plate, and drag them to the corner of the table, with the exit at my back and three other people between me and Dom, then his da.

Dom shakes his head and sighs, but I’m sick of looking at him. Across the table their ma sits down. Next to her three boys, maybe in the six to ten age bracket, are arguing over some toy they have hidden under the table. Their ma levels an icy gaze on them and the middle boy quickly stuffs whatever it was under his shirt. Followed by some of his odd hand movements.

“Can’t he talk?” I say before I have a chance to stop myself.

Everyone looks at me, but the kid I’m talking about. After a second, he acknowledges the fact that every head in the room is facing my way and he turns too.

“Oh,” I say. “He can’t hear.”

The kid sticks his thumb on his nose and waggles his fingers, flipping me off – telling me I stink. Only their ma manages not to find that funny.

“Well, your nose works fine,” I say.

“Here,” the girl says, passing me a bowl of round, juicy, vibrantly green peas.

“Tar,” I say, taking it from her.

“What?” she asks, chuckling a little.

“Tar. You deaf too?”

She out and laughs at me, making me freeze mid pea serving and consider flicking my spoonful all over her.

“Da, what’s ‘tar’ mean?” she asks.

“It means you shouldn’t be talking to a vulture,” Dom says, his tone serious and his eyes on his own meal – he didn’t say it just to mock me.

“My name’s Hunter, not Vulture,” I mutter.

“Ease up, Dom,” the other boy says. “Anyway, everyone introduce yourselves to our guest.”

“Good idea, Ash,” the da says. “Hunter, my name’s Roland.”

“You can call me Sareen, son,” their ma says, and I really hope they’re not expecting me to remember their names; I’ve lived my whole life avoiding the kids on the street, not befriending them. I only bother with one name, my cousin Mercy.

“Andy.”

“Scott,” the middle kid says, his sounds drawn out. So he can’t hear, but he can speak, kinda.

“Dan.”

“I’m Jenny,” the girl says, introducing herself again.

“I’m Ash, and I’d better introduce my big brother Dom for you. Seems he’s lost his manners,” Ash says, wrapping his arm around his brother’s neck and scrubbing his knuckles through the bigger guy’s hair.

Dom pushes Ash aside, but he’s smiling – so he’s not a complete dung-ball after all.

Roland, Sareen, Andy, Scott, Dan, the girl, Ash and the dung-ball – Dom.

“Er,” I say, getting another chuckle from Jenny. “What?”

“We don’t go into the city very often,” Sareen says. “So we don’t hear street talk very much.”

“Slang, ma, it’s called street slang,” Dom corrects.

“It’s just talk to me,” I say with a shrug, then I dive my fork into my food and I’m determined not to emerge from this tunnel of bliss until all of it is gone.

The straw is warm, and the food in my belly has me sinking into something deeper than sleep, more like a stupor. I’ve always wondered what bliss would be like – this is it.

“Hey,” Dom says, grunts actually, kicking my foot.

Lucky I still have my boots on, as if I’d take them off and give these fools a chance to steal them.

“What?” I grunt.

“I just want to make sure that you aren’t going to be here in the morning.”

I open one eye and stare up at him. I’ve always been good at sensing things, like when dung’s about to get slung. I’m sure he’s not my best friend, but he’s not about to hurt me either – not yet.

He crouches down, lowering his face close to mine. “Let me be street-rat clear, have your sleep, then get yourself and your stench out of here.”

I stretch and yawn, using the opportunity to put my fist in an about-to-smack-you-in-the-face position.

“Let me get this straight, are you saying you don’t like me?”

He grabs my shirt and lifts me closer. “No, and if I see you tomorrow, I will run you through.”

Standing he adjusts his belt, making sure my attention is drawn to the sword hanging off it. Then he marches from the stall, the door banging loudly but not latching.

“And don’t ever talk to my sister again,” he calls.