The Fly Guild (2 page)

“Don’t ever go into my house again,
do you understand?” he asked in a soft voice, but one that carried threatening
authority.

Quinton nodded and watched as the
men got on the carts and slowly trundled down the street, the carts wobbling
back and forth over the cobbles with rickety wheels. He turned around, gave the
house that he had known as home for almost two years a final glance and headed
out into the streets with nothing more than the clothes on his back and a few
coins in his pocket.

The coins were quickly spent on
food, and as the winter rains came, his clothes deteriorated into rags. He
learned to steal and hide from the soldiers and the thugs who walked the
streets at night. There were other children on the streets, too, but no one
lasted long. Where they all went, who could know, but he was a survivor. At
least until today.

“It’s a sad story, in a city filled
with sad stories,” came the voice of an older man from the glowing light that
had now returned to obscure his visions of the past. The voice seemed to come
from both sides of him and behind him at the same time.

“I don’t care about his sad story,
Grubbs,” said the voice of the sandy-haired man. “The boy has talent. Natural
talent. Maybe the best I’ve seen. Maybe even better than me with the right
training.”

“Better’n you, sir?” said Grubbs,
his voice incredulous. “Never thought I’d ‘ear you say that in my living days.
A young lad as good as Sands? Hard to even think it.”

“If he survives, that is,” said
Sands. “The boys roughed him up pretty good, but he had to pay for his crime.
That’s our law.”

“That it is, sir, that it is. But I
think this one is a survivor. I think he’ll pull out. He survived the tellin’
orb, didn’t he? In his state, he should have reached the light and let himself
go for good.”

“Perhaps, Grubbs, perhaps. When it
comes to healing, I yield to your judgment.”

“I’ll fix him up, but no promises
now.”

There was a muffled laugh. “You
just said he would pull through. Hedging your bets, are you?”

Another laugh came, this time from
Grubbs. “Sitting on the fence allows you to flee to one side or the other as
need calls for, sir.”

“Just don’t fall with one leg on
each side of the fence, or you’ll be hurt worse than if you chose one or the
other to begin with.”

Grubbs heartily laughed for a few
moments before regaining his composure. “Where shall I put him once my work is
done?”

There was a long silence before
Sands answered. “Put him in the crimper.”

“Ooh, starting out a little rough
aren’t we?”

“Mind your business, Grubbs. I
don’t want an apprentice. It’s bad enough watching over Milky’s two losers
while he’s laid up with the fever. If this lad is for real, he’ll be fine. If
he’s not, we’ll be rid of him right soon.”

Grubbs snickered. “That we will,
sir, that we will.”

The light faded from the boy’s eyes
and the sounds of the men’s voices became clear. He tried to open his eyes, but
they were still swollen shut. The pain in his body had subsided, but the aches
remained and he was unable to move his limbs.

Grubbs waved his hand over the orb
near the boy’s body. Its glow turned a slight shade of red then faded away
completely. The boy wouldn’t remember anything about the experience now.

“Relax, boy,” said Grubbs. “The
pain is gone for now, but don’t worry, it will return. You’re banged up pretty
good, and it’s not going to get much better for ya. I’ve pulled you through the
worst of it, but it’s up to you how much longer you want to live. You’ll have
to decide whether the pain in here,” the boy felt the man tap his chest, “is
greater than the pain out here with us. If the pain inside is worse, then
anything we throw at you will be survivable. But if out here is tougher, then
you’ll be feeding the fish with your dead daddy real soon.”

Quinton faded back to darkness once
more. Dreams came to him unlike anything he had ever experienced. He saw
visions of glorious castles glowing white on the shores of a great ocean, of a
dark rocky tower standing defiant in the middle of a raging sea and of
fantastic creatures with wings and horns and shimmering scales. Everything he
had ever heard of in a story or tale was suddenly alive before him in a
dazzling array of images and sights so clear he could touch the rough skin of
the flying beasts and smell the salt spray as it rebounded from the dark tower
back into the sea. A sense of wonder and joy flooded his body as he felt
himself flying along the edges of the world, seeing everything there was to see
and being free from everyone and the pain they brought with them. As his vision
soared along a high cliff on the sea’s edge, as white trees with golden leaves
shimmered in the distance, his thoughts turned to his long lost parents, the
only family he knew that left him what seemed so long ago. His thoughts turned
to sadness as he remembered his mother’s eyes and how they had faded away from
the hopeful spirit they had once held, and how his father’s body had to be
dumped into the river like so much garbage. When he looked out across the plain
that stretched from the sea, he saw two people standing together. They were too
far away to make out any details, but he recognized their forms.

Could it be possible in this
incredible place that his parents were here, too? Some how alive and well and
waiting for him? He turned toward them and watched the landscape speed by and
focused everything on them. As he got closer, he could make out his mother’s
hair, and his father’s hand waved in greeting. He could see their smiles. A
wash of joy raced through his heart.

Then everything was gone. The air
was stale, and blackness was surrounding him. His hopes faded as he felt the
lingering pain in his limbs return. He could feel himself breathing. Wherever
he had been, that place was gone now. He took a deep breath and took inventory
of his aches and pains. The memory of the beating came back to him and he
winced at the thought. But things were better now. His eyes were still tender,
but he could tell they weren’t swollen shut anymore. He opened them, but saw
nothing. He could feel the coolness of stone under his cheek and arms and he
knew he was lying face down on a floor somewhere. He tried to raise his head to
get a better look at his surroundings, but his head hit stone before he had
barely moved. In fact, it was so low, he couldn’t turn his head to look the
other way.

The boy momentarily panicked. He
quickly flailed about with both hands grasping for openness, but they only
confirmed what he had first feared. He was in a stone space barely tall enough
for him to fit into. His hands and legs couldn’t find any defined edges, but
wherever he was, he was wedged in pretty good.

The boy’s heart raced. Was he
entombed? Had the two boys left him here to die? He forced himself to take deep
breaths and relax. He felt around with his fingers and carefully dragged
himself to his right to try to find some way out. The stone was cool and
slightly damp, so he figured he was underground. After a few feet, his hand
found a wall. His fingers danced across it. He could feel the mortar lines
among the stones. He was in something manmade, so maybe it was a tomb. The boy
worked his way along the wall until he found another wall a few feet further
on. A few minutes of further exploration revealed he was in a space about two
body lengths square with no apparent doors or other openings.

Despair sunk in. He was trapped.
Entombed to die a slow, miserable death. His hands searched for solace in the
cool stone beneath him. He could hear his heartbeat in his ear as it rested on
the rock. Slow and steady it beat. But for how long? He knew that about three
days was all you could survive without water. So he had three days to wait. And
after that, he hoped that he could return to the place that he saw in his
dreams and find that plain with the two figures once more.

The boy found himself dragging his
body over to one of the walls once more. He began pushing and pulling on any
stone he could feel, hoping to find a weak spot. He worked his way around the
entire chamber but could find no escape. Worn out and already starting to get a
little thirsty, he gave up. He laughed at his own folly. What if the chamber
were buried in the earth? Knocking a hole in the wall would only reveal a
mountain of dirt to be moved. The darkness and tightness of the space were
disorienting and he was already getting confused as to which way was up. He
might knock out the wall and only end up digging deeper.

Couldn’t this just end now? Why did
he have to wait through three long days of suffering? A wave of sadness rocked
his young, battered body. Sobs came from his throat, but he stopped them. He
hadn’t allowed himself to cry since the day his mother didn’t show up, and he
wasn’t going to start now. He would wait out his time, and he hoped, rejoin her
on the other side. He calmed himself by taking a few deep breaths and drifted
off to sleep.

No dreams came. No majestic plains;
no fantastic creatures; no visions of beauty. He came out of his slumber and
wished he could go right back in. His face hurt from lying on the stone and the
skin was rubbed raw from the coarseness of the rock. His neck ached from being
in the same position and he was finding it harder to breathe as his ribs hurt
from the continued weight of his body pressing down on them. He had no idea
whether it was day or night, for his black tomb gave no clues. His ragged
clothes weren’t providing much warmth and the cool underground air was
beginning to give him a chill. Thirst burned in his throat and his mouth was
dry. Hunger began to gnaw at his stomach. Quinton knew that he might crack up
mentally long before his body gave up physically. There was nothing to do in
his hole except think about his predicament, and that led to a deep melancholy
that kept begging the question, why me?

As the time slowly passed, he
became acutely aware of every ache and pain in his body: the coldness of his
fingers, the dull pain in his cheek, the sharp throbbing of his elbow, the
aching of his head. Every smell had been identified and catalogued in his mind.
The cool rock smelled of damp earth and sand. Small bits of what must be some
sort of underground moss or mold gave off an odor that unfortunately reminded
him of bread.

As he laid there perfectly still,
his finger occasionally tracing the mortar line around a stone to his right,
his left leg sensed what felt like slightly warmer air. He concentrated on that
ever-so-slight sensation, trying to determine if it was real or imagined. It
wasn’t much of a difference, but he believed it was real. He pulled himself
around to face the other wall, and began carefully feeling along the stone for
its source. He held his hand just in front of the wall, trying to sense any
change in temperature. As he neared the corner, he felt it. A slight change in
temperature and even a hint of air movement. He touched the wall with his right
hand and felt around the rough stone, searching for its source. His fingers
traced every mortar line and his palm glided across every stone. Finally he
found it. In between two smaller rocks were two round holes. Not natural
openings, for they were perfectly round – these were manmade and had been put
there on purpose. He took his finger and stuck it in first one hole, then the
other. They were small tubes through the stone. How long they were, he couldn’t
tell, for they were longer than his finger was. The boy slipped his hand under
his head to try to ease the pain in his cheek. His head pressed against the
ceiling as he pondered what the significance of the holes was.

They were put there on purpose, and
the only purpose he could think of was to provide air to his tiny chamber.
Maybe the boys hadn’t left him to die. Maybe this wasn’t a tomb after all, but
a prison. At first the boy was excited, but then realized that his stay in the
chamber might now be for more than just a few days. It might be for years.
Perhaps gruel and water would be poured down those holes to nourish him. He
tried to convince himself that he wouldn’t eat it, but the growing pangs of his
empty stomach told him otherwise. And he’d do just about anything for a sip of
water right now. He decided to lie with his head close to the holes in case
food or water came out of them. He wouldn’t want to miss his chance if it ever
came.

Quinton waited in the timeless
darkness of his prison. He tried to entertain himself by flicking a small piece
of rock across the floor with his finger. He made up two team names and saw
which one could flick it further or closest to the wall. He counted stones on
the wall. He counted his heartbeats. He tried to sing a song, but his voice was
raspy and his throat dry. He tapped on the rock with his fingers and saw how far
away from his body he could move it before he could no longer hear it. He
thought about the baker’s cart and the delicious soft bread, but that seemed to
make his stomach angry, so he thought about the albino rat he had seen several
times near where he slept in his pile of leaves and rags on the street. It
always looked at him funny as if it were trying to figure out what he was doing
there. The boy wished he knew the answer to that question, too. Why had he been
turned out on the streets? Why did his mother and father have to die? Why did
he have to be put in this place? All he did was take a little bread to eat, and
this is what he got as punishment? He closed his eyes to replace one darkness
with another and tried to adjust his body as best he could to get comfortable.
He drifted off to sleep once more.

His dreams were troubled. People
were chasing him through the streets. Boys were beating him. Disease and
starvation wracked his body. He ran to his sleeping spot on the street to
escape, but the white rat was in it. It stood up on its hind legs and looked at
him. You don’t belong here, it said without speaking, its whiskered nose
twitching. In the strange realm of dreams, the boy understood that the white
rat walked alone. Its own kind wouldn’t associate with it. The white rat wanted
to run away, but there was no place to run to. You have choices to make, it
said in his mind. Choose carefully, or you will be like me. The rat turned and
disappeared into the pile of leaves and rags next to the building the boy once
considered home. He didn’t understand what the rat was talking about, and
before he could think about it any more, the scene changed to the old lady’s
house where he had worked before being turned out on the streets. The man that
told him to leave and never come back was there with her, and he glared at the
boy. He was angry he was in the house again. He turned to leave, but there was
no door. Have some tea, the woman said. She had never given him tea before.
Have some tea with me. The boy found himself moving toward the kitchen. The
teakettle was boiling over an open fire next to an open door. Through the
doorway was a grassy plain that stretched forever. The boy had the teapot in
his hand and was pouring two cups as he looked out on the plain. Nothing was
out there. Nothing moved. Come, boy, she said. Let us have our tea now. The boy
turned from the door with the tea in his hand. The dream faded and was gone.