The Fly Guild (3 page)

He awoke with a start, but nothing
in his tiny world had changed. He could still see nothing, and the only sound
was that of his heart in his ears. His stomach had become a constant gnawing
pain in his gut and his arm and leg muscles were starting to cramp on a regular
basis, causing him great discomfort. His calf muscle would suddenly become so
tense that he had to constantly massage it best he could to relieve the pain.
That would go away, only to be replaced by his bicep locking up so hard that he
thought the muscle would burst. His body was turning into a symphony of agony,
with one pain trumping the next. The barrage of pain left him little time to
think about his predicament, for things were falling apart fast. He had no idea
how long he had been in the prison but guessed it to be days. The entire front
of his body was numb from lying in the same position for so much time. He had
drifted into and out of sleep, most of it dark restless sleep devoid of dreams,
every few hours or so, but couldn’t sleep for what seemed like any decent
amount of time. The constant napping skewed his sense of time and he had lost
all track of it long ago.

But regardless of what time or day
it was in the outside world, he knew his time was rapidly running out. The
craving for water was starting to drive him mad. He began to have thoughts that
at first seemed unreasonable but then became plausible as time went on. He
laughed to himself. Yes, it might work.

The boy began scraping at the
mortar lines of the stones along the wall. He hoped to wear them down enough to
knock a stone free and then use the opening and the loose stone to knock the
next rocks out until there was an opening to escape out of. His hands dragged
along the rough mortar, the jagged edges and coarse stone tearing back at his
flesh. He kept scraping, to no avail, his arm hurting from holding his hand out
and his body straining under the effort. He had little energy left. He
furiously began to tear at the mortar and rock, tearing at it in a mad effort
to remove the object blocking his survival. His hand moved faster and faster
until it was being torn and shredded by the rock. His nails were dragging on
the stone; something had to work. He no longer felt pain in his hand as he
continued the attack, scraping, scraping, scraping.

His frustration grew as he could
feel no progress being made. He shouted out in a raspy cry of defiance as his
hand made one last mighty effort, but the rock wouldn’t budge and his body gave
out. His arm collapsed from the exhaustive effort and he lie in the cool
darkness trying to catch his breath. He moved his hand closer to his face. He
could feel the pain from his wounded hand, but it was distant, as if it were in
a dream. He felt moisture on his fingers and pushed them into his mouth. The
rusty taste of blood was strong, but it was moisture for his parched mouth and
he took it willingly.

After the last drop of blood was
gone, he lay there alone, knowing the end was near. His anger built. He took
deeper and deeper breaths as the rage started to take hold of him. He moved
both his hands up by his shoulders and place them palm down on the stone. He
started to push up, with his back pressed to the ceiling. If he couldn’t claw
his way out, he would summon some inhuman strength from within and lift the
rocks off of him. With a mighty yell, he pushed with every bit of energy he had
left. It was boy versus rock, and he was determined to win. He visualized
himself pushing off his rock coffin as if it were nothing more than a bulky
winter cloak. His muscles strained under the effort and he felt his arms
shaking. He started to black out from the strain. He let out another yell.

As he felt the ceiling starting to
give way, joy flooded his body and gave him renewed strength. The rock lifted
up, and he felt it slide off his back, and warm, fresh air rushed in and
sunlight spilled into his hole. He stood up and heard the rocks crumble behind
him into a pile. He stood triumphant on a grassy plain, sunshine warming his
face.

“I’m free,” he tried to shout, but
his voice was raspy and hardly any sound came out. He looked at his hand and it
was uninjured, with not a sign of blood. His face was numb, and when he tried
to massage it with his hand, he couldn’t feel anything. He took a deep breath
and only could smell dank stone.

A startled breath brought him back.
He had not moved the ceiling at all. He was still in his prison; the effort of
trying to move the rock above him had pushed him beyond his limit and expended
the last of his energy. He was too exhausted to move his arms and massage the
calf muscle that was now cramping again. He was too tired to lick from his hand
the blood that was seeping out again. He was too tired to try to reposition his
head to get it off the small, sharp pebble it was now lying on. He was too
tired to go on.

He began to wonder if the dark
reality he lived in was real and that everything else in his life was nothing
but a dream. He couldn’t feel any of his body anymore and he was a detached
consciousness floating in a never-ending sea of darkness. Perhaps this was who
he was, a lost soul in the void. All else – parents, friends, enemies – were
just things he dreamed of while sleeping. Maybe he had created that reality
from his nothingness. There was no family. There was no home. There was no
world, only this emptiness that surrounded him. He wanted to go back to the dream
world again. Please take me out of this, he pleaded with himself. Who else was
there to plead to? There were no gods here. He was the only being, and he
seemed powerless to do anything about it.

He waited, but nothing happened.
Even his mind started to fade, as if he were watching himself walk away. His
thoughts became dimmer until they, too, faded away into the darkness. All that
was left was the simple awareness of self-being. Time, or what seemed like time
in the void, passed. Even the self-awareness began to fade. Only darkness
remained.

Slowly, his thoughts returned to
him. There was something bringing him back. A noise; a steady tapping of rock.
He tried to reorient himself, but his thoughts were jumbled in his head. He was
in the void, darkness around him, with no sense of reality except the tapping
sound.

Tap, tap, tap. Then something broke
and crumbled. Reality came back in another small dose. He began to smell the
rock again. He knew he should be able to feel it, too, but could feel nothing. His
mind wanted to see, but the darkness prevailed, and he couldn’t tell whether
his eyes were open or shut.

Tap, tap, tap. Voices came to him.
He felt a force tugging on him, but he couldn’t move and was afraid of what the
source would be. An odd glow lit the void but revealed nothing of detail, only
a pinkish color that obscured the nothingness. The air changed. It became
slightly warmer and fresher. There was another crumbling sound and the voices
came again, but he couldn’t understand what they were saying, though he knew he
should be able to. The tapping stopped. A force grabbed him and pulled him the
way a river pulls a twig down its course. He wanted to resist but couldn’t. He
felt himself floating up into the warm air, drifting off into nothingness as
the voices chattered on around him. He bobbed and weaved in the currents of the
void for a while, then the force set him down. Cast aside, he saw a bright
light that began to warm his face. He felt a presence, and something pressed up
against his head. The boy imagined cool water soaking through his parched mouth
and he thanked the presence for the gift, but then suddenly his breath was
gone. The water was choking him and he began to cough.

His senses returned. He choked out
the last of the water and opened his eyes. He was in a tiny room with a small
window that cast sunlight onto his face. He was lying on a small cot and there
were two men, one kneeling next to him with a ladle of water and the other
standing near the small door.

“Thought you were gone there for a
minute,” the man kneeling over him said. “Take another sip of water.” He tipped
the ladle up to the boy’s lips.

The boy greedily gulped the water
and tried to take the ladle, but the man pulled it away.

“You must take it slow or you’ll
make it worse. Men have drowned on land drinking water after they’ve been dry
for too long.”

The boy took as much water as the
man would allow him to have, then laid his head back on the cot. He looked at
the man with the ladle. He was older, his face creased with deep wrinkles. His
hair was thin and gray and combed straight back. He was a rough-looking
character, but not threatening in his manner. His deep brown eyes showed a
toughness in the man, and his large, strong hands belied physical strength, as
well. Quinton had heard the man’s voice before, but wasn’t sure where.

“So you’re a survivor after all,”
said the man near the door, his face familiar. The sandy brown hair gave him
away as the man the boy had tried to escape from earlier. “My name is Sands, and
this here is Grubbs,” he said, motioning with his head to the man with the
ladle. Grubbs nodded slightly in recognition before Sands continued. “You’ve
been given another chance to live, but let me explain a few things. The boy you
once were is dead now. We left him back in the crimper – that stone space you
were sealed into. What’s left is the part of him that is too hard to kill and
is a survivor. You are a maggot. You fed on the flesh and soul of the boy you
once were in order to survive. By surviving in the crimper for three days, you
have become worthy enough to become an apprentice to the Fly Guild.”

Quinton searched his memories but
couldn’t remember any mention of any such organization. He started to ask a
question, but his voice wouldn’t respond, which was well enough because the man
started speaking again anyway.

“You are a maggot and have no name
other than maggot. You belong to me the same way a dog belongs to its master.
You are identified from the other maggots by your master’s name. You will be
known as Sands’ maggot when necessary, otherwise simply as maggot. You are
never to mention your old name, for that person is dead and it is improper to
speak the names of the dead who died such a horrible death, lest they return to
this world to haunt us. Do you understand so far?”

Quinton nodded and took another
sip. As long as the water kept coming, he’d agree to anything. Once he was back
on his feet, he could escape if he needed to.

“And don’t think of escaping,” the
man said as if reading his thoughts. The boy almost choked on the water he was
sipping. “You do not go anywhere without my leave. We are a family here at the
Fly Guild, and no one ever abandons family. To do so is to suffer the penalty
of death. We’ve all experienced heartbreak in this world by our real families
who left us; as members of the guild, we will guarantee ourselves that we
always have someone we can rely on. To break that covenant is an insult to all
members of the guild.

“So, if you decide to try to
escape, you will be hunted down and killed. Is that clear.”

The boy nodded. He was in no
condition to try much of anything right now. He desperately wanted some food.

“As your master, and that’s how you
shall address me, as master or Master Sands, I will make sure your basic
requirements are met. There are many skills you will be taught so that you may
contribute to the overall well-being of the family. You will help me and other
family members complete jobs assigned to us by the father, Master Fist. When
you are deemed worthy, you will one day be given a name, and you will no longer
be known as a maggot. Until then, you will live with the other maggots in the
guild unless I have need of your services.”

The boy began to think this wasn’t
such a bad deal. Just getting food and water would be a plus over his previous
living situation. And how bad could these jobs actually be?

“For now, Master Grubbs will take
care of you until you have your strength back. At that point you will be sent
to live with the other maggots and your training will begin.” The man turned
and opened the small door, ducking below the low threshold to exit. The boy
noticed his fine cloak and boots and thought him to be the best-dressed person
he had ever seen in the city. He hoped that he would get clothes as nice as
Sands had.

His eyes went back to Grubbs who
had stood up with the bucket and ladle. “That’s enough for now, maggot,” said
Grubbs, emphasizing the last word. “I’ll get some gruel brought up along with
some bread; that will help put your stomach back in order. We have to get you
up and going as soon as possible, ‘cause the father sure doesn’t like
freeloaders.” Grubbs ducked and went through the door, closing it behind him. A
dull thump told the boy he had also dropped a locking bar across it.

The boy really wanted to try to
climb up and look out the small high window to see something other than the
stone that surrounded him. He wanted to see colors other than gray again, but
just simply trying to sit up proved to be too much of a strain and he quickly
slumped back down. Fatigue started to overwhelm him. He looked at his hand.
Someone had cleaned and bandaged it, and the soreness on the tips of his
fingers was beginning to return. He closed his eyes and let sleep overcome him,
hoping that when he awoke, he was still in the room and not back in the
crimper.

He slept in fits as dreams came and
went. Visions of rats overrunning, him nipping at his body as they passed, kept
coming back to him. His dreams faded into vague images of ships and oceans, only
to return to the rats running to him. There was no escape from them. They were
relentless.

Quinton spent more than a week
recovering with Grubbs; help. Some days he only saw him when he brought bread,
gruel and water, while other days he apply salves made from awful-smelling
plants to his wounds. The stench was nearly unbearable, but they did dull the
ache and his wounds healed quickly. Most of the boy’s time was spent sleeping
and he suspected Grubbs was putting some sort of sleeping potion into his water,
for he was resting far more than normal. It was all well enough anyway, for
there was nothing to do in his small, locked room. Whenever he woke up, Grubbs
shortly thereafter entered the room with the next round of food, water and
salves, leaving him little time to contemplate his predicament or escape.