fenderfreak72
December 17th, 2008, 04:14 AM
The child’s screams rang in his ears, cutting through the chaos like a falcon at its prey. Jeremiah faltered at the sound, dropping several of his belongings from the unwieldy bundle in his arms. At once he struggled to bend down and retrieve them, but all around him people darted about in panic, jostling him to and fro like a buoy on rough waters as he grasped futilely for his things.
The child’s scream came again, and he stiffened. Of all the other sights, and smells, and sounds vying for his attention, why should this particular sound invade his senses so? He stretched to see above the confusion, but the dust in the air hid from his view what the smoke did not, and as a result he could scarcely see a few paces away.
A hut to his left came crashing down as the flames that had been licking at its beams finished their work. The sudden movement prompted Jeremiah to flinch to attention, and he realized he was the only static body around, save for those splayed across the ground in pools of crimson. Eager to avoid a similar fate, Jeremiah glanced down again for his missing belongings, then seeing that they were long gone at the feet of living, he dashed away, nimbly hopping over the outstretched arm of a bloody-faced woman who had been crushed by the hut.
Few paid Jeremiah any attention as he made his way through the embattled village. Most were intent on finding scattered family members, and those families that were complete struggled to stay together as they moved through the pandemonium. Jeremiah had no family, and so he moved on alone, with little regard for whom he pushed around and between.
He had been alone for most his life. He had no memory of his father, and those of his mother were few and faint, like the scattered brush-strokes of an unfinished painting. Most of his early memories consisted of scavenging and stealing and sleeping in cramped, alleyway corners. At the time, the lifestyle had bothered him little. But that had been until Gerrin had taken him in.
Jeremiah caught sight of a line of men ahead of him, moving unhurriedly through the crowd in his direction, and he ducked into an abandoned shack whose door hung open invitingly. Setting his things down and crouching low, he peeked through the window and watched as people fled from the path of the men; those too slow were dispatched with silver blades that flashed menacingly with the light of burning homes. Stoic expressions betrayed little hint of guilt or regret from those bearing the weapons, and Jeremiah sunk beneath view of the window with his back against the wall as they neared.
Gerrin would have called him a coward. Not to demean, but to encourage, of course. “Get a little backbone!” he would have said. “Think of someone’s skin aside from your own for once and go help someone!” Jeremiah held little stock in such notions. That sort of attitude would only get one’s skin removed sooner or later, and he much preferred the later, so he sat in still silence as the men outside moved past the shack. Jeremiah was somewhat grateful for the periodic wails of despair from those slain; it made it easy to judge where the men were.
His stomach twisted uneasily at that thought, but only because Gerrin would have disapproved of such callousness. He supposed it might be guilt, but didn’t know for sure because he rarely paid attention–at least tried not to pay attention–when his stomach felt so.
As a matter of fact, Jeremiah was fairly certain that he had never before in his life been the victim of any such emotions until Gerrin had begun telling him he should be. “Don’t take all the potatoes Jeremiah…that’s selfish,” Gerrin would say, but Jeremiah didn’t feel selfish taking his fill. He had always helped himself before and never thought twice much less felt bad, but now, every time he served himself at the table, Gerrin’s nagging voice would echo in his thoughts, and he would feel obligated to share, because Gerrin’s voice was reminding him that to take too much was selfish and he should feel bad.
“What then, if Gerrin says not to breathe so deep so’s I don’t hog all the air?” Jeremiah muttered to himself, peaking out the window again as the men passed his place of hiding. “I s’pect he’d expect me to turn blue holdin’ my breath.”
But he would do it, he thought begrudgingly, sliding back down to the floor heavily. For some reason he couldn’t fathom, he would scoff, and complain, and make faces at every criticism Gerrin offered day after day, but he couldn’t help but do as the man asked. It had been that way since the day, six years ago, when he’d lifted a bag of silver from a stranger’s coat pocket when he thought he wasn’t looking. Not a half-an-hour later he had been strolling down an alleyway, whistling to himself as he tossed the bag back and forth from hand to hand, and he had turned a corner straight into a man wearing a jacket that, regrettably, was all too familiar and lighter a bag of coins than when he’d last seen it. He had been too stunned to even think of running as Gerrin snatched his purse back and grabbed him roughly by the shoulder. And then Gerrin had marched a young, stunned Jeremiah across town until they reached a simple home nestled unremarkably between two others. By this time Jeremiah had thought of running, but the grip on his shoulder was enough to prevent any such thoughts of coming to fruition, and so he had been guided into the home and seated down at a large oak table inside.
“What’s your father gonna say when I tell him what you took from me son?” the man had demanded.
“I ain’t got a pa,” said Jeremiah, with as much insolence as he could muster.
“Sir. You should refer to me, as well as others your senior, as sir. Always.”
Jeremiah had thought to give him a smart reply, but the look in Gerrin’s eyes had made him swallow whatever he’d thought to say, and say instead, “I ain’t got a pa…sir.” The word slid off his tongue awkwardly.
“Well your mother then., or aunt, or uncle, or grandfather. Who do you live with?”
“I lives with myself.” A stern look, and then another awkward “…sir.”
“Yourself? And where do you sleep?”
“Wherever I can find a spot dry enough,” he’d said, trying to make his answer a little smart.
But Gerrin hadn’t thought the answer smart at all, and had in fact softened a bit at hearing it. The next thing Jeremiah knew, he was an involuntary member of Gerrin’s family.
“Prisoner to a man, his wench, and their horrid little girl.” Jeremiah grumbled, speaking more loudly now that he was sure the men were far enough away. He grabbed his things, then crept to the doorway and peaked out cautiously before dashing out of cover and into the street again.
The child’s scream came again, and he stiffened. Of all the other sights, and smells, and sounds vying for his attention, why should this particular sound invade his senses so? He stretched to see above the confusion, but the dust in the air hid from his view what the smoke did not, and as a result he could scarcely see a few paces away.
A hut to his left came crashing down as the flames that had been licking at its beams finished their work. The sudden movement prompted Jeremiah to flinch to attention, and he realized he was the only static body around, save for those splayed across the ground in pools of crimson. Eager to avoid a similar fate, Jeremiah glanced down again for his missing belongings, then seeing that they were long gone at the feet of living, he dashed away, nimbly hopping over the outstretched arm of a bloody-faced woman who had been crushed by the hut.
Few paid Jeremiah any attention as he made his way through the embattled village. Most were intent on finding scattered family members, and those families that were complete struggled to stay together as they moved through the pandemonium. Jeremiah had no family, and so he moved on alone, with little regard for whom he pushed around and between.
He had been alone for most his life. He had no memory of his father, and those of his mother were few and faint, like the scattered brush-strokes of an unfinished painting. Most of his early memories consisted of scavenging and stealing and sleeping in cramped, alleyway corners. At the time, the lifestyle had bothered him little. But that had been until Gerrin had taken him in.
Jeremiah caught sight of a line of men ahead of him, moving unhurriedly through the crowd in his direction, and he ducked into an abandoned shack whose door hung open invitingly. Setting his things down and crouching low, he peeked through the window and watched as people fled from the path of the men; those too slow were dispatched with silver blades that flashed menacingly with the light of burning homes. Stoic expressions betrayed little hint of guilt or regret from those bearing the weapons, and Jeremiah sunk beneath view of the window with his back against the wall as they neared.
Gerrin would have called him a coward. Not to demean, but to encourage, of course. “Get a little backbone!” he would have said. “Think of someone’s skin aside from your own for once and go help someone!” Jeremiah held little stock in such notions. That sort of attitude would only get one’s skin removed sooner or later, and he much preferred the later, so he sat in still silence as the men outside moved past the shack. Jeremiah was somewhat grateful for the periodic wails of despair from those slain; it made it easy to judge where the men were.
His stomach twisted uneasily at that thought, but only because Gerrin would have disapproved of such callousness. He supposed it might be guilt, but didn’t know for sure because he rarely paid attention–at least tried not to pay attention–when his stomach felt so.
As a matter of fact, Jeremiah was fairly certain that he had never before in his life been the victim of any such emotions until Gerrin had begun telling him he should be. “Don’t take all the potatoes Jeremiah…that’s selfish,” Gerrin would say, but Jeremiah didn’t feel selfish taking his fill. He had always helped himself before and never thought twice much less felt bad, but now, every time he served himself at the table, Gerrin’s nagging voice would echo in his thoughts, and he would feel obligated to share, because Gerrin’s voice was reminding him that to take too much was selfish and he should feel bad.
“What then, if Gerrin says not to breathe so deep so’s I don’t hog all the air?” Jeremiah muttered to himself, peaking out the window again as the men passed his place of hiding. “I s’pect he’d expect me to turn blue holdin’ my breath.”
But he would do it, he thought begrudgingly, sliding back down to the floor heavily. For some reason he couldn’t fathom, he would scoff, and complain, and make faces at every criticism Gerrin offered day after day, but he couldn’t help but do as the man asked. It had been that way since the day, six years ago, when he’d lifted a bag of silver from a stranger’s coat pocket when he thought he wasn’t looking. Not a half-an-hour later he had been strolling down an alleyway, whistling to himself as he tossed the bag back and forth from hand to hand, and he had turned a corner straight into a man wearing a jacket that, regrettably, was all too familiar and lighter a bag of coins than when he’d last seen it. He had been too stunned to even think of running as Gerrin snatched his purse back and grabbed him roughly by the shoulder. And then Gerrin had marched a young, stunned Jeremiah across town until they reached a simple home nestled unremarkably between two others. By this time Jeremiah had thought of running, but the grip on his shoulder was enough to prevent any such thoughts of coming to fruition, and so he had been guided into the home and seated down at a large oak table inside.
“What’s your father gonna say when I tell him what you took from me son?” the man had demanded.
“I ain’t got a pa,” said Jeremiah, with as much insolence as he could muster.
“Sir. You should refer to me, as well as others your senior, as sir. Always.”
Jeremiah had thought to give him a smart reply, but the look in Gerrin’s eyes had made him swallow whatever he’d thought to say, and say instead, “I ain’t got a pa…sir.” The word slid off his tongue awkwardly.
“Well your mother then., or aunt, or uncle, or grandfather. Who do you live with?”
“I lives with myself.” A stern look, and then another awkward “…sir.”
“Yourself? And where do you sleep?”
“Wherever I can find a spot dry enough,” he’d said, trying to make his answer a little smart.
But Gerrin hadn’t thought the answer smart at all, and had in fact softened a bit at hearing it. The next thing Jeremiah knew, he was an involuntary member of Gerrin’s family.
“Prisoner to a man, his wench, and their horrid little girl.” Jeremiah grumbled, speaking more loudly now that he was sure the men were far enough away. He grabbed his things, then crept to the doorway and peaked out cautiously before dashing out of cover and into the street again.