Chapter 4

The boy stood at the top of the hill and looked down at the town. His blonde hair was slicked back from the driving rain, his bare feet ankle-deep in mud, and his hands clenched into fists that hung limply at his sides. The boy howled in rage into the storm that swirled all around him. His energy was now spent, and he collapsed in a heap and slept until the bright, hot morning sun woke him.

The confidence with which the tall, lanky boy strolled into the village, contrasted with his dirty appearance and ragged clothing. His bare feet slapped the hard-packed dirt street with each step as he slowly scanned the storefronts before deciding what he should do. A look of fierce determination on his young face, he stood up straight, squared his shoulders, and entered the blacksmith shop. He stopped just inside the door, blinking his pale green eyes, adjusting to the dim interior of the shop. Brushing his unruly blonde hair out of his face, he walked towards the large man hammering away at the forge. Though tall for his age, Bart felt utterly dwarfed by the blacksmith. The smith was clearly a foot taller and two hundred pounds heavier than Bart’s five foot six and a hundred and twenty pounds.

 The smith caught sight of Bart, turned towards the boy, and bellowed. “Boy! Why are you in my shop?! You do not look like a paying customer! Get out now!” The smith waved one hand dismissively at Bart, trying to point Bart back towards the door.

Bart felt the old, familiar rage boiling inside of him. He took one deep breath, held it for a moment, and released the anger and the breath. At thirteen, Bart now had near-perfect control of his emotions, especially anger. He had to. Rage was a near-constant companion for Bart. The only constant companion he had ever had. With his feelings again under control, Bart raised one dirty hand, brushed a stray lock of blonde hair out of his pale green eyes, and looked up at the man still yelling for him to get out of the shop. This time, it was the blacksmith who was kicking him out. Bart didn’t need to hear what the man said as he had been getting the same reaction from every shopkeeper in every village for the last two months. He wasn’t asking for handouts. He just wanted to do some chores in exchange for food and maybe a warm place to sleep for a couple of nights. Bart’s thin frame was weakening from lack of food and little sleep. He needed both desperately. Bart focused back in on what the blacksmith was saying to him.

“Get out of my shop now, boy. I already have an apprentice to do all the necessary chores, and your filthy stink is driving away my customers. You smell like the inside of a cow stall. Get out.”

“Please, sir, I haven’t eaten for days. I am willing to do whatever work you have that needs doing. I need a little food. Please. I don’t want a handout. I’m willing to work hard at any task you give me.” Bart looked directly into the blacksmith’s eyes, pleading with him one last time.

The blacksmith, unmoved by Bart’s plea for help, turned his head and yelled.” Andrew, get your lazy behind out here and get this filthy beggar out of my shop, now!” A tall, wide-shouldered boy lumbered out of the back room, a look on his face like an angry storm cloud. He leaned a battered-looking broom against the wall and wiped his large hands on the dirty apron hanging at his waist. Though he was not much older than Bart, Andrew’s body rippled with muscles. He had been working for the blacksmith for several years and eating more often than Bart ever had. Bart saw the boy walking towards him and started to go back to the door. Andrew closed the distance between himself and Bart in seconds and, without warning, gave him a two-handed shove to the chest, knocking Bart backward through the open door. Bart lost his balance and fell into the dusty street outside the blacksmith shop. Bart struggled to his feet and was immediately struck in the left eye by Andrew’s massive right fist. Bart attempted to get back to his feet, but the apprentice hit him in the face again. This time, the boy’s fist split Bart’s lip open. Dazed, Bart felt the blood dripping down his chin as he closed his eyes and tried to get the world to stop spinning. Andrew grabbed Bart by the back of his shirt and dragged him across the street. Bart tried to struggle free of the bigger boy’s grasp. Bart’s struggles only succeeded in getting him repeatedly kicked in the ribs.

Andrew looked down at the battered and bloody boy at his feet. “Never come back to this shop again. My master does not want you here. If you return, I will beat you even worse.” Andrew turned without another word and stalked back to the blacksmith shop.

 Bart groaned in agony. His left eye throbbed and was already swollen shut. He ran his tongue over the cut on his lip and tasted fresh blood still dripping from the wound. His chest hurt if he tried to breathe too deeply, hopefully, bruised and not broken ribs. Bart rolled himself into a sitting position and leaned his back against the side of the building. He glowered across the street at the blacksmith shop with his one good eye. His body shook as the rage flowed through him. Bart was furious. His hands balled into tightly clenched fists, and little half-moons of blood sprouted up under his fingernails. He gritted his teeth to prevent himself from howling in rage. He looked down and saw a large bruise already forming where the boy had roughly gripped his arm and dragged him across the street. Bart clenched his fists tighter and felt the blood from his palms dripping down the sides of his hands.

Bart closed his eyes and pictured what he wanted to do to the blacksmith’s apprentice. Bart imagined what he wanted to do to the blacksmith. He envisioned what he wanted to do to everyone around him. Bart hated them. He hated them all. Even the few people who had ever been kind to Bart, he hated them most of all. The nicer someone was to him, the more he hated them. He knew that someday they would betray him. They all always did. So, if he let himself care, he would open himself up to even worse pain. Therefore, the people who acted as if they liked him were the most dangerous of all. He had to push them away even further than the rest. As Bart pictured all this in his mind, he felt a surge of energy, and his whole body itched and tingled. His pain seemed to lessen slightly, and Bart opened his eyes and stood up. He glanced at the blacksmith shop one last time and saw the apprentice still looking out of the shop towards him. Bart turned and walked up the street away from the shop, still plotting revenge.

He had to get away for now. He had to get his anger under control and decide what to do next. The first thing he needed to do was clean himself up. His hands were bloody, and he was even dirtier than he was before. Bart walked further up the dusty street. He saw an inn and thought he could clean up and maybe beg for food. He looked through the inn’s window and saw a middle-aged woman tending the bar and a young girl waiting tables and serving food. He hoped the middle-aged woman was the inn owner. She looked like someone who might help a young boy in trouble. He wasn’t sure what he would say to her, but he stepped forward and pushed through the door to the inn. He only took a few steps into the inn when suddenly he became very dizzy. The room started to spin, and he collapsed on the floor. As he lost consciousness, Bart thought he heard a glass break and a woman scream.

After Bart walked up the street, a shadowy figure emerged from behind the building. The individual was wearing a heavy black cloak and had the hood pulled all the way forward, completely covering their face. The figure glided over and bent down right where Bart had been sitting in the grass. The once lush green grass was now yellow, dry, and wilted. There were also drops of Bart’s blood on the grass from the cuts on his hands and lip. The figure extended one sickly grey hand out, pulled up some yellowed grass, rolled it between his long, bony fingers, and dropped it back to the ground. He wiped up a spot of the blood and licked it off his finger with his pointed yellow tongue. The figure nodded to himself, knowing that the boy had finally used magic, even if he was unaware of that fact. With one wave of his hand, the figure turned the yellowed grass green again, wiping away any trace of magic. The Shadowkin called Ihlvo turned and faded back into the buildings’ shadow. The child of Bahaar was growing in power. Soon, Ihlvo’s plans would begin in earnest.

Bart felt a presence hovering over him, and he slowly opened his right eye. The worried face of the middle-aged woman, the woman he had seen just before he entered the inn, greeted him. Bart pushed himself up to a sitting position. “Wha-what happened?”

The woman steadied Bart with a hand on his shoulder. “You poor boy. You stumbled into my inn and collapsed on the floor! You look terribly beaten! Who has done such an evil thing to such a sweet, innocent boy?!” Tears dripped from her eyes, and she looked down at Bart as if he were her own son.

Bart decided it best not to mention the blacksmith or the apprentice. Instead, he told a story of strangers on the road brutally attacking him. “Ma’am, there were two of them. Big men. I never saw what they looked like. They beat me, took everything I had, and left me by the side of the road. When I woke, I made my way here to this inn. It took all the strength I had to make it this far. I guess I passed out. If someone could help me up, I will be out of your way as soon as I rest for a bit.” He sighed and lay back on the floor.

“No. No. No. You are not going anywhere, my dear boy.” She looked back over her shoulder at the people in the inn. “Jonah! Help this boy up and sit him at the table by the corner window.” Next, she yelled at one of her servers. “Emily! Go to my room, get the little black pouch by my bed, and then get me a steak from the kitchen. Move! Both of you!” She looked back down at Bart. “My name is Cecilia Greene. You are going to be staying with me for a while. What is your name?”

“I am Bartholomew. You can call me Bart, though. I don’t want to be any trouble. Really.”

“Quiet, little one. It is no trouble at all. My own sons moved off on their own to start their own families. Let me take care of you. Now you sit back and tell old Cecilia everything that happened while I tend to your cuts and bruises.” Emily arrived with the first aid pouch, and Jonah finished helping Bart to the table by the window. Cecilia sent the two off on other errands and inspected Bart’s wounds closely before starting her work.

Bart winced in pain each time Cecilia cleaned a cut or applied some ointment to a bruise, but he talked through the pain. Deep down, he knew he didn’t want Cecilia, or anyone else, to learn of his fight at the smithy. Therefore, he spun Cecilia a different tale.

“I have been traveling on my own for a long time. I mostly stick to the forest and fend for myself. I try to avoid people as much as I can, especially towns. I… don’t have much luck dealing with people.” Bart cast his eyes downward. He cleared his throat and continued his story. “I was in the woods northwest of the village. Hunting was getting me nowhere. I could find no game anywhere. The fish weren’t biting. I haven’t eaten in four days! I was so hungry that I left the forest against my better judgment and found the road leading into town. I hoped to find work to earn money to buy some food. About a half-mile or so from the town, two men jumped me. They were hiding behind an overturned wagon, and as I passed the wagon, they attacked. When I woke up, I hurt everywhere. I was lying in a ditch on the side of the road, bloody and bruised. Everything I had with me, which wasn’t much to begin with, was gone: my knife, my fishing pole, and a few coins, all gone. I didn’t know what to do. I wasn’t sure if they were still around. I was scared they might attack me again and kill me this time, so I got up and made my way into town. I saw the inn and hoped maybe I could clean myself up here. I guess I passed out. I woke up, and you were there. Thank you for taking care of my cuts. I don’t know how I can ever repay you. I have nothing now.” Bart lowered his gaze again. He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, surprised at the depth of his own emotions.

Cecilia patted his arm. “Don’t worry about paying me for helping you, and don’t worry about leaving my inn. You said you came into town looking for work to get some food. I have plenty of work for you to do around here. I am always looking for someone to help with things. You rest and heal. When you are back on your feet, I will put you to work, and then we can talk about wages and repayments.” Cecilia turned her head toward Jonah, who was still at the table listening attentively to everything the young stranger had to say. “Jonah, go to the kitchen and get Bart something to eat. For now, get him some bread, cheese, and a big bowl of hot soup, and we’ll see if we can fill his hungry belly.” Cecilia patted Bart’s arm again and smiled at the boy. She got up from the table and called Emily. “Emily, get Bart a pitcher of water and keep him company until Jonah returns with dinner.”

Bart found himself smiling, which confused him. He genuinely liked Cecilia. She was kinder to him than anyone had been in longer than Bart could remember. Cecilia offered him food, a place to sleep, and a job. There was no way Bart would say no. After all, it was what he had come to town for. He had just not planned on feeling this way about someone. The only emotions Bart could ever remember feeling were anger and hate. Cold hatred or burning hot rage. This warm feeling of affection was new to him, and it confused him. Emily returned to the table with a water pitcher, interrupting his thoughts. Emily was a beautiful girl. He guessed her to be about sixteen, three years older than him. She had long blonde hair tied back to keep it from her face while working. Bart stood to pull the chair out for her to sit, and he noticed he was slightly taller than she was.

When Bart pulled the chair out for her, Emily set the pitcher of water down, leaned over, and kissed Bart on the cheek. “Such a sweet boy. Even though you are in terrible pain, you are still a fine young gentleman. Some girl will be lucky to have you someday.” Emily smiled and sat across the table from Bart.

The rage appeared quick and powerful; he almost couldn’t control it. He clenched his fists, closed his eyes, and took deep breaths. The kindness from Emily triggered the old familiar anger. Bart was even more confused now than before. What was it about Cecilia that allowed him to like her? He didn’t know, but he wanted to. He desperately wanted to be able to like people. He knew he had to spend more time with Cecilia and figure out what was different about her.

Bart opened his eyes and saw the worried look on the face of Emily. “Sorry.” He said through clenched teeth. “My ribs hurt really bad.” He took another deep breath and exhaled the rage as he had taught himself to do. He looked back at Emily again. “Thank you for your kind words, Emily. I can’t remember when people were as nice to me as you and Cecilia.” He stuttered and stammered another thank you as he poured himself a glass of water.

Before long, Jonah arrived with a plate of food for Bart. “Emily, Cecilia wants you to get back to work. Customers are waiting for their food.” As Emily left the table, Jonah slipped into her chair. He folded his hands and stared across the table at Bart. “Who are you really? And what happened to you? Bandits don’t roam the streets of this town. And if they did, why would they bother with a scrawny beggar like you?” Jonah sneered at Bart. “I don’t believe one word of your story. I’m going to keep an eye on you. Cecilia is a good person, and I won’t have you take advantage of her good nature.”

  Bart sat back, folded his hands in front of himself, and took two long, deep breaths. He looked directly at Jonah. “Every word I told Cecilia is true, Jonah. Why would I lie? Look at me. Aren’t my bruises all the proof you need? What more do you want?”

Jonah stared at Bart for a minute. “I’m not sure. I don’t trust you. Your story is ridiculous. Your injuries are real, though. I’ll give you that.” Jonah squinted his eyes, deep in thought. “I… just don’t know.”

Bart looked down, fiddled with his hands, and looked back at Jonah. Even though he hated this boy, he needed to stay at the inn for now, so he had to get everyone here to like and trust him. Bart had learned to smile and charm people into liking him, even though he hated them. He bottled up the hate and smiled at Jonah. “Please, Jonah. Give me a chance to prove myself. I don’t want handouts. I am willing to work hard for anything Cecilia does to help me. I’m not lying to you. I was badly beaten, and I have nothing except the clothes I’m wearing.”

Jonah sighed. “Ok, Bart. I won’t cause you any trouble with Cecilia, but I’m still not sure I believe you. If you stay, we’ll probably work together on lots of chores. Let’s get to know each other better. How long have you been on your own? My own parents died two years ago. I’ve been staying here at the inn with Cecilia ever since.”

Bart avoided as many of Jonah’s questions as he could. He deflected other questions back at Jonah and changed the subject as often as was possible. Part of the reason was that he didn’t want Jonah to know much about him, but mostly, it was because Bart did not know much about his own childhood. He didn’t know who his birth parents were or even where he was born. Bart bounced from family to family and village to village as each family got tired of caring for the boy. The last family even accused him of doing evil, vile things. The woman gave birth to a new baby while Bart was there. The baby disappeared from the hut one night, and they found him dead in the forest. They blamed Bart for the child’s death. They would have hung him, but they had no proof that he did it, so instead, they banished him from the village. That was two years ago. Bart had only been eleven years old. He never even tried to stay with a family after that. He didn’t need them. He could make it on his own! Now, here he was again. In another town and surrounded by people. He figured he’d stay long enough to fill his belly, rest, and then move on. He didn’t trust people. He was better off on his own.

Bart looked up from his reverie and realized it had gotten dark, and Jonah was still talking. “I’m sorry, Jonah. I zoned out. I’m tired. Can you show me where Cecilia wants me to sleep?”

“Sure. Come on.” Jonah got up and led Bart to a room at the very back of the inn. “Right in here. The washroom is across the hall, and my room is right next to yours if you need anything. Goodnight, Bart. I’m glad we talked.” Jonah walked away and left Bart alone in the room.