Those damn Keepers.
How perfectly those words summarize my experience with them. How ironic that I can describe those cryptic, incomprehensible watchers in three simple words. How deliciously just that I defy the wordy nature of those librarians of the night.
I always was defiant. And they knew. All along, they knew. I guess I'll never figure them out. They molded and twisted me to be in their image, but in the end I was a grotesque antithesis of everything they held dear. That's how I came to be the jaded specimen of man I am today.
Of course, they would say that they knew I would turn out this way. That it had been written. That it was my destiny.
Like I believe in destiny.
What happened to me was luck, pure and simple, though I didn't feel too lucky at the time.
* * *
I was just a kid. My father was an ox-cart driver, my mother a waitress at a tavern. Memories from this part of my life are hazy and fragmented, but I do remember a few things. I was at the beginning of my teenage years, thirteen or fourteen I'd say, when my family, such as it was, tore apart at the seams.
My father was never a boozer or a woman-chaser. My mother was never a prostitute or a spendthrift. There was nothing treacherous or pretentious about them. I would say that they were screwed by the system, but I rather like to think they had a hand in their demise. This pair of poor saps knew they would never, could never, get ahead in the world. So they stopped trying. Gave up completely. Sacrificed hopes and dreams for the peace that lies in inevitability.
The rest of the world chugged along quite well without them, as flawless as a machine. What it did not do was forget them. No one escaped taxes except for the rich and the powerful, of which my parents were neither. The Hammerites hauled my father off to prison, where he undoubtedly spent the rest of his days. As for my mother, I have no idea what happened to her. When the Hammerites came to our house to collect my father, there was a period of a few seconds when they were bashing in our door with their oversized stone mallets. During this period my mother slipped out through the back window. I never saw her again.
Do I sound cold-hearted? Perhaps the Keepers left a bigger mark on me than I'd like to admit.
Or perhaps it's because I owe nothing, absolutely nothing to the people who had the misfortune of bringing me into the world. They got all they deserved. I'll never forgive them for dropping me into the clutches of the Keepers.
In any case, the hammer-wielding zealots broke my father's legs and dragged him out the door. My father gone, my mother gone, and I cowering underneath a table in an empty house the size of a chicken coop, praying to the Builder (how's that for irony) that the Hammerites would not return for me.
They never did. And my, how they would regret it later.
After a few minutes of shivering in the brisk morning air I made the discovery that my legs, unlike my father's, still functioned. I pulled my father's most prized possession from underneath his straw mattress: a real steel dagger. I had no idea how he got it, and I didn't care. I still don't. The important thing was that the dagger was my lifeline, my salvation. Anyone without a weapon was an ignorant fool, I had decided.
I pulled my shabby, wool cloak over my shoulders and hid the dagger under its folds. A burst of optimism filled me. I was armed, and even in those days I was a decent pickpocket. Surely I would find a way to survive. I had an entire day ahead of me, a whole day to transform myself into a rugged street urchin. I believed that was what I would surely be for the rest of my life. I decided to begin my rebirth at one of my old haunts.
Of course, at the age of thirteen, or whatever I was, an old haunt was the local market, not the whorehouse around the corner.
I haven't been to that market in ages, but back then I knew it very well. All the kids in the neighborhood hung out there. They ran through the street on their dirty, leathery feet, darting among the adults as nimbly as birds flitting through the air.
Birds were still around back then. That was before the Metal Age, before smog, the byproduct of progress, choked most wildlife in the City. I can't remember the last time I've seen a live bird. But it doesn't matter. They were too damn noisy anyway.
The market was very sensuous. I couldn't pick out a single voice from the clamor of vendors advertising their wares and buyers haggling over prices. Carts and people jostled viciously for position, and the Builder help anyone in their way. The street was cleaner than others, but I couldn't help sloshing through piles of filth as I trudged on my way. The market was held once a week, and everything anyone could want was there, from bolts of cloth to heads of cattle, from books to pottery, from paintings to leather sandals.
And the food—ah, the food. There were pyramids made of apples and baskets full of freshly-washed carrots. Hot, soft loaves of bread steamed in the cool air. Golden kernels of corn shone from beneath their protective green leaves. Bushels of boiled potatoes stood next to boxes of grilled tomatoes. Then there were the expensive imported foods, fruits in exotic orange and yellow so bright it hurt my eyes to look at them. Meat was in abundance, from deer legs to fat, wild turkeys. Fish of every size hung from poles, their silver scales shimmering in the clear morning light. One of the more popular stands sold fruit pies topped with a thick custard. There were also bottles of ale, red wine, and cold, sparkling water.
I was painfully hungry. My parents had never been able to afford the food from the market. They went to the small specialty stores that sold stringy poultry, worm-ridden produce, and rotgut. If we were lucky, my mother was able to sneak leftovers home from the tavern. Most of the time I ended up gnawing on a tough strip of miscellaneous meat jerky, trying to keep my stomach from kneading my ribs.
Something caught my eye. It looked like a little chicken, delicately roasted and coated in spices. The mere smell made my mouth water. Little bubbles of fat burst under the brown, crispy skin. I licked my cracked lips. The vendor had several of the birds hanging on a stick. As he slowly turned it, juices dripped off the little birds and into a pan.
The rumbling in my stomach grew loud enough for me to hear it over the din of the market. I dug a fist into my side in an effort to quiet it, but to no avail. The hunger grew until I doubled over in pain. I clenched my eyes, refusing to submit to the ferocious beast inside of me.
The wave of pain passed, and I knew I needed to do something before it returned. I had to have one of those little chickens. I approached the stand slowly, trying not to draw attention to myself. I looked around, freezing as a Hammerite patrol passed. I turned back. The vendor was talking to a couple, exclaiming how juicy and delicious his pheasants were. He stabbed the air with his index finger for emphasis. I knew it was the time to strike, but the wonderfully spicy smell was paralyzing me. I edged closer, my eyes locked on the prize. I reached my hand up, fingers twitching.
I'll never know if my hunger made me less cautious, or made me lose my focus. All I know is that the vendor looked down at the last second, my hand a fraction away from its goal. He growled, his face contorting into a mask of anger. "What's this, a little thief?" With surprising speed he took a heavy stick and knocked my hand away. I suspect he kept the stick for that very purpose, but I didn't stick around to ask him.
I ran as fast as I could, my fear galvanizing me at the same time it made me blind. I slammed into one person after another, leaving a string of curses in my wake. After an ox-cart, similar to my father's, almost trampled me, I ducked out of the main thoroughfare. I collapsed against a display of bronze jewelry, cradling my wounded hand against my chest.
I remember being so angry, so frustrated. I was a failure, just like my parents. And it would only get worse as I got weaker. I would become more desperate and start taking more chances. And one day, one of those failed attempts would kill me. I tried to regulate my breathing. My entire body was quivering. It was the most intense rush I had ever felt.
Huddled there, wallowing in self-loathing, it was amazing I noticed what I did. There was a cloaked man walking through the crowd, and no one bumped into him. They all moved aside for him, but to me it seemed like they did it unconsciously. It was like they didn't see him. But that was impossible. There had to be a reason why they avoided him. I figured he was really rich, and no one dared disturb him.
Then it hit me. Rich. I bet he was carrying more money than I had ever seen in my life. It was a second chance to prove myself.
Being as stealthy as my immature skills would let me, I snuck up on the figure. I spied a coin purse in the flowing robes and reached for it. Heart pounding. Palms sweating. Time seemed to slow. I blinked. The figure's cloak flapped. The coin purse jingled. I held my breath.
Suddenly, the figure turned and grabbed my wrist. "That's not for you," he said. His voice was deep and calm.
I was terrified. I couldn't see his face. Just an endless darkness beneath his hood. I stared into that darkness, unable to pull my eyes away. My heart was hammering in my chest. I had done it this time. Gotten myself caught. A thought struck me, too horrible to be considered. This man would turn me in for stealing. I would end up in prison, just like him. Just like my worthless father. I couldn't let that happen. "Please, sir," I begged. "Don't tell the Hammerites. I'll be good, I promise!"
The figure seemed to ignore my pleas. "You have talent. We have a need for people like you."
I wondered what the hell he was talking about. But my fear lessened. He wasn't going to turn me in.
"Come with me if you are tired of this life," he continued.
I noticed the ring on his finger, the ring with a keyhole symbol. I had seen such a symbol once before, emblazoned on a back alley wall next to a string of strange markings. The tendrils of fear returned. I didn't know anything about this mysterious man. I tried to free myself from the man's grasp, but his grip was that of iron. I pulled harder, but he held onto my wrist like it was nothing to him. I began to panic. "Let go of me, old man!" I said as forcefully as I could.
The guy was unshakable. "As you wish," he said, somewhat amused. He turned and strode away, just like that.
I continued to stand there, glaring after his retreating form. He could have turned me in, but he hadn't. He had let me go. And he had offered…he had offered me a better life. My throbbing hand was a painful reminder of what my normal life had in store for me. Maybe I had made a mistake in rejecting his offer. The doubt and fear struggled in my heart against the optimism that had not yet burnt itself out in the harsh world.
But it wasn't too late! The figure was just now melting into the crowd. He would have soon vanished forever, but there was still time to dredge myself from this miserable hellhole of a life. I forced myself to run, to catch up with him. "Wait!" I called to him.
His pace slowed for an instant. His hood turned a fraction in my direction. It nodded slightly, then turned back.
I followed him as he parted the crowd around us. With every step I forced myself to stay with him. I think it was the aura of mystery about him that held me. No wonder I came to despise mysteries. So much has changed since then, when in the thirteenth year of my life I entered the shadowy world of the Keepers.