I. - A bird in a cage
It was a dark city.
Tall, noisy, dirty and evil. A city so full of sins and sinners that it stank even in its tallest rooftops. And they were really, really tall rooftops...
But there he was nonetheless, clad in bright green and red, jumping, running, nearly flying.
Green legs.
Red breast.
A little singing bird turned into a bird of prey.
The sinners run before him, scared, afraid of him, though he was half their age and nearly half their height. But he was their nightmare still. Part of the night and the dark, part of the law and the justice.
And he flew. He flew and jumped and scared the sins away...
The boy opened his eyes lazily to the morning light, grunting as he came slowly to terms with the new day.
He knew he had been dreaming, but he was unable to remember his dream in the least. As always. Every morning he knew and forgot. All was gone except the thrilling feeling of freedom that still burned in his chest.
The rest... All in the dark.
He covered his head with his thin blanket, wishing he could stay in bed a little more. But birds were singing and the room was full of sunlight already, which meant the sun was more than up, as he should be. He was late, really late. But he felt so tired...
"Tim!" Someone took his blanket out, letting the cold morning air to freeze his breach-less legs. "If George finds you in bed he is going to beat you to death."
Roland...
The boy sat up, looking at his younger friend with a frown.
"He is going to find an excuse to do so nonetheless" He answered.
But still he got up and dressed. For Roland was right. It was late. He was the only boy left in the common room.
"You are lucky Lord Gerrald is not here today, stable boy. You'd have lost his breakfast." Continued Roland-. And you know he blames George when one of us oversleeps.
Another truth.
Their lord was a really strict man and didn't like recklessness in his service. George, Service chief, the one in charge and their boss, didn't like to be admonished. So he just beat the boys if anything went wrong.
Sometimes it was their fault.
Most of the times it was not, but he just did it nonetheless.
"He is hunting or something, isn't he?" Remembered Tim, fighting with his already too small boots. He needed a new pair, but it had been sometime since George had last paid them.
"Yeah, with the Earl. He'll be out the whole week."
"A whole week of happy George, then."
Roland smiled, helping him with the second boot.
"We can ask for some money for your boots."
"Not so happy George, I'm afraid."
"You won't know if you don't try."
He shrugged, ignoring the way his toes were bent to fit in there. He was more likely to end cleaning the latrines than receiving his money. Still, a whole week without Lord Gerrald Oakwood was going to feel good enough.
He had been reluctant, but Roland had finally talked to George himself to ask for their respective pays. And, surprisingly enough, George had obliged. He had not given them all of their money, of course. They were too young and someone had to take care of their interests... But Tim had money enough for a pair of shoes and some pastries, and Roland was eager to buy a cloak. One that wouldn't damp when it rained.
So, late in the afternoon, all their chores finished already, they set to the market place, feeling like little children with new shoes. They were on their own and they had nothing to do but enjoy themselves. Tim couldn't remember the last time he had an afternoon off. And they had money for once. Wasn't it great?
"There's a stall at the end of the square. They do fine jobs with leather." Said Roland who, being one of the cooks assistants and the one in charge of the pantry, knew the market by heart.
So there they went, to the leather stall. Just to take a look, really. It was most probably too expensive for them.
But they had fine boots and excellent cloaks and Tim finally spent all of his money in a waterproof pair, hoping for his body to stop growing so he could keep them for more than two years.
Roland, though, was wiser, if younger, and bought one of the cheaper cloaks.
"And now that we have what we were looking for... Do you fancy some sweets and pastries?"
"I have no money left."
"I do!" Roland took him by the arm. "And as I'm going to keep your old boots, let me repay you with some candy."
The stable boy found it fair enough.
Well, ok, not really. But he did fancy some sweets and he didn't know when he was going to have the opportunity to buy those Turkish pastries again... and perhaps they could beg for a little tea with their sweets...
He was already savouring it all in his mind when Roland cursed under his breath.
"What?"
As an answer, his friend signalled to his left.
There was a quarrel in one of the stalls. Two guards were laughing as the owner yelled at them. For what they could make, they had taken some of his merchandise and were not paying for it.
"I hate those Earl Guards." Said Roland. "They do everything they want."
"They think they are better than us."
"Aren't they?" Was Roland's bitter response.
"No."
And, without even thinking about it, he found himself strolling to the guards, who were turning their backs ready to leave.
"Stop where you are, sirs. You have still not paid this man his money". He said, and he was surprised by the authority in his voice.
The guards turned as silence fell around them. One of them laughed when he saw him, but the other sneered in hatred and comptent.
"What have you said, half pint?"
"I said you have to pay, like everyone else."
"But, you see... we are not everyone else." Said the laughing one. "We are the law."
"Yeah? Then the law is really ugly and stinky."
Now the two of them were frowning.
"Ok, kid, you've asked for it."
And they threw their punches to him.
It all happened really fast, even if he saw it all in a kind of slow motion fashion.
He heard Roland gasp and some women scream. He saw the two gauntleted fists coming to him... and he felt himself crouching and jumping as swiftly as a cat. It felt like something he had done all of his life. Those men were bigger and stronger... but they were also clumsy and slow.
He unbalanced one of them sweeping a leg under his feet. The man fell, a loud thud and clang welcoming him when he hit the floor. Then, using a broomstick he took from one of the witnesses, he knocked him unconscious before turning to the other one.
He was drawing his sword.
The boy didn't give him time to use it. Jumping again higher than he would have ever believed, he kicked him hard on the face. The man staggered and the kid used the advantage to hit him again, with the broom this time. This other guard also fell, and didn't stand up.
The crowd gathered nearer.
"Aren't you going to kill them, lad?" Asked someone.
"No! We don't kill!"
"We?" Roland took him by the arm, making him turn and look him in the eye.
"We..." Tim found himself lost, as if waking up. "The good guys..."
He shook his head.
"Anyway, we don't kill -he repeated, not so confident all of a sudden."
And he crouched, picking the guard purse.
"How much did they owe you?"
The shopkeeper looked at the bag.
"100 crowns."
"The truth." Again, that voice that was not quite his.
"23 crowns."
He nodded, giving the man his money and retrieving the purse to his owner. Then he sighed, looking at the unconscious guards.
"Should we call someone?" He had lost the edge, whatever it was.
"Who? The guard?" Roland was still appalled.
"Oh." Tim cringed. "So... what now?"
"I'll tell you what. Now we are going home before anyone comes here and you get into real trouble."
He nodded again, feeling relieved.
"Yes, let's go."
"And perhaps you can tell me what was all of this about. How in the world did you do that!"
"It was not me."
And even if Roland frowned in annoyance, it was the truth. It had not been him. It had been someone else, another person inside him that he had forgotten to be.
And now, that someone had fled again and he was alone...
And he had beaten two guards...
Man! He was in really deep shit.
Two hours had passed and, inside the comfortable walls of their lord household, Roland astonishment had transformed into awe. And now all the male servants bellow sixteen knew about his little adventure.
He tried to explain to them this feeling it had been anyone else but they just laughed and teased, not believing a single word.
And now they were retelling it, exaggerating the whole event, to all those maids that had nothing better to do. They looked at him in amazement and even some interest. So.. perhaps... it was not such a bad thing, wasn't it?
"So... Timothy is a kind of hero?" Was saying Mairead, a blonde, fair girl with big green eyes and the cutest freckles in the world.
"Well... not a hero..." Was his lame answer. "Is just that I got angry and..."
"TIMOTHY! ROLAND!" George's powerful voice thundered across the corridor, making them all jump and killing the idle conversation.
Roland went pale. He had sounded really angry.
The two boys gulped and stood up. Better not to have him waiting if he was half as angry as he sounded.
They run to the front door, were George was waiting, arms crossed and red-faced. But it was not him who made the boys stop dead and gasp. Besides him was a guard and the shopkeeper they had just helped before.
"Is it them?" Asked the guard.
Tim guts twisted when the man nodded.
"Yes, they are the ones. They hit the guards and robbed them."
The boy caught a glimpse of fear and desperation in the man's voice and he realized he had a swollen lip. They were forcing him to lie.
"Is that true?" George's frown was so deep his eyes were mere black dots under his thick brows.
"I... we..." Roland squeezed his arm.
"It was only me." Said Tim. "Roland had nothing to do with it."
The guard smiled, as did George.
"Roland?" The guard turned to the younger boy.
He was trembling as Tim smiled to him, reassuringly.
"Just tell the truth." He muttered.
"I did nothing, sir." Said his friend finally.
The shop keeper nodded too.
The guard smile broadened, putting a hand on Roland's shoulder.
"Then you have nothing to fear, lad. Go and continue with your chores."
The boy stood still and Tim had to stomp on his foot to make him react and leave.
This left him alone with the three adults.
He was so scared he felt like pucking.
"So... Timothy... Did you believe you could beat the law and get away with it, boy?"
He clenched his fists.
"No, sir."
"Then, why did you do it?"
"Because you and your men are not the law. Law should be fair."
This made the man loose his patient smile.
"Take off your shirt and kneel, kid."
Tim didn't move until George came and, pushing him, made him fall on his knees.
"Your shirt, stupid! You only have one!"
Humiliated, he took off his shirt.
The guard, his nasty smile regained, took off his belt.
"Hands over your head, please."
He did as he was told and bit his lips hard, knowing what would come next.
The first blow made him bend and curl up, his head under his arms, trying to protect himself from the whip. The guard hit him fifteen times and the boy didn't utter a single sound. And how he wished to cry and shriek...
"You understand this is for your own good, son?" Said the man, stopping a moment. "Five more, so you won't forget your lesson."
He miscounted, probably on purpose, because he hit him six more times, not five. He did shout with these last lashes as he felt his flesh part under the leather of the belt and the metal of the hilt.
He was nearly lying on the floor when it all ended, barely able to feel his body but for the lashes in his back and neck. He tried to restrain his tears and sobs, but wasn't as successful as he had wished.
"Now you have something to think about next time you believe you are something more than nothing." Said the guard, kneeling besides him. "And, next time, your friend won't go away with it, is that clear?" Added the man in a murmur that made him shiver. Then he stood up, ignoring the trembling boy on the floor, turning to George. "As your master is one of our dear Earl's knights, we won't report this disgusting business this time. But you should keep a closer eye on these boys, servant, before they put your lord on shame."
George grunted as an answer and the guard, content with his victory, turn and left, the shopkeeper on his trail, sending nervous glances to Tim. But he really didn't care how guilty the man felt. He felt guiltier. Because of him that man had not only lost his goods but his dignity as well.
He had been stupid.
It was not the way to do things.
"You! Stand up!" George took him by the arm, making him stand on his feet. He had to do it twice, because his legs refused to cooperate. "You have work to do."
"Work...?" He managed.
The man gave him his shirt and a revolting smile.
"The latrines need a cleaning."
"But... it's nearly night time". His foggy mind spoke for him.
"You better hurry, then."
And he left him alone in the cold corridor, bleeding and shivering, his legs barely sustaining him. Everything spun around when he tried to focus his sight.
Roland came to him as he fell. Had he been watching all the time?
"The latrines..." He said to his friend.
"Fuck George and the latrines. You have a fever."
The younger kid signalled and the rest of the boys appeared there too.
"Mac and Arthur, you two do the latrines, ok? And make sure to avoid George. The rest... Help me carry Tim to the girls. They'll know what to do."
That night he dreamt again. He dreamt and knew and remembered.
He knew he was another person besides Timothy, the stable boy. And he knew he had been stupid, because there was a wrong way and a proper way to do things. And he was going to have to do things properly next time.
If law was unfair and there was no justice, then someone should see that justice was served.
He dreamt and knew and remembered. And, perhaps because of the fever, he didn't wonder how could he have forgotten it in the first place.