Early Childhood

-

"Damn vermin!" The man kicked it, hard, then walked away.

The child crawled over. She stared at it, entranced by the brilliant scarlet color of the blood, glistening like wet rubies in the dim light, and the shiny round black eyes staring outward, devoid of any emotion. She crawled closer, hanging over it. She had only seen the flash of tails and hind legs before, vanishing like the end of a worm sucked into the beak of a spearow. Yet they were going to safety, while the worm was going to die. She didn't understand exactly how it could work differently.

She knew this one was hurt badly, that it was broken. She did not know, exactly, what it looked like normally, but she did know that its body looked wrong somehow. As she sat watching it, she became aware of small noises around her, scrabblings she recognized and had heard many times before, although she could not remember the first time.

"Hello," she said, not moving, still staring at the twitching rattata. "Hello. Is this yours?" She tried again, twisting at her voice, trying to find the sound they would react to. "One of yours? Is this one of yours?"

One of them, only one, chittered at her, angry but something else too, more that than angry, something else she didn't know.

"I didn't," she said, not so much a denial as a simple statement. Her voice was still twisting.

Chittering, more than one this time. Not warning, not danger, just...what? She didn't know what it meant.

"I think it's going to die," she continued, conversationally, trying to get the pitch and rhythm right. "I'm not sure. Is it? I'd think you'd know."

More chittering, purposeful. She listened, repeating the sounds over and over in her head.

...dying...something about that. The rattata was dying. But not an answer to the question, a...something. She...something angry, only not exactly anger. Over...the rattata...dying? No, no, not...quite.

It was hard to tell, not a matter of only hearing a few words but of half-hearing them all. She felt frustrated. She sat back, turned her head from side to side, trying to understand it.

The other rattata was saying – why she...killed it? No. Why she...didn't kill it?

"What?" she asked, trying to imitate the rhythm of the sounds. It chittered again.

Why she didn't kill it? No. Why had she and then not? No. Why she had...no. Why it was still alive? No. Why it was still alive when she had killed it?

The hidden rattata chittered a third time, almost the same yet different, subtly. Almost a demand.

Why she didn't kill it after she killed it? No, not quite, not at all. Why she...it...

She reached out and snapped the neck of the injured rattata, breaking it like a dry twig between her fingers. Why had she killed it and not let it die.

Silence, silence. She didn't know what they were doing or about to do, and she couldn't see them, because they wouldn't venture out even in darkness. But – and this was something strange, something rare – she didn't feel like they were, or could be, anything dangerous to her.

-

She didn't consider the man her father. She thought he might be, because he seemed to think so. But that had nothing to do with it.

The man was dully colored, or perhaps she thought that because his personality overflowed into her physical perception of him. Brown hair, brown eyes, just brown, without any further description necessary or even possible. He didn't look bland to her, that be would familiarity.

The man was reasonably peaceful, big enough to kill her in one blow. She thought of him as big, hulking, clumsy, and brown, like the picture of a creature called ursaring she had seen once.

They didn't look much alike, she knew that much. She thought they must not have been very different, either. She knew that as children got older, they began to show how much or little they would resemble the people they lived with. She also knew that bad things happened to children who didn't look enough like their fathers, and that was another reason she tried to stay out of sight.

She was aware he might have tolerated her anyway, for some unknown reason. But being uncertain of exactly where she stood, she chose not to press the issue.

-

The man who considered himself to be her father had a job of some sort, she was unsure of what. She only knew that there must have been some reason for it, because five days out of seven he would get up and leave the house with swollen eyes, which was something he didn't seem to want to do.

Once he left, she would go to sleep. She didn't like mornings, which were generally colder and brighter than she wanted, and she didn't want to sleep when he was around. When she woke up, in the afternoon, she would search the house, carefully picking though whatever food he had bought. She preferred things in plastic wrappers. She didn't like the taste of them, hated the taste, but they were less easily missed then bigger things, lasted longer and were possible for a child to open. She would hide them.

The man who considered himself her father did not seem to mind the food disappearing. Either that or he didn't notice. She wasn't entirely sure which it was, nor was she interested in finding out.

Back when she was younger, she had not eaten on days when the man was home or had forgotten to buy food. She didn't want him to see her eating, because she didn't want to remind him, and she didn't want him to see her taking the food either.

Sometimes, there were only cans, and then she would have trouble. The can opener was big, heavy, and dull. Many of the cans only had marks, not pictures, and those marks would be different even for the same kind of food, so she couldn't tell what was inside. And she wasn't able to bring the can opener elsewhere to eat, because that would be obvious.

More then a year ago, less then two, she had tried opening a can herself. She did manage, in the end, to break the top off and eat the cloying, syrup-coated fruit inside, but had gotten the juice all over herself and had to soak herself in frigid water to get rid of it.

She had gotten a cough afterward, causing her have to bite the inside of her mouth to prevent herself from making a sound at the wrong moment, filling her mouth with blood. She had also shivered constantly, and hadn't dared to go outside because it was suddenly too cold. The entire thing had been so unpleasant that she hadn't tried again.

Her situation was not ideal, but she did not know of anything better. She had only a limited understanding of where food came from. She avoided other children, who were unpredictable and usually bigger than she was, and she avoided adults, who were dangerous and always bigger than her. So she stayed.

-

There was someone banging at the door.

The man was not going to answer it. She knew that much. He was in another room and there was noise there, and he wouldn't hear it.

The banging was louder. If it kept getting louder or the banger started yelling, then the man would answer it, and he would be angry. And if he couldn't yell at the person he might remember she was there.

So the child opened the door.

There was an angular, unpleasant woman there, who stared at the child. The child took a step back, retreating into the dimmer light. The woman was wearing gray clothing, which were crisp, creased and strange. Her face looked as if it had been carved out of wood, seemingly made up of nothing but sharp lines and flat planes.

The woman spoke. "Where's your father?"

The child stood there silently. She wanted the woman to go away. She didn't want to say anything because she didn't know what she was supposed to say, or how she was supposed to say it.

"Well?"

The child opened her mouth to answer, but something in the woman's expression made her close it. She didn't want to stand there in front of an adult, but she didn't want to get the man either. She knew he would be angry if she got him, and he might not be able to just yell at the person and so he'd stay angry and be mad at her.

The woman shifted slightly, as if she was about to step forward. The child shrank back again. She didn't want the woman to be near her. The woman stepped onto the sagging doorframe.

The child continued to back away until she was certain the woman couldn't see her in the gloom. There were no lights on in the hallway, and the woman was blocking the light coming in from the door. The girl flattened against the side of the wall.

"Hello?" said the woman. Then louder: "Hello! Is anyone here!"

The child heard a squeaking, groaning sound, and knew the man must have gotten up. She wondered if it would have been better to get him herself. She didn't think so.

She heard the door to the hallway opening, and wondered if the woman could as well. But the stranger didn't look toward the sound, so she didn't think so.

The child then heard the faint sound of fingers on the wall, and realized the man was reaching for the light switch. She hadn't realized that would happen; she could see just fine, and he rarely turned on the hallway lights. She darted to the end of the hallway as the uncovered lightbulb flickered once before glowing steadily.

Her eyes avoided the white shine automatically. The child knew that if she looked at it she wouldn't be able to see anything, although she couldn't remember doing so.

"Was that your daughter?" asked the woman, sounding annoyed. Her voice was as sharp as her clothing and face. "Is your daughter here?"

The man grunted something. It was agreement, that was clear from the tone, even if it wasn't based on a word. The child understood that, but the woman seemed not to.

"What did you say?" she said.

"Yah," he mumbled thickly, looking like he was trying to get the woman into focus. He was swaying slightly on his feet.

"Then why wasn't she in school?"

The man's face changed suddenly, to settle midway between anger and – something. "What doya know about it?"

"You put her on your taxes, that means she exists. So we notice if she doesn't show up for school. It's the law."

Which the woman did not really care about. She was supposed to do this, and didn't want to. Like the man. She didn't want to be there, this was wasting her time, and she wanted to finish as quickly as possible. The child could understand this.

The child could not, however, understand what was going on. She didn't know any of the things the woman was talking about. The only bit she was able to pick up was that somehow these things had to do with her, with someone she didn't know knowing about her and paying attention to her.

She didn't like that. Slipping slightly into the light she opened a door and left the two behind. She looked over her shoulder as she did so to check to see if they had noticed her – normally she would have been sure they hadn't, but now she wasn't sure. Feeling safer in the windowless room, she sat down in the darkest corner and waited.

-

The woman had left, and the man slouched back down on the couch. She waited patently as he stared at the indecipherable squiggles glowing on the side of the black rectangle facing him. Finally she heard him shift, fumbling for the smaller, flat black rectangle resting on the arm nearest to him. He pushed it, and the sound snapped off. The room was still filled with the pulsing glow, threatening but not delivering noise.

She stepped forward, separating from the shadows on the wall, stepping into the faintly flickering light. "Daddy?" she said, keeping her voice soft, slightly uncertain. She'd found he was less likely to be angry when she asked in this voice.

He looked up, his face showing something she didn't understand. It was the way he usually looked at her, which wasn't something that happened often. He didn't answer.

"What was the woman saying?" she pressed. "Why was she here?" She still kept her voice soft, not adding the urgency that would have encouraged an answer. She took care to make her question innocent. It was because of her the woman had come, and whatever he had to do because of that was because of her as well.

He mumbled, loud and slurred, the opposite of her quiet, clear voice. "Whadiyateller?" There was the faint, faint hint of anger, and she paused a moment to decide if there was any real anger being directed at her, or any sullen embers waiting to flair up.

"I didn't say anything. I didn't tell anything," she denied, mindful not to sound as if she was denying anything.

He muttered to himself wordlessly.

She was unsure what to do next. She would prefer to stop talking, yet, she would have preferred not to have started talking to begin with, and she'd prefer more not to attract the odd woman's further attention. She hadn't liked being in the undivided attention of an adult. But repeating herself would increase the likelihood of annoying him, and if he had no reason to help her now, he would have less reason to help her if she annoyed him. She didn't know how much he tolerated her, where the line was drawn. So she waited.

He mumbled something, not words or things that were meant to be words, then moved off for whatever purpose he had. She waited a bit longer to make sure he wouldn't be returning, then stepped out of the light again to curl up in a corner where she couldn't be seen. She didn't want to be found if someone was looking for her. Who she didn't know exactly, everyone.

-

The next day, a hazy day where even the sunlight seemed dingy, something was different. When her father woke up he had looked for her, and despite the fact she didn't know exactly what he wanted, she'd shown herself, because he wasn't drunk and couldn't be counted on not to remember this later.

He hadn't said anything to her, just acknowledged her appearance, grabbed her by the arm, and started walking. She wasn't sure what to do, so she followed without making him pull her. She wouldn't be able to get away until he let go, so there was no point in making him hold tighter.

They ended up at a building which might have looked run-down in a different neighborhood, but which fit neatly into its surroundings. It was red, something she noticed almost with a sense of awe. Dingy red, dusty and faded, but standing out like a flame in comparison to the surrounding buildings.

She was pushed in, money shoved into one hand as she was exchanged and grabbed by someone else. She wanted to run, back away and regard the situation until she understood it, but the new person's grip was as firm as the man's and she knew better than to try and fail. If something did happen, and she did have to get away, she would have a better chance if the grip loosened and it wouldn't if she was fighting. And fighting drew attention.

A door opened, she was shoved through, and finally no one was holding onto her. But the room was bright, lit from the inside and outside, and there were dozens of eyes all staring at her, pinning her in place. She didn't want to do anything they weren't expecting, not move, not breathe.

"Hello," said the teacher. She felt an unpleasant hum of falsehood. "This is a new student," he told the class.

His words died right as they reached the other children's ears. The children regarded her with slight interest, something almost enough to make her bolt, yet they were nearly as much strangers here as she was.

The teacher pointed to a seat, and she mutely traveled there and sat. She tried to shrink down, to hide in their sight. There she watched them without looking like she was watching them.

The class began. The teacher spoke, the children spoke. She looked around and tried to see which ones there no one looked at, which ones others did look at.

She watched them. When the day ended and the children left, she returned to the house and hid in a corner to sleep. And then next day she had to return. And the next.

The other children learned songs and rhyming verses, simple things that were easy to remember. They were taught to think of a mark on paper as a sound, to make that sound when they saw it. They were taught to think of other marks as words, then things, things that could change depending on what happened or how they were arranged.

She learned how to blend in instead of disappear.

She remembered what she was told, especially because she was not being addressed as an individual, only a group. If someone had been telling her this, she would have been distracted by trying to figure out what they meant for her to do, why they were telling her this, how she was supposed to respond, and what she needed to do for them to leave her alone.

So, while the teacher worked with those who didn't understand, she watched the other children stumble and stammer, saw the teacher saying things over and over again, sometimes patiently, sometimes not. She learned to imitate the way the others talked, their jerky, uncertain way of abandoning half-finished sentences to start over, of repeating words or phrases, of lisping and not pronouncing the words.

She still preferred not to speak, however well she could blend her voice into the same unremarkable tone and pattern. She tried to look like the other children who the teacher didn't pay attention to, not someone who would cause trouble. Someone to be completely ignored, someone who was not noticed. She was not called on, not talked to by the teacher.

That was the first month.

She did not like it. Morning and early afternoon were the times she used to sleep. She had no problem adjusting when she slept and when she was awake, but she didn't want to adjust.

The best part of the day was recess. The same was true for all of the children save the quailing weaklings who got beaten every time they were released from the lazy eye of the teacher. She didn't like it either, but she hated it less.

On the first day, she had spent her time off to the side, warily watching the others. She had noticed they also seemed slightly uncertain, something that faded away like morning mist as time passed.

The other children did not seem to know what to make of her. They suspected, slightly, that there was something strange about her, but that was all. Just enough to make them avoid her. She, after all, didn't know much more than that, so it was hard to believe they could.

She was suspicious at first. Many of them – almost all of them – were bigger then she was. But as she watched them, she found them to be flighty, easily distracted, and unable to work together. They were minor threat, but not a major one, not one she needed to watch. Without anyone to direct them, she wasn't in much danger.

At the time, the idea of trying to direct them herself was completely alien to her. Even if it had occurred to her, there was nothing she would have thought to make them do.

Having decided that she didn't need to watch them always, and not someone who played games, she decided to sleep. Even minor threats, though, were dangerous if she was asleep. Most of them were loud and clumsy and lacked the subtlety to do anything, but one or two might manage it. So she had to find a safe place first.

There were several trees in the playground, and one was by the edge of the school. All had the lower branches chopped off, preventing children from climbing them, so she climbed the side of the school instead, walked along the roof and jumped onto one of the upper branches that was nearest to the building. Then, with thick leaves between her and the sun and with solid branches between her and eyes on the ground, she slept fitfully, waking halfway at each new noise from below until she finally woke up completely to the hated sound of the bell that signaled the end of the time outside. The bell made a noise that was too loud and high-pitched, and with a sort of humming sound underneath that comes from old, dust-filled things no one bothers to clean. She didn't like being there, she didn't like being awake, and she didn't like the noises.

What she did might have seemed noticeable, odd, unusual, but there were no adults to count and notice one missing, she had no friends to wonder where she went, and she moved quickly and watched for watchers so that no one saw the act itself. Had she realized how strange it was, she would not have done so. When jumping down, she went to the far side once the other children had started to travel in at the bell, because she didn't want to attract their attention with sudden movement, not realizing how surprised they would have been by the act itself.

It was the spearow that changed all that.

-

She slept very lightly, so that when the spearow landed she woke. There was an element of luck in it as well. The new, soft sound of feathered wings might not have woken her up, but it could have, and did.

"Hello," she had said. "Hello, hello."

The spearow looked surprised. After a moment, it trilled something. She repeated the sound, unable to understand the meaning but hearing it all the same. She liked the way it sounded, clear and truthful.

The spearow cocked its head at her, seeming confused. It fluffed its feathers and jumped nervously, not sure if it should fly. It was well away from her, on the end of the branch where it was narrow and she wouldn't climb.

She repeated the sound it made again. "Hello," she added, trying to blend the sounds together. The spearow only looked more confused. It made a different sound, which she repeated back to it.

It went into a volley of whistles and chirps. When it stopped, she started repeating them as best she could.

"Hey!" shouted someone below them. "Look! It's a spearow!"

Someone threw a stone. It clipped the side of the spearow, who let out a startled screech and fell. It flapped its wings but seemed lopsided suddenly, and ended up on the ground. The other children gathered around it, so she jumped down, as confused as the spearow had been over this odd turn of events.

Their attention was on the spearow, so no one saw her leave the tree. There was an element of luck in that as well.

She moved quickly over to the circle. She wanted to see what was happening. One of them had reached out and grabbed the spearow, maybe the same one that threw the rock. He was laughing triumphantly, holding it by the wings, pulling them apart. The spearow was shrieking and thrashing but couldn't reach him with its talons or beak. He was still pulling, hard. It looked like he meant to pull both wings off.

She acted on a whim, pulling loose from the edge of the circle and reaching out, grabbing the spearow's wings over his fingers. She dug her nails in, drawing blood and causing him to yelp and pull back. She caught the spearow, quickly shifting her grip so she was holding the legs in one hand and the neck in the other.

"What the hell's your problem!" yelled the boy, sucking on his bleeding fingers. "What the hell did you do that for? It's not like it's yours! Stupid!"

She considered the spearow in her hands, looking down at it solemnly. "Mine," she said after a moment. "It's mine."

"Liar! It was up in the tree! Everyone saw it! I hit it so it's mine!" he said, stepping forward.

She did the same, against all reason. She wanted to back away, but she'd seen this before, and that didn't work. So she did the opposite. "It's mine."

"Is not!" he yelled.

She switched the spearow to one hand, cupping it under its chest, freeing the other hand. It was too tired to struggle. "It is mine," she said, the fingers of her free hand slightly curled, with blood on the tips.

"Fine!" he said defiantly, balling his fists. "It's yours. Gimme it or I'll hit you!"

She lunged, holding the spearow against her side while reaching out and clawing at his stomach, tearing off a long strip of cloth and skin. She was surprised when instead of hitting back he squealed, staring down at the bloody patch. It was a large but light wound, certainly painful, but nothing more. She understood that the stupid and weaker children didn't fight back, but he had hit them. She had thought he would fight back.

"Mine," she said. "This is mine. You can't have it."

He wasn't going to do anything else. Had he been willing to fight? Yes, he had, hadn't he? He had been ready to hit her. That didn't make sense. Surely it was more important to protect yourself when attacked.

The other children were watching. She didn't like that, especially how they were all behaving the same. She didn't want them acting together. But they didn't seem ready to act, so she walked away, to the far side of the tree. There was only a faint dimness there, but it was enough to make her feel better, and the trunk blocked the children's stares.

She opened her hand and dropped the bloody mess she had torn away from the boy, then set the spearow down. She held it by the neck with one of her hands and prodded at the bent wing with the other. It screeched at her again, a painfully high-pitched noise that the other children didn't seem to notice.

She wasn't really sure what to do with it. She had taken it because she had been interested in it. She hadn't really thought much about what she was going to do with it now.

The spearow pecked at the scrap of skin and cloth on the ground curiously, then chirped. After a pause, it chirped again, using the same sound. She repeated it. The spearow chirped a few times and trilled, then waited.

How had the rattata talked? The sounds weren't the same, but they were close. If the rattata had said that it would have meant...but she hadn't really understood the rattata, and she understood this even less.

The spearow was saying something about its wing, she understood that much. But then she could guess it would be talking about the wing, so that made it easier.

"Wing?" she asked. The spearow nodded, repeating the sounds a third time, and a fourth. Wing which was hurt meant need to...? Place, bring to, promise of...help? No, not, not quite. It was promising to – help her? if brought to something.

The spearow repeated the same string of sound over and over again, just as the teacher did when the children didn't understand. She repeated back what it sounded like to her. She found it odd it understood her words, yet couldn't make them. And she found it odd she couldn't understand it even though it could understand her.

Finally, it seemed satisfied. The message was still garbled, but she could understand enough. The spearow wished to be taken to a place to fix its wing. This was very important. It was promising it would help her any way it could, for the rest of its life. It wouldn't stay, but if they ever met again, it would.

She really didn't care much about its promise. It sounded frantic, sounded…something. She had nothing she wanted to ask of it, so whether or not she met it again didn't matter, but she was curious what the place was. She didn't think the teacher would notice if she didn't come back in. He hadn't noticed she was missing yet, even though everyone had gone back into the squat red building.

She picked up the spearow and pulled a corner of the fence to the side, as she had seen older children do when they wanted to leave. She stepped through easily, being much smaller then those who normally used it.

"Where is the place?" she asked.

The spearow squawked and chirped rapidly. (something) thank you may (something) (something) (something) for (something) kindness equal of blessed (something).

"Where is the place?" she asked.

There wasn't one in this (something). In the last (something), it had seen the (something). It had (something) with the (something) sun on the (something). It didn't know if the (something) were in other places to the (something) or (something) because it had only seen (something) along its usual (something). It had been going (something) to (something) so it had gone in a (something) line because (something) so it hadn't been able to (something).

She listened to the chirps as she walked in the direction it had indicated. It happily repeated itself as they continued. The spearow explained there was a (something) going in the right direction but the distance was (something) because (something) when it (something) and so the time might be (something) or (something) or even (something). It had only taken it (something) because it (something) (something) while she (something).

She had never gone beyond the edge of the city before so she found the flatter, quieter world strange. The spearow continued chirping with occasional trills, talking about everything they saw and explaining what it was, its significance, where else it was, and what the spearow thought of it. She did not know why it did that.

She got to the next town after several hours. It was in better condition then the one she had come from, and there also seemed to be more people on the streets. There was more light, but there were still shadows on the walls, so she didn't care. The spearow stopped making sound except to make a quiet noise for left or right as she moved through the city. It had never actually gone though the roads like this, but it had flown over and it said it could figure out the way. It worked out the route in its head as they moved along. To the child, it seemed as if they were backtracking sometimes, or moving in opposite directions, but she didn't say anything. She didn't really care how long it took. Everything in this city was new to her.

The place she ended up at was lit with neon lights. She immediately disliked it. Walking in on the spearow's prompt, she found the inside even more brilliant than the outside, filled with people in bright colors talking and milling about in large groups. They didn't seem to notice her, which was the only positive thing about the place.. The spearow made the sound for moving forward, so she walked until the she came to a large counter. A woman even brighter than the surroundings was behind it. She didn't like the woman.

"Hello," said the woman cheerfully. "I haven't seen you before."

"I just got here," she said, holding up the spearow.

"Oh, what happened to that spearow?" asked the woman, taking it.

"Its wing is hurt," she said. "I have to go now."

"Thank you for bringing it. Did you parents tell you to?"

She shook her head. "I have to go now," she repeated, unnerved by the woman's scrutiny. She walked away.

She managed to get back before the moon was high. She slipped into a shadowed corner of the house and went to sleep.