DISCLAIMER: No, the newsies aren't mine, kids. For those of you who didn't know, though I doubt that's the case if you're reading this story, the newsies actually belong to DISNEY! *dramatic music* Surprise! ^_^ However, I do own the following characters: Dewey Rembrandt, Patron Rembrandt, Lucas Conlon (Runner), Cody, Aunt Bethany, Becker Princeton, and Maverick O'Malley.
A.N.: Well, here we go again! Another long story. Enjoy the Show!
~*Where the River Flows Bright*~
Patron and Dewey Rembrandt were the type of siblings that were closer to each other than the invisible links that bind a lover to her soul mate, for they rarely bickered over petty matters, never entertained rivalry between themselves, never lied to or betrayed one another, and always looked out for and defended each other with a loyalty that is often hard to find in the drudgery of life.
This particular spring they stood in the middle of hordes of comers and goers at the Manhattan train yards, watching the chaos all about them with wide and confused eyes. There were mothers trying to soothe their crying babies with melodic lullabies or back rubs, young children running wildly about playing chase-though some were busy shedding tears for they had become lost, and men arguing with the station employees over misplaced luggage.
There were peddlers hawking details of the products they sold, and vendors trying to win over the travelers' hunger with the smells of pretzels, croissants, and other baked goods that'd make any righteous man want to turn to theft just this once. A group of nuns stood off to one side, welcoming the newcomers to the state where one could make his dreams a reality, passing out cards that let each individual know he was loved, if not by man then by a forgotten God. The sight of the women filled Dewey with a painful nostalgia she'd always suffer from thereafter, and as she passed them by, she squeezed the crucifix she held in one hand so hard it drew a droplet of blood from her sensitive palms, a red tear shed for the home she had left behind.
Patron was oblivious to his sister's self-infliction. The environment in which he suddenly found himself was overwhelming! It reminded him of a disorderly three-ring circus that lacked any structure and had never known the word 'civilization'. The people before him came from all walks of life; there were Irishmen talking in their rough brogue, Jewish leaders wearing their traditional skullcaps, gypsies dressed in their elaborate linens of cotton and silk, and there once went a couple exchanging words of love in heavy French accents. Then there were the class differences! The boy was surprised to see within the mass of New Yorkers not only the proud and wealthy, but also the humble poor with their threadbare clothing and simple knapsacks. A once white canvas now dotted with an array of colors that ranged from dull shades of brown and grey to vibrant yellows, reds, and blues.
He reached for Dewey's hand, who by now had tucked her crucifix into the pocket of her sweater, and led her through the crowds to an area less populated where they could gather their bearings and perhaps even get a word of where exactly they were. The girl cast one last glance at the locomotive that had driven her countless miles from her home in New Jersey and frowned.
The smoke that arose from its engine momentarily clouded the present and for a swift second she was carried away to better times in which her father would take her to the train tracks back home during their leisure time. They would drop pennies on the iron rails and once the locomotive came and went, would jump onto the tracks and collect the smoothly flattened coins, marveling at the wonder of it all. Mother deemed them crazy; she laughed at the memory.
"Miss, a pretty flower for a pretty lady?"
Dewey was wrenched from the reverie when a kindly young man held a white rose to her as an offering. She hesitantly took it from him with the slightest smile, but the barter of kindness was disrupted when Patron snatched the flower from her and gave it back to the boy. He then tugged harder on her arm and guided her off once again. "Don't take anything from anyone. You don't know what tricks these people are working up."
"It was a simple flower," said she in protest. "I doubt there were other intentions involved."
"You also doubted the need to label your luggage back in New Jersey." They grinned at each other. Too burdened by her desolation to write out a tag for her suitcase at the departure station, Dewey had simply thrown her chest of possessions into a cart of luggage in hopes that it was bound for her same destination. She had no such luck. Her suitcase ended up becoming lost. A portion of all the things the girl had ever owned…lost.
Patron was benevolent enough to share his only pair of hand-warmers with her, though, and now as they walked hand in hand they each wore one wooly grey glove on their free fingers.
A carriage pulled by horses with coats as dark as chocolate syrup and conducted by a man with a top hat rode the siblings from the vociferous clamor of the Manhattan city into downtown Brooklyn, a well-kept quiet neighborhood with towering trees on either side of the roads. At last they came unto a block of Dean Street where stood house number 204, and as Patron paid the chauffeur his fees, Dewey stood before the crème-colored stoop of the building, letting her gaze travel up its tall brick form. When hoof beats sounded off in the distance as the horses trotted away with carriage behind and her bother had joined her side, she knew it was time to start her new life.
"Ready?" he asked softly. She nodded, and they ascended the stairs to knock upon the hollow wood structure that was the door.
An Asian woman clad in a royal blue oriental dress answered with a smile and immediately identified the siblings as the ones coming to live with Mrs. Rembrandt, their elderly aunt. She held the door open for them as they carried in their bags and directed them to the second story. "She live in #2D. She talk so much 'bout you! I hope you like it here!" She waved them goodbye and climbed down the stairs to her own apartment.
Patron didn't even have to knock this time, for the door before them cracked open ever so slightly, a black and white cat scurrying out into the halls. "You hurry up, Misty," a frail voice ordered from within. The cat disappeared around a corner; Patron and Dewey shared an amused look.
The boy stepped forward. "Uh…Aunt Bethany?"
"Who is that!" The door swung open and showed the panicked face of an ancient-looking woman, face creased with wrinkles.
"Aunt, it's me, Patron. And my sister, Dewey."
She pushed the dark-lens glasses she wore further up the bridge of her nose and cocked her head to one side. "Patron? Dewey?" Then a gasp of realization. "Oh! Oh yes, my darlings! How could I forget? Must've slipped my mind!" She bid them entrance into the dimly-lit apartment most cordially. "Come in, come in, warm yourselves, dears!"
"What about the cat?" Dewey looked after the small animal with a smile. She use to have so many pets back in New Jersey her home could have been called a menagerie.
"Oh, oh, don't worry about him. He'll come on his own time, he will."
Aunt Bethany's abode seemed to be an archenemy of light. The window blinds were tightly shut and the heavy cotton draperies of each curtain pulled closed to fend off any sun's rays like a warrior's shield. The few lamps that there were about the apartment were turned off so that only the sitting room's chandelier was given chance to offer illumination, as if it were a soloist to whom attention was owed.
The air was stuffy and smelled of cats-a great number of cats. Only a minute within and Patron already felt his sinuses flaring up. He rubbed his nose with a certain annoyance and glared at a calico kitten staring at him from atop the ivory keys of a piano.
The old woman tapped the ground with her cane and made her way into a mini-kitchen where she proceeded to warm up milk after 'feeling' for a proper pot into which she could heat the liquid. She assumed the siblings would very much like to eat a meal that consisted of more than peanuts and bread.
Dewey arched an eyebrow and leaned closer to her brother as she watched their aunt fumble about in a cabinet in search of something, even though her eyes were fixated towards the ceiling. "Is she…?"
"Blind?" he finished, knowing her well enough to step on her sentences and complete her thoughts. "It certainly seems so," he whispered back. "But don't mention it. I'm sure she's forgotten there was ever such thing as 'sight'."
She smacked his arm playfully and they enjoyed a much needed laugh. After the early lunch, they were much too tired to recollect memories with their aunt and so the old woman showed the siblings to the room they would be sharing.
"This was the size of the hallway closet back at the farm," said Dewey, once she was alone with her brother.
Patron shrugged. "It sure beats sleeping on the streets, though." He got up from the floor where he had been unpacking his bags and sat on the edge of the bed beside the girl. "Dewey, you can't keep comparing the way things were to the way they are now. Of course everything here's going to seem unwelcoming at first, but dwelling in the past is only going to hurt you. You have to find new things to make you happy."
"But I don't want to find new things!" She allowed herself to fall backwards onto the mattress and exhaled a sigh in the doing. "Why couldn't we stay back at the farm? Why did those people make us come here to live with our aunt? We were just fine!"
"I suppose they thought we'd be better off with our family."
"But we had each other, Patron! We don't need anyone else; we were doing just fine on our own." There was a moment of silence between them in which they found repose in their own thoughts, wishing the circumstances had been slightly different this time or that they hadn't been altered at all. "I just don't understand why they had to go…"
He smiled down at her sadly. "And I don't think we ever will."
~*~*~*~*~
Spot Conlon entered the Brooklyn lodging house for newsboys in a rage, his face and arms taut, sapphire eyes blazing like blue flames born from the arctic skies. He slammed the door shut behind him, the mere sound shaking the very foundations of the room, and stood glaring at his newsies, scanning through the company of street rats for a particular face. The Brooky's were silenced, some in fear, others in reverence. Their leader looked to be in one of his reprimanding moods to which a fellow newsie would undoubtedly fall prey, and it'd become second-nature to them to hold their tongues during such times.
"Where's Travis?" Spot asked them. Though of low volume, the force by which he'd uttered each syllable lashed at one with fierce preciseness, a reminder of who he was and what he'd do should no answer be dealt to him.
Some of the older boys who had been lounging about in the main room playing poker exchanged worried looks. Travis had been second in command in their borough but had been arguing with Spot for weeks now. They disagreed on almost every aspect of their duties and twice already had they disgraced Brooklyn's unity with rude remarks toward each other that sooner or later had evolved into fist fights; brawls which Spot, of course, always won. Whether through mercy of the mere fatigue of human nature, no one knew, but all were grateful whenever such trivial clashes ceased, for the grotesque sight of bloodied faces and out of joint bones wasn't one welcomed to the Brooky's, as fierce a stamina as they preserved. Travis and Spot hated each other with an unbelievable fervor; it was a miracle Spot hadn't dismissed the young man yet, even more so that Travis wasn't dead already.
"Where is 'e?" Spot queried again, emphasizing each syllable. He was obviously losing his patience for he always expected his boys to respond to orders immediately like lackeys jumping to the every beck and call of their masters, especially if those same orders came from him.
A voice called out from the staircase as its owner plodded down the steps leisurely. Carefree and light-hearted, many were left to wonder why this individual, of all people, felt it the perfect time to break free the tensions of the atmosphere with his comical nature. "Spotty, he aint here no more. Some joiks from the factory on Smith St. swung by earlier; Travis-boy turned scab and left with 'em."
The boy who spoke finally descended into the main room, his features more evident in the dim lighting of the partially covered windows all about. He had golden hair that fell to his ears in roughly-textured locks and glistening green eyes to rival Spot's cyan irises. The amusement on his face was unmistakable. Wearing a lopsided grin, he leaned against a wall with crossed arms and waited for a response. They called him Runner; he was third in command of Brooklyn, but more importantly he was younger cousin to the great Brooklyn leader himself.
Spot cursed. He knew Travis would betray him sooner or later; it had only been a matter of time. What had begun as a harmless repartee between newsies and factory workers across New York had fastly evolved into a raging fire of animosity and utter abhorrence. What was once a childish competition between the two communities of working boys was now no less than a war, an all out siege between bitter rivals who'd stood each other's company long enough. It'd started with challenges and scathing insults muttered under one's breath, but one fist-fight there and an alley ambush weeks later had awakened a sleeping giant full of vengeance. Now it was about recruiting followers, showing strength through physical assaults, and one by one conquering the enemy's realm if only to prove to them how futile their efforts had been all the while.
Momentarily forgetting the fury that surged through him, however, Spot looked to his boys and realized they too were awaiting some form of action from their leader. He had come in vengeful and bloodthirsty and they would not be denied a reminder of the threats he would enact if they followed Travis' footsteps.
"Runnah," Spot said without looking at the boy, "come 'ere."
Runner's grin widened as he pushed himself off the wall and hurried to his cousin. He tried to suppress his excitement but it was virtually impossible. Here was the big moment, the few minutes in which he would be promoted to second rank and crowned as Spot's successor. Shrouding himself with suave urbanity, he closed the distance between himself and the leader at once.
Spot's gaze remained affixed on the rest of the newsies gathered before him. He lived for the attention they now gave, reveled in the respect with which they endowed him. It was the everlasting source from which he drew strength to live another day and fight another damned battle against the system. Wherein he could swim in a bitter cesspool of pride and control.
"Why didn't ya stop Travis from joinin' the factory scabs, huh?" When he didn't receive and answer right away, he turned to face the boy. Spot could tell he was becoming uneasy. "Well?"
Runner stammered for an answer, his earlier elation instantly shattered. "Well, he…"
Well 'e what!" Spot snapped. "Ya tellin' me ya sorry ass couldn't keep 'im from joinin'? Cause if I'da been here, teamin' up with them woulda been the last thing on 'is mind!"
Runner took one step back hesitantly but it only provoked Spot to draw even closer. The Brooklyn leader placed his hands just below the boy's shoulders and shoved him back harshly, extending his arms to their full length in the doing.
"So what's ya excuse?" Spot nearly yelled.
"I, uh…I…" He jumped out of the way just in time to miss Spot shove him again. "Spot, what'sa matter with ya!" He hadn't the slightest clue as to why his cousin was being so hard on him, and this new wicked twist in personality greatly alarmed him. Quickening his steps, he backed away and almost tripped.
Spot stood still then, as if his feet were rooted into the hardwood floor. He raised a hand and beckoned the boy forth with a gesture. "Come 'ere," he said again.
Runner knew that Brooklyn newsies were reared to accept their fates like men, but he also knew that in many like instances, he was occasionally dealt leniency. The look on Spot's face, however, told him amnesty would not live this day, and so the boy swallowed his fear and cowardice, and took the necessary steps until he was just inches from the leader.
"When I give ya a job," Spot began, "I expect ya to follow it. That goes for every damn newsie in this lodgin' house, 'specially one in a position like youse."
"I aint Travis' keeper. It wasn't me job to…"
His words were cut short when, with an astounding celerity, Spot brought up his fingers in one swift motion and backhanded the boy's face, sending Runner crashing backwards onto the floor, crimson bands gracing his cheek.
"Don't ya dare talk back to me," Spot yelled in a heart-stopping thunder that made even the eldest gathered squirm in their chairs, and turning to the others he added, "the same holds for all youse as well, ya hear me? If ya even think of defyin' me orders, I'll break every last bone in ya damn body. Does anyone have a problem with that?"
No one did. He nodded. "Good. Now clear out." They didn't need a second invitation. A stampede of feet thudded within the room as the Brooky's either disappeared upstairs to the bunkrooms or exited out onto the docks for a breath of fresh air. In less than a minute, the main room was empty save for Runner and Spot.
The younger boy propped himself up on his elbows where he lay and massaged his jaw, wincing at the pain. "Jesus, Spot! What the hell is ya problem! Ya tryin' to kill me?"
Spot let a light smirk adorn his lips and held out a hand to help the boy to his feet. "I can't keep lettin' ya get away with things just cause ya me cousin. I had to put someone in their place 'fore the others thought I was weakenin'."
"Yea, well it seems like ya always take it out on me," he grumbled, taking the elder's hand as he arose. "How the hell d'ya expect me to keep one of ya newsies from bein' a traitor? Whaddya want me to do? Get on me knees and beg 'im to stay?"
"If ya gunna be Brooklyn's next leadah, ya gotta learn discipline. If ya can't handle it, though, I'se would suggest ya renounce ya position."
Runner dusted off his clothes with a roll of his eyes. "Yea, yea. Like any of the bums here has any potential to even watch out for a group of five-year olds!"
"Which is why I'se aint lookin' forward to kickin' ya ass every other day." Spot draped an arm over his cousin's shoulders as the younger glared up at him. In truth, as much as the Brooklyn leader loved to put his newsies in their rightful places, he didn't care too much for taking his anger out on them. He was too afraid that, driven by a murderous frenzy, he would come to see those he challenged as inferior vermin, and would in turn beat every last ounce of life out their mangled flesh until their life was his own, and the wretched victory appointed under his namesake. Afraid he would one day go too far, therefore, he avoided physically disciplining them as much as he could. Of course Runner, though, provided the perfect means by which to demonstrate his authority without losing a friend. "C'mon, I didn't hit ya that bad, did I?"
Runner shoved the other away, a feint hint of a smile on his face, though marred by the bruise he now bore…a sort of battle wound, he'd go on to say, from his recent conflict with the notorious Spot Conlon. Though Runner many times wished to question this notoriety, for his older cousin was never in the same league as murderers and state-penitentiary criminals as far as deeds went. In the end, he'd attributed the titles to Spot's volatile temper, and of course his less than chivalric ways with the women.
"Get away from me, ya scab. Or d'ya intend on breakin' me neck now?"
Spot laughed. It was amazing how swiftly his moods could change, almost as much as it was terrifying. Just minutes earlier, he'd happened unto the lodging house in a maelstrom, his tall proud frame rigid like that of an arrogant schoolmaster, violence radiating from his aura like the stench of body heat. Yet now…now he was the playful cousin caught between adolescence and adulthood, an ever wandering seventeen-year old too early thrust into the hardships of life. "C'mon, Runnah. I gotta go see about a goil in Manhattan."
"Forget it! I'se aint meetin' no goil lookin' like this, with some big ass shinah 'cross half me face!"
"Just tell the dame ya was in a brawl, defendin' the honor of ya sistah."
"The sistah I don't have," Runner laughed. Nonetheless, he agreed to accompany Spot on the rendezvous, and the two Conlon's made their way for their ally borough as if none of the preceding events had ever occurred.
~*~*~*~*~
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