Chapter 2: Out Onto the Streets
He never looked back, just kept running, out of the church and into the darkness of the alleys; no particular direction, just running. He never even thought that this was the end of it all, that there was no way he could ever go back to the dreary church in the middle of New York City where he had lived for as long as he could remember. The wand-like stick had condemned him.
Finally, he dropped to his knees in a dark corner and sat there, sweat sticking his dark hair to his face, chest heaving up and down as he clutched it. After a while, the heaving changed from gasps to sobs. He sank against the wall that was covered in decaying posters, and tears ran down his cheeks. It was absolutely quiet; not even the noise of clopping hooves or the occasional motor car could be heard. And there was no one. No one at all.
Days it seemed went on this way. When one is alone, time seems to blend together into one cohesive sensation. Nothing changes, nothing enters. Hunger, thirst, loneliness, weariness, all plodding along together. He lost track of the nights that came, how many times he snatched an item off a window to keep himself sustained, the number of times he considered going back and facing the wrath of his mother just so she could take it all away.
He found a man with a peculiar, two-sided beard hanging up strange posters in a secluded alley. The boy saw the word circus on one, but didn't catch any more before the impresario stepped in front of his work with a nasty mien.
"Oy, what's a No-Maj Freak like you doing out here?" he growled. The boy didn't know what he meant but backed away and trembled as the man edged closer. "Come here, youngin'. I'll teach you where you belong."
The bricks in the stone buildings around them began to shake in their mortar. He grabbed at something inside his coat, "What the –". A drainage grate that was so rusted it barely clung to the ground lifted of its own accord and conked the ringmaster out cold. Posters fluttered to the turf. Dodging around them, the boy caught the other word he had missed: Circus Arcanus. He didn't stop to read the rest. Although the truth was he didn't know where he was going, a circus owned by that man would not likely be a place to find a good home. He kept moving. On and on, never coming out in the open, always looking over his shoulder, always heading in one direction – away. Away from New York. Where did away take him? No logical person could have answered that. It seemed that each step was a mile. One moment it would be sunny and humid, and the next moment the wind would blow and he would rap his coat around him for the cold. Direction seemed meaningless. Distance, a myth.
It happened on a stormy day. The rain was the least of his worries, despite it coming down in buckets. He was starving. He was cold. Fear was the only thing keeping him going, and even that was going numb along with the rest of his body. How long had he been alone, in this labyrinthine quilt of locations? He wasn't really alone and he knew it. With all the running, the searching for food, the avoiding of anyone who might see him, he didn't have the energy to ignore it anymore. Something was with him. He had felt it before, many times, especially on those lonely nights when his Ma had punished him. But it was here more than ever. It haunted him. It caressed him. He didn't know if it didn't cling to his very being, as, like many times before, he tried to shake it. But there were other times, when he was wretched with hunger and fatigue and sick of life and its loneliness, the thing would come, and stay unimpeded. If he had known what it was, and how hard he would try to forget that sickening comfort, he might have tried harder. But he was too tired.
The terrain changed that day. It was steep uphill for a while on an unmarked path. The rain filled in his footprints as he climbed. It was a place that might have been beautiful, full of flowers and heather and grass, but it was shrouded with fog. He hardly noticed any of it.
Except the turrets, he noticed the turrets.
The great, salvific statues were what he made for. He didn't think about people seeing him now. The rain poured down as if it wasn't mid-June. It was a miracle he could see at all, but there they were; gray towers poking out of the gloom. A large gate was swung open. The sculptures were of a man and a woman one either side of great, carved doors. As he got closer, he could see windows in the walls, glowing with a sort of orange light. It was warm, something he hadn't really felt for so long. Even through his exhaustion, he stumbled towards it.