1770, Boston
Ratonhnhaké:ton still could not fully grasp how much his life had changed. Everything fascinated him: the huge house belonging to the old man, the stagecoaches and Aquila - the magnificent ship that had steered to his command. He had been nervous sailing a huge vessel, but Robert Faulkner was not only a drunkard, but also a very efficient man. Years of drinking had not diminished his ability to fix a broken ship and arrange a crew in a short duration of time. Ratonhnhaké:ton wouldn't have known the first thing about fixing one for it was the first time he had seen a ship.
His fascination was not limited to objects, but to people as well. Godfrey and Terry had been a fascinating pair; at first glance the young native had assumed they were rivals, but upon hearing them banter back and forth, he was sure that their was an element of friendship present. Although it was unlike his and Kanen'tó:kon's friendship, he supposed this was the way things were around here. And the women . . . they wore strange dresses that took up far too much room that he would feel uncomfortable in his own space. But his discomfort was not merely caused by this, but also a haunting memory of a yellow hair wearing a similar style, but less voluminous.
"Don't stare!" Achilles, his mentor chastised with a nudge of the cane. Ratonhnhaké:ton hadn't realised his eyes had trailed over to the woman with a parasol as she glided away from him. The motion had entranced him - women in his village did not have dresses that trailed behind them in such a hypnotising manner.
He looked down, embarrassed. "Sorry." How many times had he said that in the last few months of his training? He only hoped that it didn't sound insincere, for every time he had uttered an apology, Ratonhnhaké:ton had always meant it. It was not the way of his people to say things that did not come from the heart.
Achilles sighed, his back bent and defeated, but his eyes sharp as he surveyed the crowd of Boston. "Fetch some supplies from that general store over there. You're also going to need a new name. Your skin is fair to pass you off as an Italian or a Spaniard blood."
He walked further, his damaged leg dragging behind the other. "Better to be a Spaniard than a Native. And both are better still than I." He remarked, the last part carrying a hint of sadness that Ratonhnhaké:ton felt compelled that he had to refute the claim. He had never felt a discrimination related to colour in his own tribe and the Yellow Hair had repeatedly remarked that there was no difference between them. This concept was difficult for him to understand, but it was evidently something his mentor had endured.
"What is true and what is aren't always the same." A pouch was handed in his palm, the heaviness of it reminding Ratonhnhaké:ton of the money-handling lessons he had sat through with Achilles. In the village, the currency was not gold or silver, but skin, feathers and acts of kindness displayed through one's actions.
"What would you call me, then?" He wasn't sure how easy it would be for him to respond to this new name that his mentor was about to bestow upon him. But then again, he had been learning and adapting in the last few months anyway.
"Connor. Yes, that is a good name." And with a poke in the back with his cane, Achilles pushed his apprentice in the direction of the general store.
Connor. The boy who may lead him and the Assassins out of the darkness.
The supplies were sorted and Connor had paid the correct amount demanded by the shopkeeper. He had also directed the helper who would carry the supplies to the carriage, but while his fascination had led him in and out of the streets, he had not realised that he was lost. The streets had looked the same and Connor had asked for directions for the last known location he was at.
"Excuse me. Where is the general store?" He had asked.
And the same question was posed to him in return each time. "Which one?"
He also noted that people stared at him for far too long, particularly a group of burly men who were just a slight bit shorter than him. They seemed agitated by him, his height and build making him seem like a challenge although Connor didn't understand why they would see him as a threat. It was not uncommon for boys in his village to reach their optimum height at an early age, but the stares were beginning to slightly unnerve him. He wished now that he had not strayed from his original task.
A dead end met him and some laundry strung up on a rope gently swayed in the spring breeze. It was quite here and the relentless heat from the sun and the stares had tired him more than he had expected. A small block of wood provided the perfect shade and he almost hurriedly perched on it to breathe some moments of relief. The long clothing shielded him from the entrance and he enjoyed this small moment of privacy. He understood why the white man was after his land now - they barely had their own space and the woods and valley of his village were vast and rich with nature's gifts. Of course, they would only corrupt it and Connor couldn't help, but feel anger at the unfairness of the situation.
A few moments of calm were disturbed by hurrying footsteps - light and lithe and he imagined it was either a child or a woman. "Quickly!" The voice hissed and then a barrage like footsteps thundered into this tiny garden away from the main street. He felt uncomfortable now, more so than before as eavesdropping was a heinous activity and his people did not take favourably to it. Yet, here he was - stuck in a very compromising situation where he was unsure on the best course of action.
"But Miss! You know how dangerous this is. If the Redcoats were to find out - they-they-they would - mon dieu! They would kill me, mademoiselle!" A man laced with a heavy accent cried, a few sniffles escaping him here and there. Connor felt the fear in his voice as well as the anguish and a strong urge to peak around the curtain enticed him.
"Listen to me, Philippe! I have a friend who knows a woman in New Orleans. This woman has been helping slaves escape to a place where they could be free! Do you not want that?" The woman who spoke had a strong compassion to her tone and Connor heard the sincerity laced in her words.
The man seemed hysterical with fear and the prospect of escape. "Oh yes, yes, yes, yes, madame! More than anything!"
"Then calm yourself, Philippe. I want you to promise you will not look back. My friend here will take you to the dock - you must play a convincing role of a slave till then."
"Oh mon dieu! Merci, madame! Miss Daisy, you are an ange!"
The words stunned him - particularly the name that had become a distant, but an endearing memory. He had ripped himself from the shadows then startling the black slave who had thought he was a Redcoat. A woman - her long golden curls bounced behind her as she raced out towards the street and it was on instinct that he had begun to run after her.
Only one thought raced in his mind as his legs took him closer and closer to his old friend. She was alive. He came to a standpoint then where the woman he had sought jumped into a stagecoach - her blue eyes laced with fear scanning behind her once and sweeping over him as if he was not there. But it confirmed his suspicions on who this was - the uncanny likeness to his old friend was prevalent even after years of ageing. It was she - the one who had forced friendship on him and had left it there to bloom.
Elation exploded in his chest even when he tumbled to the ground after a large smack on the back from a familiar cane. "Stupid boy! Where have you been?"
And Connor had simply shrugged; a smile lingering on his young face as he stared longingly down the street.
Thank you for reading!
