Part One
Flashes of black, glimpses of brown: round and round the spinner goes, spitting blood on passersby's' clothes. The crowd was ecstatic. The ladies screeched and laughed as they clutched ringed hands to tattered sleeves, the men watched on with polite smirks and folded arms, and the children weaved in and out of the moaning mass, brandishing sticks, asking and begging to have one hit, too.
"Ooh," the bear turned, his mouth agape, his yellow eyes rolling, his paws waving in some sad pantomime of a dance. His master stood behind him, arms crossed, a proud smirk on his face. Every once in a while he would lash out with a thorny stick and the bear would "sing" a long, low melody that echoed forlornly in the hollow hearts of the demons and demonetts that stood around him, applauding this sick behavior.
"Stop! You're hurting him!"
The bear turned, his yellow eyes searching, but the voice was lost in the crowd. A skinny boy pushed his way through the multitude, parting the Red Sea of billowing skirts and masculine, sinewy limbs, panting much like the bear himself and in a state of just as much agitation. His skinny twig legs could only take him so far, but all the same the crowd spewed him out of their midst onto the legs of the bear's master. The man peered into the boy's brown face with about as much interest as a hyena would a fly.
"Leave him alone! You're hurting him."
The crowd was silenced and the bear temporarily stopped its twirling charade to nurse its bleeding muzzle. The big man scratched his head and a shower of white lice fell onto the boys ashy arms. "What? What did you say, boy?"
"Please, if you could just-"
The man raised the thorny stick and brought it down on the boy's face with a sickening thip that knocked the boy over onto his side. The bear howled and ladies laughed.
"Ya hear that, boy? He likes it. He's singin'. Anyway, it's none of your business what I do with my possession, right? Now you go and run to yuh mummy and tell her to scrub some of that dirt of ya skin, ah right?" The man turned back to the bear and slapped its dirty back with the stick. Immediately it began to howl and twirl stupidly on the spot. The show resumed and the bear's matted fur became more and more copper purple with each resounding thump. The young boy burnt, brown, furious, white-eyed, who would soon become known by the legendary name The Black Prince, lunged himself, dirty soles, rags and all, at the large brawn-no-brain man. The two wrestled for the possession of the thorny stick and once again the bear howled as the crowd grew, enticed by this new faux spectacle. Eventually the boy won and he ran on skinny legs as far away from them, the people, the crowd, the man, and the bear as he could into the surrounding forest.
Later
I don't know if the Inkworld ever actually had a time scale. But it was definitely a vrais sort of nighttime when the young Prince set out, not the hours in between day and night, the pretend night called dawn, or the type of night where the stars where clustered up behind clouds. It was the time of night that introduced a new kind of people, the people not seen in the daylight or by the eyes of ordinary men. These were the smugglers, the prostitutes, the rapists, the silent thieves, the midnight dancers, the true hunters, the drunkards, the storytellers, and a newly forming group that would later on be known as the Motley Folk. The young boy never imagined that he would join this group, be apart of them as they traversed their separate lives in the beautiful concealing light of the silent, and watching night. Indeed the boy had never really operated in these hours of the dark and he had to admit to himself as he raised the torch higher over his head that he was afraid of the dark. But all the same there was something so mystical and euphoric about the wet things that brushed against his arm, the unknown growl, the red-ish eyes, the men shadowed in black that rustled through the bushes quicker and stealthier than any gazelle. But all too soon the dark receded into a shallow little inn with ugly, glowing lights like dusty, yellow eyes that watched him as he squatted in the bush, cupping his torch with one dry palm. He knew the man would be lounging there tonight and his bear wouldn't be far. He looked around the dirty yard and, sure enough, he spotted the bear, a poor, forlorn, lonely soul crouched near a pole. The sight of him, the big, furry lump, filled his heart with hopeless longing and love.
He sprang from his hiding place and only when he was standing toe to toe with the strange, silent creature did he realize how dangerous this might be. "Hi," he said breathlessly, running his hand down the bear's muzzle. The bear purred deep in his throat and one eye flashed, barely visible, as it looked at the young Prince. "I'm going to get you out of here," the Prince, whispered, feeling along the rusty chain that kept the bear in place. "But how do I do that?"
He tried yanking the chains free, untying it with his tiny fingers, gnawing on it, and finally resorting to scratching at it with his stubby fingernails. "Sorry, I didn't wanna hafta do this…." Holding his breath, he brought the flames of the torch to the chains around the bear's neck, hoping to melt or break it. For a minute the links glowed an innocent red but all the same the smell of charred flesh filled the air and the bear roared a long, drawn-out howl of pain and surprise. The boy ducked to avoid the slashing paws and claws as simultaneously the door to the inn slammed open and the man of the house stood in the doorway. "Oh, shutup, ya big lump!"
A glass bottle flew through the night and connected with the bear's huge head with a loud thunk. The boy cowered behind the bear's bulk until he was sure the man had gone for good, then, timidly, he stood up. "Okay," he said, more to himself than to the bear, "I'm going to do it again. It will be no easy job, but if it sets you free then I'll do it." He was about to raise the torch again when a new voice said,
"If you're gonna steal my bear, try not to kill him in the process. What use would a dead bear be on the market?"
The young Prince whirled around, holding his torch up to, if need be, scald the face of his attacker but it was not the master or even a full-grown man but handsome little lad around the same age as the young Prince.
"Dustfinger!" yelled the young Prince, pouting, "What are you doing here?"
"What do you think? I'm helping you," Dustfinger jumped from the fence on which he sat and hesitantly approached the bear, "and keep your voice down."
"I was doing perfectly fine on my own!"
Dustfinger scoffed, examining the chains, "Please, scalding the bear as well as yourself in the process? Didn't your momma ever teach you not to play with fire?"
The Prince grinned, "Nope. Never had a momma."
"Then let me tell you now; 'Don't play with fire.'" They both laughed and the bear growled.
"Fine. Then if I can't play with fire, maybe you can?"
Dustfinger suddenly looked a bit anxious. "Come on, he's friendly," urged the young Prince, a note of desperation ringing in his little voice, "put that talent of yours to work and help a friend!"
"But the bear…"
"Dustfinger! We don't have much time. Help me help a friend in need."
Dustfinger sighed and cautiously lumbered up to the bear. "Doesn't look much like a friend at the moment," But he set to work, feeling along the chains with his bare hands, groping the rusty metal with cold, stiff fingers. "Keep a lookout," young Dustfinger whispered.
The young Prince looked around and nodded. It was still dark out. The sky was velvet black and seductive in its ways and it watched the Prince with malicious, twinkling eyes. A candle was lit in a window, and this the Prince watched as Dustfinger began to do his thing; whispering words that were once easy-going and simple, yet harsh and complicated: words that the Prince understood, but could not quite grasp, words that brought a deft fire to life that twisted and coiled around the bear's chain like some living thing. The candle in the window flickered longingly, yearning to be apart of its sister's fiery spectacle but all too soon the fire went out and the still simmering chains fell to the ground with a defeated hiss. The bear stood hesitantly, pawing at its neck to register the new feeling of freedom, then sniffed at the chains at his feet, withdrawing with a low growl when his nose got singed by the vengeful copper.
"Dustfinger, you did it!" The Prince hugged his friend while hot, salty tears stung his cheeks and matted his dark eyelashes.
"Yes, yes, all right." Dustfinger said, his voice muffled by the Prince's shoulder, "But how do we get it out of here? I mean, you don't think it will just walk off on his free will, do you?"
"Off course he will," The Prince replied, "Look, watch. Come here, black bear. Come here. You're free now."
The bear grunted at him, pawing anxiously at the ground. Its eyes flashed red in the moonlight but still it did not move an inch closer. "Come here, bear," The Prince moved up closer and placed his tiny palm upon the bears nose, burying his own forehead in the soft tuft's of hair below the bear's ears. "Please," The Prince murmured, "Come with me. We can be free now."
Two things happened at once. The back door swung open once more and the man of the house stormed towards them, tugging a fearful girl child by the wrist. The bear let out a roar and swung the Prince backwards onto the cold ground. And the man came closer yet.
To Be Continued…
