Chapter 12: The Adventurer's Lifestyle
Shortly after finding himself homeless, Gascon had pondered whether now was as good a time as any to try out that adventurer's lifestyle he had been so enthralled by ever since he was old enough to read. If there was ever a time to learn a new skill, he supposed it was when you were forced to do so against your will. When he tried to make himself look at it from that perspective, he supposed he was not disappointed, for every day, in one way or another, Gascon always managed to learn something new.
Today's little morsel of knowledge was the realization that it was very possible to get a sunburn when it was cold out. Of course, the way his luck had been going lately, why should he be surprised?
The teen currently sat shivering on a cold, wet rock at the cliff's base, just below Lari's lowest street. He would have liked to be higher above the churning seawater, where its spray couldn't reach him, but the line from his fishing pole would have been too short to reach otherwise. It was among the many compromises he had been forced to make ever since his money had run dry.
Forget about when life gave you lemons. If it was feeling particularly generous, you might even get a whole bloody lemon tree.
Another fun fact he had acquired since becoming completely and utterly destitute was that living off the land in the most primitive of fashions was only for people who had been born doing it, or perhaps those very same brave, and suspiciously resourceful, adventurers from his storybooks who were clearly not based on real people. And it was most certainly not for those who had, until fairly recently, lived in a palace the size of a town, with servants to do one's every bidding. He now had a vague idea of which berries would make him sick and not the slightest notion at all concerning which varieties wouldn't. And he had since come to the firm conclusion that anyone who enjoyed eating oysters raw was stark raving mad.
And so he had decided it might be time to take to heart that old saying about the advantages of giving a man a fishing pole rather than just a fish. Seeing as a fishing pole was not yet among his dwindling repertoire of personal possessions, and he certainly hadn't the funds to buy it, he proceeded to spend the morning running errands for a young boy barely over Marcassin's age with the promise that his payment would be the kid's handmade fishing pole, along with a small amount of bait. The boy proved to be true to his word, and Gascon headed for the base of the cliff on which the town was so precariously perched with all the haste his grumbling stomach demanded.
Morning had long since passed him by, as did noon, and his budding wisdom grew further still. The man who said fishing poles were a better thing to give someone than actual fish must've been a cold-hearted blighter.
The teen gasped when a cold breeze swept over him, sharpened wherever the spray had dampened his clothes. Whatever seawater that had managed to find him up here on his rocky perch accounted for the closest thing to a bath that he had gotten since he could no longer afford a room at the inn. He had never before believed that being unwashed would bother him as much as it did, and if the water wasn't so frigid, even when winter was still a good two months away, he would have considered going for a swim, at least to have the satisfaction of being wet again. Maybe he'd also have better luck catching a fish if he went to them rather than expecting it to work the other way around.
Gascon nearly lost his grip on the pole when the line jerked, a good, strong tug he hoped was a fish and not simply his hook catching itself on a rock for the umpteenth time. The pole shuddered with some unseen force once again, the end dipping towards the water as if it was peering down in its own curiosity over what was responsible.
Once the shock over this possibility of success wore off, he began to reel in his catch, pulling back on the fishing pole as he did so to put as little distance between himself and his first true meal money didn't buy. A head emerged from the water for just one second, only to be hidden from view with the next heaving of the sea. And then his prize was revealed again, followed by a body with a smooth, white belly and silver scales that gleamed wet and bright in the sunlight.
The fish thrashed as it was hauled higher and higher from its home, and it took all of his strength to swing its weight over to where he had since stood to make the task easier. It dropped with a wet smack upon the rocks, and he took no delay in pouncing upon it with both hands in an effort to subdue its wild fight for escape.
Removing the hook from its mouth, the next order of business, took a fair bit of maneuvering, but it was a task he was determined to complete when he had an aching stomach to urge him on.
His first smile in some time cracked across his face, only to be replaced by a yelp when the fish slipped from his hands with one resolute heave. It flopped towards the edge of the rock, and he just managed to grab it by the tail before it could slide over the edge. It slithered from side to side, and he grasped its head in his other hand to slow its movements. Gripping it tighter still in his efforts to haul it away from the sea, as soon as he attempted to pick the creature up, it jumped from his hands once again.
In what was surely some bizarre display of aquatic magic, the fish managed to remain airborne for a good several seconds longer than seemed natural as he attempted to catch it, until it slid through his arms like a very large and feisty bar of soap (yet another item he hadn't expected to miss as much as he did). Gascon stared openmouthed as the fish flew in a graceful arch that ended in its disappearance beneath the navy blue waters below.
"Good goin', butterfingers!" came a voice from behind, followed by a chorus of laughter that set his teeth on edge before he had even gotten a chance to identify the culprits.
Gascon spun around, still panting from his struggle. A group of boys lined the stone fence above him, some leaning upon it with their elbows, while others had decided to venture further over the edge to sit atop it with their legs dangling over the side. It didn't help his pride any that not a single one of them came even close to his age.
"What in blazes are you looking at?" he asked, fists tightening.
"We're askin' ourselves the same thing," one of the older boys replied, inciting an eruption of further sniggering so intense, one boy nearly fell from his perch with the extent to which he was doubled over.
"Well, the show's over, so I suggest you get lost! Go on, get out of here!" When they failed to remove themselves from his sight, he made as if to lunge towards them. Despite the fact that he had no easy way of even reaching them from his current position, this was enough to motivate them to heed his threat, though they made certain to take their time of it, and their absence did not take place before several had stuck their tongues out in his direction. Resisting the urge to draw his gun was especially difficult in that moment. Then again, perhaps he was on to something. As far as fish were concerned, he meant.
A steadily growing hunger forced Gascon to stay on that rock for the rest of the afternoon, though he was sure to check back over his shoulder with some frequency to ensure he didn't attract another audience. Only once did someone catch his eye, a middle-aged woman whose expression said his seemingly unwarranted glare was not appreciated.
By evening, he was still there.
He would have surely given up hours ago in any other circumstance, but the alternative task to which he would inevitably be forced to attend was finding a proper place to sleep for the night now that the barn he had been using for the past three nights was off limits. The farmer who owned the building was clearly of the spiteful sort, as he had no qualms against jabbing Gascon awake with his pitchfork. Though he had yet to check, he suspected he still bore the marks of his rude awakening.
The line jerked again, and Gascon pulled in his second fish that day, a ruddy brown one with bulging eyes. This one was smaller than the first, and it gave up with far less of a fight. At the memory of that raw oyster, he was struck with the realization that he had no way of cooking a fish, nor did he know the first thing about gutting it or removing the scales. After further deliberation as it flopped feebly in his lap, he threw it back.
Several more days had passed, and Gascon pondered long and hard how, in the early days of impending winter, he could convince someone to take their coat off. Once he had settled on the proper sort of plan for the job, the person he chose to unknowingly participate in it was a scrawny, middle-aged man sporting large spectacles and a long green coat, for he knew that those who wore glasses were typically not as courageous as those without. He figured it all boiled down to the fact that those very same glasses could all too easily be broken with a good punch to the nose. That certainly didn't mean he had any intention of punching anyone, of course. That was the beauty of his plan. When used correctly, words could prove to be a far greater weapon than one's fists.
With his motivation stemming from the knowledge that the weather certainly wasn't getting any warmer, the teen marched up behind the man as he was busy inspecting a stand in the market selling an assortment of well-worn books, quite grateful he had washed his hair in the town fountain earlier that very same afternoon when the water was at its least frigid. A bath, even if a hurried one, always had a way of making one look more civilized.
"Sir?" he began once he was certain a proper amount of concern was apparent on his face. "Sir," he repeated when the man failed to respond and tapped him on the back. This was enough to attract the attention of his…target, but before the man could turn around, he continued on with the tale he had fabricated for this very moment, "I wouldn't move if I were you! You have the biggest spider I've ever seen, right on your back!"
Despite his warning, the man straightened to attention. "W-well, ge-get it off me, why don't ya?"
Gascon clutched either side of his head in both hands. Even if the man couldn't currently see him, a proper amount of feigned desperation could only be a good thing. "Me? I don't want to touch it! It's so big, it looks a bit like a walnut with legs! It-it'll probably bite if I anger it, and…" he gasped, "you should just see the size of its fangs!"
He thought he heard the bespectacled man whimper as his entire form began to tremble, despite every effort to remain as statuesque as humanly possible. "What…what do ya suggest I do, then? Can't you knock it off?"
"There's no time for that! It's heading for your shoulder! Just…take your coat off! Quickly!"
The man burst into action with an admirable amount of haste, tugging the coat off over his head and flinging it to the ground with no shortage of ferocity. Free of the creature that might have brought about his demise, he practically leapt backwards in his attempt to distance himself from his perilous coat.
Gascon, on the other hand, crept closer, and they both proceeded to stare at the coat, scanning every inch of it for some sign of the monstrous bug.
"Where is it?" the man asked in a whisper, the quiver in his voice still present.
The teen inched just the slightest bit closer as he continued to study the crumpled coat before them. "You got it off just in time. I think it might've crawled into your sleeve."
When he looked up, the man had retreated even further from the article of clothing from which he had so recently escaped. "What…what do we do now?"
"I think I have an idea," Gascon said, taking on the most serious expression he could muster, and he lifted his foot to remove one of his boots. Raising it overhead, he began to beat the coat with his shoe in a great ferocity until the garment was thoroughly flattened. His task complete, Gascon picked the coat up by the corner and held it at arm's length as if it might be contagious.
The man jerked backwards when the boy turned his way. "Do you want to check and see if I killed it? You'll probably want to wash this when you get home, though. I think I heard it pop." He attempted to approach the man, but every step Gascon took forward caused the man to take the same number of steps backwards.
"You…you just keep it, all right?"
"But the spider's dead. I'm positively certain I got it." Gascon doubled his speed until the man was practically tripping over his own feet trying to escape.
"Really, I don't want it. I-I appreciate the help, but…"
Gascon stopped in his tracks as the man thrust his arms out before him, as if he was considering a bit of shoving might be in order to prevent the tainted coat from making contact with him. Taking the boy's pause as an opportunity to retreat, he turned around and marched away as quickly as his spindly legs would allow, though Gascon had the feeling he might have come a lot closer to running had no one been watching.
He slipped the acquired garment on, a smirk surfacing on his lips that he had been forced to repress ever since it had become clear that his plan would prove successful. The expression only grew in strength when he spotted the bespectacled man in the distance, rubbing his arms in the brisk evening air. He straightened his new coat with one, firm tug. His plan had certainly been a stroke of genius, he thought, and he laughed inwardly. At least something had gone right for him for a change.
Night was just beginning to fall, and Gascon had once again taken to wandering the narrow streets of Lari, which felt like a completely different world once darkness had distorted previously benign surroundings and removed whatever scant comfort they possessed during daylight hours. His aimless pacing was a pastime he engaged in more and more frequently as of late, for just as the discomfort of sleeping outdoors made any form of restful slumber difficult, the gnawing in his empty stomach ensured that this was now effectively impossible.
As much as Gascon had hoped that sleep would surely have to become easier with exhaustion, he was miserably wrong. It was a paradox, really, how he could feel tired down to his very bones, enough that he could barely hold his head up, while at the same time so very much awake. It almost seemed as if he really was drawing closer and closer to becoming a walking corpse, just as he had feared. Each and every day, he felt as if he was suspended somewhere between sleep and alertness, without the ability to enjoy either to its fullness.
As desperately as he would have liked to sleep through just one thankless night, he knew it was unlikely to grace him this night any more than it had the last. Rather, he was already certain that he wouldn't fall into his usual half-sleep until long after he had spent hours lying awake, wondering what would become of him once winter had arrived in full force. Wondering how stupid he must have been for life to have taken the turn that it had.
Gascon paused in his meandering to study a shop, a fruit stall, situated several storefronts away. The owner had almost finished moving his wares indoors for the night after it was clear that any customer stopping by to pick up supplies for a late dinner had long since returned home. There it was, all that food, and no one but one measly shopkeeper to watch over it.
He drew closer and pressed himself against the wall of the building next door, in a place where the streetlamps failed to illuminate. In between trips, the owner typically remained indoors for half a minute. More, when the load was heavy.
Stifling the desire to go the other way, he began to sidle closer, keeping to the deepest shadows. He jerked to a halt when the man emerged outside again. Gascon held his breath, hardly certain as to why he was even doing so, when the owner peered down the street in the opposite direction. He couldn't help but flinch when the man's gaze swept over his hiding place, though it was clear he had not been spotted when the shopkeeper returned to hauling boxes of unsold fruit back inside. By now, his work was almost complete. The fruit cart was the last thing he needed to wheel inside. He wouldn't get another chance. Not tonight anyway, and his growling stomach wouldn't allow for such an outcome.
It wasn't as if this was something he was going to make a habit of or anything. Just this once. Just this one time, and he would resolve to try harder tomorrow. It was either this or starve.
It was either this or starve. Blimey, was he really doing this?
Gascon pushed himself away from the wall and began to stride forward with as little speed as his nerves would allow, but as much as he thought he could get away with. His hammering heart strengthened with each step he took, and its pace doubled when he passed in front of the open doorway. He froze when something crashed inside, the sound of something heavy being dropped, and his entire body stiffened further as a few curses drifted out to him. His thoughts raced over what action he should take, his limbs trembling with the strain required to remain silent when he was aching to do otherwise.
He waited for what felt like an eternity, but the sound of footsteps was enough to get him moving again. As he passed by the fruit cart, Gascon snatched the first apple within reach. He had later come to understand the importance of choosing his target with more care, or else the cascade he had set into motion could have been prevented.
It would seem the fruit he had chosen was of vital importance, for without it, every fruit in the cart began to slide from the display in one great avalanche. Gascon muttered a swear under his breath that would have truly made his little brother gasp had he been around to hear it. The voice that came from inside signified that the racket he had created had not gone unnoticed, a clear signal that it was time he made his escape. With as much finesse as he could muster, he stepped between the fruits rolling about on the ground with all due haste. Having passed the self-made obstacle course, he had barely been given a chance to run for it when a hand grabbed him by the arm.
"Stop right there, thief!" a man's voice said from behind him. As much as Gascon struggled, it was not enough to free himself, and he was pulled closer until he had found himself facing the shopkeeper, who took no delay in snatching the pilfered fruit from his grip with his free hand.
Seeing as force would not work here, he could only hope words might help where his feeble strength could not. "Let me go! I've never stolen anything before! I was just hungry!"
But the man was already calling over a nearby town guard. Though they were not nearly as intimidating as Hamelin's Boarriors, the light leather armor and short swords worn at the waists of every member of Lari's local police force were enough to ensure that these men were not exactly the sort with whom the boy had ever wanted to get entangled.
"This little punk thought he could steal from me," the shopkeeper said, sending the boy in question a disparaging glare.
"I-I'm sorry! I won't do it again!" Gascon tried once more, but no one seemed particularly moved by his pleas. He almost doubted he'd be able to hear their reply anyway had they decided to spare him over the sound of his own pounding heart and the thoughts swirling about in his head in such a whirl-storm that it made him feel dizzy.
He was no thief. He had not left home just to become a common criminal. So what was he bloody thinking?
The only change in the former prince's state was that it was the town guard who now had him by the arm, in a grip twice as strong as the shopkeeper's. At this point, he would have come willingly, not that he thought the man would have believed him anyway. His legs felt like noodles, and he hardly had any energy left to remain upright. He couldn't have run very far even if he had wanted to.
A short walk later, and Gascon was shoved into a small prison cell with nothing but a hard cot and a small, barred window set high up in the back wall. When he looked back, the guard had still not left, but was watching him with one hand resting on the hilt of his sword. "If ya have any weapons, ya best hand 'em over now."
"I don't have anything," Gascon said. He took a step backwards in an attempt to put as much distance between himself and the guard as possible, but the man, clearly unconvinced, only followed until he had his prisoner cornered. The guard reached out, pulling back one side of the boy's long coat to reveal the pistol he kept on his belt at all times. He snatched it away before Gascon could stop him and held it out of reach when the boy attempted to lunge for it.
"Then what's this, eh?"
"It doesn't even work." This statement might as well have been the truth. It wasn't as if he planned on using it on anyone. He didn't have any desire to become a murderer now. Gascon's voice cracked. "Give it back! It's all I have left!"
"You'll get it back when I says ya get it back. No sooner an' no later. Until then, we'll figure out what to do with ya in the morning."
The guard left the cell, slamming the door behind him with one final, echoing clang, leaving him in a world of darkness that not even the candlelight from out in the corridor could hope to penetrate. Gascon slumped in the corner in exhaustion, as if in that moment, every last ounce of strength had finally and completely left him, every sleepless night, every missed meal coming back to haunt him in one sickening rush. He was so, so hungry. He had forgotten the last time he had eaten anything worthwhile.
Never before had he felt so lost. Not when he was faced with the terrifying prospect of one day ruling an entire empire nor even the moment he had come to understand that even this dreaded future was no longer relevant to him.
Gascon ran a sleeve over his eyes, and when that was not enough to stem the impending tide, he buried his face in his hands and sobbed, uncaring if anyone else heard him. He should have never left home. He might as well have no home to return to. He would never be welcome back now. He could never look his father in the eye again.
And worst of all, he could never again face Marcassin, could never tell him what a failure his big brother had become.
Flip, the poor dab's really done it this time, en't it? Reviews might not help our poor boy any, but the author would very much appreciate them.