Candles Against the Sea
Chapter 5: Exploration
The bell above the front door tinkled, and Nilla looked up, eager to greet the newest visitor to the Onorda Street clinic. "Welcome!" she said warmly. "Come in, come in! Can I help you?"
The boy paused shyly just inside the door, his hand still on the push-bar that crossed it. He was a slender youngster, perhaps twelve or thirteen, his sandy hair in a short, spiky cut. His garments were ordinary, new-looking, a scuff on one knee. He looked like any one of hundreds of pre-adolescent children in Reshifc.
Nilla's eye was drawn immediately to the large bruise that covered half his face. It was mostly healed, but Nilla's lips still tightened in anger. Somebody had punched this child.
She purposely did not focus on it, not wanting to frighten the hesitant boy away. "Well, what brings you here? I'd be happy to answer any questions you have."
The boy stepped slowly to the desk. "I . . . uh . . . I'd just like some information."
Nilla started pulling brochures from her desk drawers. "We offer a number of free services: shelter, counseling, med care . . ." She glanced at the pamphlet in her hand, which offered free pregnancy testing, and put it back in the drawer. "You can register anonymously, if you like. No one needs to know. This clinic is meant to be a safe place for those who have nowhere else to turn."
The boy nodded soberly, his eyes on the sheaf of flimsyplast Nilla held out to him. As his slender fingers closed about the brochures he glanced up and offered a brief, brilliant smile, allowing her a glimpse of sparkling blue eyes. "Thank you. I'll just study this information for now."
She watched him wander over to the small lounge area and settle himself into a chair, spreading the brochures on the low table in front of him. That accent . . . it was Deep Core. This boy—or his parents, perhaps—did not come from Sylelius.
Nilla had been a receptionist at the Onorda Street clinic for two years, starting here on recommendation of her sister Mili after she was downsized from the comm part plant down on 122nd Street. It was a good job. She enjoyed welcoming frightened, hurting people into a place where they could be safe and begin to find healing for their wounds.
She felt that her heart had become cold and shrunken in the impersonal surroundings of the part plant. Now it was warm and open again, and seemed to get bigger with each person she encountered. It made her more vulnerable to pain, as her compassion was constantly touched and pricked by the poor folks she met. But it also opened her up to enjoy more of life. The trade was worth it. Absolutely worth it.
Over time Nilla had developed a sweet, welcoming manner that served her very well in this job. It was a gentle kindness, one that offered help without insistence, without pressure. She knew when to speak and when to be silent. Sometimes the right word could draw a hurting soul in—sometimes the wrong movement could send a frightened child away. Nilla had learned all of these words and movements, some by instinct and some by experience, and she could draw almost anyone.
This boy, now . . . There was something about him. Something shuttered and silent, and infinitely sad. It went beyond the healing black eye, but Nilla supposed that the two were connected. This youngster had hidden away a part of himself, finding it a liability in the game of survival.
It happened every day, she knew. Exuberant children learned that attention meant pain, and destroyed their enthusiasm to become quiet and reserved, knowing the seldom noticed meant seldom beaten. Battered women learned that their men would not tolerate any other relationships, and so they hid away their connection to parents, siblings, friends, and even children, fighting desperately to please what would never be pleased. Oh, it was tragic. And it happened every day.
This boy, now . . . this charming young man with the bright smile and the brilliant, subdued eyes . . . What had he lost? Something very important, Nilla knew. Something that, perhaps, could never be regained. Oh, it made her heart ache. And it made her angry. No one should have to go through this kind of pain, least of all an innocent child.
The boy had finished reading the brochures and now sat looking out the window thoughtfully. There were shadows under those blue eyes, Nilla noticed, shadows of weariness . . . and pain? Unaware that he was being observed, the boy let some of the deep sorrow she had sensed rise to the surface. For the briefest moment a look of utter misery flickered on that pale young face, then was gone.
Nilla couldn't stand it any longer. She bustled out from behind the desk and sat in the couch perpendicular to his chair, angling herself to face him. He turned to look at her, young face once again clear and calm.
She laid her hand gently over his, and he seemed startled, but did not pull away. "Listen, sweetie, you don't have to put up with this. Who is it? Mom, dad, uncle? Employer? Whoever it is, what they're doing to you is wrong, and you don't have to submit anymore. What do you say you step into one of our meeting rooms and have a chat with someone? No pressure, you don't have to make any promises, just have a nice, friendly little conversation."
Surprise flickered across blue-green depths. "No one is hurting me. I'm all right, really."
Nilla nodded gently. Of course he would deny it—few admitted to being abused on their first tentative visit to the clinic.
"Truly, I got this black eye in a fight."
That did not explain the shadows on his face, the flash of misery she had seen, and the silent sorrow he still concealed.
"Very well. But will you talk to one of our counselors? I promise, no pressure. You don't have to come back ever again, if you don't want to. But you should at least know your options."
He studied her intently for a few moments, giving her a good chance to study those huge eyes that seemed to blaze of their own light. What color were they, after all? She had originally thought they were blue, then blue-green, but in this light they seemed more of a pensive greenish-gray. And even as she watched, they seemed to shift.
"All right," he said at last. "I'd like to hear more about what you have to offer here. But, no, I will not make any promises."
"Fair enough." Nilla clasped the boy's hand warmly in her own, and they rose together. "I just want you to know what's available to you, sweetheart. No one should have to deal with pain and grief alone."
"No," he agreed quietly. "No one should."
-
People were shouting, and a crowd was gathering on Onorda Street. Nibbi slowly stuck his head outside his box, blinking at the afternoon sunlight. He had hidden here after lunch—a handful of nuts he'd found in a can in a recyclobin—to nap. He was napping more and more, lately, whenever he wasn't searching for food or running from the gangs. Napping required no energy, and he felt no hunger and pain while he slept. Some of his dreams were even kind of nice.
Nibbi cautiously crawled out of his hiding place, leaving the nice warm robe there, where no one could find it and steal it from him. He edged down the alley, keeping close to the wall, his eyes fixed on the crowd gathering on the street outside. Life on the street had not killed his curiosity yet. Crowds like this only gathered for speeder crashes, shootings, and gang fights, and he wondered which one this was.
Automatically his eyes searched the crowd for begging targets. Mostly gang members, older street kids and beggars, some local merchants, a few housewives from the apartments. None of them had any credits to spare for a filthy street vrelt, or so they had informed him on more than one occasion.
The center of the clot of gang members was roiling agitatedly, and everyone's attention was focused there. Nibbi heard bloodthirsty shouts of encouragement, groans and gasps, sounds of flesh striking flesh. It was a fight, then.
Nibbi insinuated himself into the crowd, wanting to see who was going at each other this time. Rell and Stiner had an on-going feud, and that Sullustan couple from down street—Mr. and Mrs. Bnong, was it?—occasionally took their differences outside, or it might be random members of opposing gangs letting their insults escalate into injuries.
It was no good. The little vrelt couldn't get close enough for a clear look, and the constantly shifting bodies only gave him occasional glimpses through the legs of the gang members immediately surrounding the fighters. With a thrill of terror, Nibbi recognized Tronak, who took it upon himself to make sure that the urchin got a regular taste of his thick, plastoid belt. That belt hurt a lot—the edges were sharp and bit into his skin more often than not.
Nibbi began inching his way out of the crowd, trying not to touch anyone and draw attention to himself. Maybe he could find a recyclobin or something to climb up on . . . At the edge of the press of bodies he almost ran into a tall, burly man, one he didn't recognize. He stared up at the human in something approaching awe, completely forgetting the turmoil about him. The man was dressed like any other loser on Onorda Street, but something about him didn't seem to fit. He held himself differently, without pride, but without defeat. Somehow, he reminded the little vrelt of Obi, the most amazing person Nibbi had ever met.
The towering man held himself in silence, arms crossed over his chest, eyes fixed on the combatants in the center of the crowd. His gaze was intense, focused. It seemed to Nibbi that maybe the big man wanted to join that fight, but he held himself back. Somehow the child knew that he had nothing to fear from this one.
Timidly, trembling a bit at his own daring, Nibbi tugged on the man's tunic. "'Scuse me, mister."
He looked calmly down at the vrelt, and a gentle smile lit on his face. "Yes, little one?"
In spite of himself, Nibbi's voice shook. "C-Can you tell me what's goin' on? I can't see." He realized that his fingers were still wrapped in the man's tunic, and let go abruptly. Stars and little fishes, but this fellow was big. He could squash Nibbi like a teeny-tiny bug, if he wanted.
The man studied him thoughtfully. "Would you like to see?"
"Yes, please."
The giant's eyes seemed to flicker a bit in surprise at that. A polite street vrelt? Without hesitation, the man turned toward the little boy and held out his arms.
Nibbi took a nervous step back, eyeing those big, broad hands with suspicion. He bet it would it hurt an awful, awful lot to be hit by one of those. Then he looked up at the gentle, open face, and the fear faded. He held up his own arms, like the trusting little child he no longer was.
The man picked him up easily and balanced him against one shoulder. Nibbi gasped a bit at the sudden movement and wrapped one arm about the light brown head to anchor himself. "All right?" the man asked, looking at the child with smiling, faded blue eyes.
"All right," the little vrelt said faintly. "Thanks, mister. 'M Nibbi."
"I'm Quig—" The man bit his lip suddenly.
"Quig? Thank you, Quig."
Quig smiled. "You're welcome, Nibbi.
Nibbi finally turned to watch the fight. For the second time in as many minutes, he gasped. "It's Obi!"
-
Author's Note: Okay, so it took me two weeks this time. I hope it was worth the wait! I think I've found my voice with this story, and I know where it's going. Thanks for reading and reviewing! The main part about RL sucking right now is that I have intermittent pain in my fingers and wrists, maybe carpal tunnel syndrome or whatever. This doesn't mean that I will stop working on this story though. Be patient! Let me know you care! Love you all!