Hey, it's just gone midnight on Christmas Eve... so call me Father Christmas :P
I don't own Jack's character or anything to do with him, this is my interpretation. Should probably include that on Chapter 1 :S The song I used at the end is an old English folk song called Jackaroe.
Oh - and Happy Christmas
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She could bear it no longer and let a wordless cry into the street. He turned round, suddenly alert, ready to defend himself. She felt small and weak in his gaze. Those eight-year old eyes had seen a lot, and she almost cowered from his fierceness.
"Jack..." her tired voice cracked through the twilight air.
"Who are you?" his voice was surprising; it exposed him for what he was, a frightened child. He knew she was weaker than himself, or he would have run by now. But something about her held him curious. The way she stood, hunched over like she was in pain - or she had been beaten down, time and again, until she became small and insignificant like everybody believed she was. She was just another street child - not so much a child. She looked old to the boy, about twenty maybe. He felt a yearning curiosity, as he always did, for her story. He liked to know what had become of people. What had happened to them to make them who they were. And she was strange, she didn't seem to want to hurt him. She didn't seem afraid of him, even. She was opening her hand to him in a gesture of friendliness - or was she? He edged closer, wary of traps but wanting intensely to know who she was, and what she was holding.
"I'm not going to hurt you," she walked up to him and he backed away. She resisted the urge to run after him, remembering her wary behaviour when she was first cast out alone. She decided to put the beads on the ground and step backwards, watching to see what he would do. It was cold and fog was beginning to creep into the streets. Mary shivered and clasped her thin shawl closer around her shoulders. She watched him closely as he gingerly picked up one of the beads, saw his eyes widen in recognition. He plucked them from the ground one by one and rolled them in his fingertips, opening his hand to reveal their disappearance. His old trick. Now they were safe. But how had she got them? Suddenly the first words she had spoken to him made sense.
"What did you call me?" his eyes were wide open now, full of wonder.
"Jack." she said, her head bowed. She sensed he was afraid of her no longer but she still refrained from moving closer. She had waited so long for this moment and she was not about to jeopardise it now.
"Jack..." he whispered the word and stared into the distance. "Jack..." he rolled the name around his mouth as though tasting it. "How did you... where did you...?"
"I'm your mother." a simple statement which, to her, explained everything. But the boy was not content. He stared at her with searching eyes. Something strange was happening in his mind.
For as long as he could remember it had just been him, on his own, looking out for himself. His life had been like a game, though he didn't realise it. It was what he did. Sometimes there were other children. He learned quickly who to trust, and the list wasn't long. The younger ones would join in with his games, waging combat on each other for food or shelter or just for fun. The older ones let him alone unless he had something they wanted. Mostly he didn't. All he owned were his treasures; some wooden beads, worn and smooth from how much he played with them in his fingers. He didn't know where he'd got them from or what they meant, but it soothed him to roll them around in his palms, to make them disappear by hiding them in his sleeve with a wave of his fingers.
Some street children stayed together in one place, but the boy could never settle. He didn't feel comfortable sleeping in the same place for too long. It meant people knew where to find you, and that could be dangerous. The one thing he liked was the sky. It was big and open and there was nowhere to hide, which meant there was nothing to be scared of. It never changed wherever he lay his head at night, except for the moon. He felt drawn to the moon and the sunset. He loved to watch the sunset. The way the sun turned the whole sky blood-red as it burned its way through the clouds to disappear. It was like magic, although he knew magic wasn't real. It was an illusion, like his bead-hiding trick, and every time he watched the sunset he wondered where the sun went.
But lately things had been strange. He had had the feeling of being watched a lot of the time, and had kept moving even more then usual in an attempt to put off his pursuers. And then one night someone had stolen his beads. He couldn't understand why - they were nothing special to anybody else. But now this woman was here and she had his beads. And she called him Jack. The name stirred something in his memory. Mother... another blurry just-out-of-reach thought. About a year ago he had joined forces with some boys in a fight over something he'd forgotten. They had made a fire and talked. Some of the children remembered their families. They had spoken about mothers and fathers. Some of them had brothers or sisters. And Jack... who was Jack? The woman; who called herself his mother; she had called him Jack. Was Jack his name? He had never had a name that he could remember, never had a need for one. He didn't stay in the same place for long enough, never made any friends.
Mary began to sing softly,
"There was a
wealthy merchant,
In London he did dwell
He had a lovely
daughter,
The truth to you I'll
tell
Oh the truth to you
I'll tell
And men of high degree
There was none but Jack the sailor,
Her true love e'er could be
Oh her true love e'er could be "Now Jackie's gone a-sailing
With trouble on his mind
To leave his native countryAnd his darling girl behind
Oh, his darling girl behind..."