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W'P
"The turning point in the process of growing up is when you discover the core of strength within you that survives all hurt." -Max Lerner, The Unfinished Country, 1950
-o-
"Merde."
Jacqueline pulled another splinter from her finger and flicked it away. She was trying to pull open the crate in front of her with just her hands, and it was working, albeit painfully. It had been maybe four days since she had accidentally stowed away on the ship, and she was getting hungry.
The board creaked as it was pulled back again. If she craned her neck she could peer inside and see what looked like food in the dark. When her fingers started to hurt she let go and rubbed them.
Her hiding place had actually been an extremely lucky find. No one had come in yet. Adding to the luck of the crate that she suspected contained turnips, the room seemed to be for miscellaneous storage, and someone had left a chamber pot as well. The worst part, it turned out, was the boredom. Most of the day she sat in her corner and tried to sleep, but there were only so many hours in a day one could sleep. Keeping herself entertained was evidently something she needed practice at. When she got bored in Bayonne she would just go and steal something or throw stones at passersby from the rooftops or talk to Léon about his next great invention—when he got the money.
A pang of homesickness struck her. She wondered if they were looking for her. Did they even miss her? They probably thought she was dead. She imagined Georges and René setting up a funeral with no body to bury. Poor Léon would cry his little eyes out. There was no telling what François would do. Tears burned her eyes and she let out a tiny sniffle.
Her stomach gave an impatient warble, bringing her back to the task at hand. With one last, painful effort she ripped away the board away and reached inside. When she pulled out the contents, she gave the vegetable an incredulous look. It was a potato. Misshapen and rusty red, about the size of her palm, it was a little dirty but didn't seem to be rotten. In fact, it was rather fresh and unblemished.
"I've had worse." Jacqueline whispered defiantly. She brushed some sprouts off the eyes and took a large bite.
Approximately three months later.
"I am never eating you again." Jacqueline whispered the vow to the crate of potatoes, now almost empty. She held her knees up to her chest with her skinny street thief arms. "Never ever ever again."
She was so sick of potatoes. It was literally all she had survived on. One of the barrels had, continuing her streak of luck, contained clean water and therefore relieved her of dehydration. That had only meant, however, that the occasional sailor or the chef would intrude and fetch some water. When this happened, she would gathered the netting up around her and duck down as far as she could until they left. Her state of filth had descended to levels she hadn't thought possible even after living on the streets for close to three years. Grimy and sore, she was ready to break a couple bones to escape out the porthole, if there had been anywhere to go but Open Ocean.
"Land, ho!" The cry was loud enough to be heard far below deck where she sat. The rhythmic rocking of the ship went on for a couple more minutes before slowing down and finally, after so long, came to a gradual halt. The anchor splashed loudly outside.
Jacqueline hunkered down for a long time after that; even though every cell in her body screamed that she make a run for it. She didn't even know where she was, other than probably the Colonies. Probably.
A half an hour passed, and then an hour. Much of the movement stopped above, and she suspected the crew had left the ship to see the sights. She crept from her hiding place, and for the first time left the room. The underbelly of the vessel was dark and moody, smelling of ale and tobacco. No one was in sight. Like a giant rat, she scurried from below and onto the top deck. A pair of redcoats patrolled, and had just turned away from her when she emerged.
Without hesitating, Jacqueline ran to the edge of the boat and threw herself off into the water. It was cold, like the water in France, but this wasn't France. This was the Colonies. Maybe this was meant to happen, she thought to herself. Not God exactly. Fate? That sounds right. It was a miracle she was even alive! What a beautiful chance! What an opportunity for a new life!
For a long time she lazed in the water, smiling dumbly because it tasted sweeter than sugar.
After a while, she swam to shore. Shivering now but no longer dirtier than a stray cat, she wandered the streets. This was what she was trained for—it was her natural habitat. And it was time to test her skills in the New World.
Stepping timidly in front of a woman, she tugged pathetically at her skirt. Contrary to what Ugly Beard had thought, she actually could speak English. She flashed big, blue, "starving child" eyes up at the lady. "Excusez-moi, madame. What city is this?"
"Oh, you poor darling!" The woman exclaimed, but stepped back in clear distaste. She held a fine parasol and wore a cotton dress. Her accent was English and so heavy that Jacqueline had to strain to understand her. A fat coin purse hung at her belt, and she eyed it hungrily. "This is Boston, you dear sweetheart."
"I don't want to stay in the city." Jacqueline said, and this was actually true. Now that she was in America, she wanted to see if could make a living for herself other than stealing from other people, because every young thief knew it never lasted forever. "Where can I go outside of here?"
"Oh, you shouldn't wander alone, you muffin! But if you're really set on it, try going north to the Davenport Homestead. There are some kindly souls there who'll surely take care o' you." The woman smiled and hurried away.
Jacqueline weighed her new coin purse in her hand and considered that. What was the fastest way to get there? By sea, likely. As much as she loathed the idea of ever getting on board a boat again, that was her ticket.
After much wandering in the huge, bustling, talkative, wonderful city, she bought a hot croissant from a French merchant she happened upon. It tasted like the best thing ever to pass her lips, and not just because her sole sustenance for the past three months had been potatoes. Buying things felt good, and even though the money was stolen, it was a stepping-stone.
More wandering along the docks, and she found what looked to be the harbormaster. He was a bearded and kindly looking man who was surveying complex maps with a compass.
"Excusez-moi," Jacqueline edged toward the stall. The harbormaster looked up and smiled at her.
"'ello there, young lady. What can I do for ya?" He set aside his compass and placed his hands palms-down on the table in the universal gesture for doing business.
"Are there any ships leaving for the Davenport Homestead soon?"
"Aye, that little crate there, the Mariner." The harbormaster stepped back to show her a small ship, almost a boat. A couple men were loading logs onto it. "Settin' sail in less'n an hour."
"Is there…" Jacqueline cleared her throat. "Is there a charge?"
The man laughed. His skin was deeply tanned. "Not fer a poor child like you, girl. Go on, hop on. I'll come with ya, if ya like, tell the boys to be nice."
"That's okay, monsieur." She said, already inching toward the boat. A last thought occurred to her. "How long is the voyage?"
"The Homestead's not too far. It'll be arrivin' this evenin'." He gave her a little wave. "Good luck, lass!"
"Merci." Jacqueline hurried onto the boat, thankful for the short journey. She ducked under two men carrying a huge log that was more like half a tree. Close to setting sail now, the deck bustled with activity. Feeling rather in the way, she dodged the scuffling feet, jumped to the nearest shroud and climbed. It was easy and fun, and she felt like a spider as she crawled vertically up to the crow's nest.
The sun was high in the sky, and shone down upon Boston and glittered on the water. Jacqueline leaned forward and smiled, feeling a great swelling in her heart. Perhaps things would not be so bad, after all.
Later That Same Evening.
Night was falling on the Homestead as the Mariner docked. Jacqueline nearly skipped away, waving goodbye to the lookout she had made friends with. The coming dark didn't bother her at first, but as she ventured into the forest, it became consuming. With her little blade held in both hands defensively, she treaded carefully through the wood.
Something skittered on a nearby tree, and she jumped. Another something rustled in a bush and she sidestepped quickly away. Doubt began to trickle into her mind. What had she been thinking? She was a young girl in a foreign land with no experience surviving alone. This was madness. Just to make her evening worse, thunder cracked loudly overhead with a blinding flash. All at once, rain began to pour through the canopy like a tap had been turned on. It was angry, painful rain that came down with a vengeance. The droplets stung her skin where they hit.
A rock sticking up from the ground came from nowhere, and she went sprawling on her face. Mud and water soaked into her clothes no matter how fast she scrambled up. Drenched to the bone, she started off at a frightened jog. Leaves and low branches swiped at her face, disorienting her. She no longer knew where she was, or what direction the docks would be to go back to the Mariner. Itching tingles swept up her legs, like bugs were crawling on her.
Light flickered through the trees. A ray of hope. Jacqueline dashed forward, slipping in the new mud and tripping over knobby roots. The forest thinned and gave way to mossy shelves of rock. She climbed over them and continued running. Stood on the hill before her was a manor of brick and white paint. Lanterns on the porch were lit to give it an inviting look.
Huffing and bowed over, she caught her breath before knocking. "Bonjour? Is anyone home? Hello!"
There was silence for a moment. The door opened slightly to reveal a hunched old man. "Go away."
The door slammed shut. Jacqueline stood, blinking in shock, but knocked again. "S'il vous plait, monsieur! I have nowhere to go!"
Again the door opened. The man glared at her for a moment, clearly preparing to reject her again, when his eyes fell to her necklace. "Where did you get that?"
She weighed her odds. "I'll tell you if you let me in."
"Hm." He seemed to consider it. "Come on, then." He opened the door and she slipped inside.
It was warm and welcome on the threshold, but she felt out of place and dirty. Water dripped from her clothes onto the floor and runner. A walking stick jabbed her between the ribs, drawing her attention to her host. The old man was less hunched than he appeared and was more or less her height. Bright, youthful eyes glared from under a beige hat and dark skin.
"Now, answer my question. Where did you get that?" He tapped the necklace. "Do you know what it means?"
"I got it from my mother." Jacqueline said indignantly, placing a hand over it. "And no, I do not."
"Hm." The man rubbed some salt-and-pepper stubble on his chin. "And who was your mother?"
"Her name was Arlette Sauvageot. My father was Arnaud Sauvageot. They are dead."
"Did you happen to see who killed them?"
"Yes. My mother was murdered in front of me and my father burned protecting us." Jacqueline had grown numb over the past two years. It no longer bothered her so much to speak of these things.
"And were these men wearing red crosses?" The old man asked. There was a knowing tone to his voice, like a detective investigating a line of inquiry.
She paused, and nodded. "Oui. They were. Why?" The pieces clicked. "Do you know who killed my parents?"
"Yes." He held up a hand. "Before you ask, I don't have names. But these men belong to a group of people called Templars. Your parents, well…it's a long story, one that's not well told on a doorstep." He gestured tiredly with his cane and led her down the hall. "Come and have a seat. I'll tell you."
The manor was less nice inside than the outside let on. Most of the furniture was covered in white sheets, and those were covered in dust. The floorboards creaked under their feet. The scent of neglect and disuse hung in the air like a cloud. The old man did not seem to notice this.
The foyer at the end of the hall was toasty with a fire, and Jacqueline almost jumped right in. "What's your name, girl?"
"Jacqueline." She responded, stretching out by the fire. "Et toi?"
"My name's Achilles, but if we're going to talk, you'll need to drop the French. I don't speak it well enough. How good is your English?" He sat heavily in a chair.
"Fairly good." Jacqueline muttered. "Well enough to understand any story you have."
"That should have to do. Now, let's begin…"
And Achilles began to speak. It started simple, with the fundamentals of the Templar and Assassin Orders. Then he told of Ezio Auditore, an Italian Master Assassin who had connected with some quasi-god spirits that told of an impending doom far in the future. The story became tangled and intricate, a web of allegiances and intrigue that stretched back hundreds, if not thousands of years. The speech stretched out into the deep of the night. Jacqueline hung on his every word, entranced by this underworld of mystery she had never could even dream she had a hand in.
"I want to fight against the Templars." Jacqueline said passionately, now sitting up against the hearth. "Can you train me to be an Assassin?"
"I'm afraid my training days are over," Achilles sighed, arching his back to pop a couple joints. He looked down at her crestfallen expression and gave a weary smile. "But…I suppose I can make an exception."
"Really?" Jacqueline gasped, but quieted down respectfully. "I mean, thank you, Achilles."
"We'll start tomorrow morning. You can have one of the spare rooms upstairs. And Jacqueline," The girl stopped and looked back at him. "I suggest you get your rest. We have a big day tomorrow."
-o-
Three years passed in a whirl. Time flew by as Achilles taught Jacqueline about the Assassins, art, language, mathematics, different cultures, and morals. They grew a steady, friendly relationship. She was ambitious and almost over-eager to learn, devouring every book he gave her and every lesson he taught her. The lessons' times were cut sometimes in half by her thirst for knowledge.
Moreover, she was trained to run, climb, ride on horseback, fight, and kill with precision. Her already nimble thief's skills were refined to razor edge. She especially enjoyed free-running and acrobatics, and learned to climb the trees on the Homestead in no time. The training, no matter how difficult it got or how relentless Achilles could be, was infinitely better than living with no idea when or if her next meal would come. To her, there was almost no better life she could imagine.
In a secret room below the manor, male Assassin robes hung on a straw dummy. Jacqueline wanted her own, and drew an unskilled design of one she wanted for herself. At the end of her training, Achilles left for a couple days. When he returned, he had the tailored robes for her.
"You're one of the youngest people I've ever trained, girl," He said one day, the wrapped package under one arm. "And, if I'm being frank, one of the most eager. Here," He handed her the robes. "And I got you trousers instead. If you want garters you can get them yourself. I have some dignity."
"Thank you, Achilles." Jacqueline smiled and ran off to her room to change. She had made a point of designing it with lots of capes. One was long and from her shoulders, and other was a skirt that was long in the back. The top was pinned to her left on and angle, with brass buttons.
That evening, she slept in her new robes.
The morning after, she woke late, so late the sun was setting again. Her training had the sense that it was winding to a close, especially since Achilles didn't bother waking her with a cane to the ankle for sleeping in. Her hair had grown out in the years and she pinned it back with a few ties. A quick straightening of her capes and she trotted downstairs to see Achilles eating a simple dinner.
"Good morning, Achilles." She yawned and sat at the dining table.
"It's 'good evening' now." The old man flipped the page of a thick book that he was reading by candlelight.
"Did you have anything planned? I thought you would wake me up." She reached over to his plate and got her hand slapped away. "What time is it?"
"Get your own food! No, I don't have anything planned. It's too late, anyway. Your time training with me has almost come to an end, though you do not have to leave if you don't want to." Achilles glanced up at her from the book.
"I want to start hunting Templars." She said determinedly. "There must be some sort of conspiracy going on in a town as large as Boston."
Achilles rubbed his chin. "I don't think I want you storming the front lines quite yet. Remember you're still a young girl with only three years' training in you."
Jacqueline sighed and sat back in her chair. "I suppose…you're right. I only wish I…" She was interrupted by a knock at the door. "I'll get it."
Upon opening the door, she raised her eyebrows in surprise. A boy of about her age stood on the front porch. He was a Native, dressed in beige skins with feathers and a braided lock of hair. His skin was fairer, though, and she wondered why. He seemed just as surprised to see her.
"Hello," Jacqueline said, a little timid now. She was used to Achilles' company, and his only. Strangers coming to the door made her a little uneasy. "Can I help you?"
"Is there, uh, anyone else living here?" He asked, leaning to look around her and into the manor. He glanced at her necklace and opened his mouth to say something.
"One moment." And she closed the door in his face before he could. "Achilles, there's someone here and I think he's looking for you."
"Let me see." Achilles stood and hobbled over, leaning on his cane. He opened the door. "What?"
"Um, I...I was told you could train me." The boy said.
"No." Achilles slammed the door shut. A few seconds later, there was another knock on the door. "Go away!"
"I'm not leaving!"
"Achilles…" Jacqueline gave him a look. "Give him a chance. You gave me one."
"Exactly. I had one chance left in me and it was you." He limped away, waving a hand. She trotted after him.
"He sounds even more desperate than I did." She bargained. "What if I helped? I could teach him acrobatics or hand-to-hand combat."
"I'll think about it. For now, I suggest you go groom that horse of yours. She's not been fed today thanks to your late wakeup."
"I'll feed her tomorrow. I think it's going to rain, anyway." Jacqueline strode past him and walked up the stairs. "I'm going to sleep."
"Again?" He cracked her ankle with the cane on the way up. "You're getting sick, girl."
Sourly rubbing her foot, she hopped upstairs and went back to bed. Still drowsy, it was easy for her to simply pass out.
-o-
The next morning a loud knocking on the front door again woke Jacqueline. Cross now, she wrenched herself out of bed and pattered downstairs, her bare feet thumping rapidly on the stairs and her nightgown billowing behind her. The boy was at the door again. As she stalked forward to answer it, if only to tell him to go away, a yell from the upper floor stopped her.
"Don't answer it, Jacqueline!" Achilles called down. "He'll go away eventually."
"Can I tell him to go away?"
"Do you want to encourage him?"
A knock on the back door made her turn to look. Jacqueline sighed and turned back around to stalk up the stairs. Her mentor, however, had already beaten her there. He threw open the window to call out to the boy as the doorknob on the back door below jiggled again.
"I apologize if I have been unclear, or otherwise confused you with my words." He called down, where the boy stood on the back stoop. "It was never my intention to mislead. So let me try to clarify: get the hell off my land!"
Jacqueline rolled her eyes with a scoff, but was smiling. "That was harsh, monsieur."
"I'm coming up!" The boy said loudly, as though to warn them.
"He must be simple to not take a hint." Achilles grumbled. His cane pushed into the small of her back, ushering her along. "Now go practice your fencing."
"Not a chance. I want to see how you handle this." Jacqueline crossed her arms and followed him back to the room that led to the balcony. It was a study, musty and smelling pleasantly of books.
On cue, the door rattled in its frame. "Just hear me out. What are you so afraid of?"
Achilles got that look in his eye, and Jacqueline instinctively stepped back. He threw open the door, and the boy stumbled back. "Afraid?" The old man asked incredulously, angrily. "You think I'm afraid of anything, least of all a self-important little scab like you?" He hooked his cane under a heel and sent the boy toppling over. Stepping over him, Achilles placed the handle at his throat. Jacqueline peeked around the corner, and the boy glanced at her. She shook her head in warning, and he put up his hands in surrender.
"Oh, you might dream of being a hero," Achilles went on threateningly. "Of riding to rescues, of saving the world. But stay this course, and the only thing you're gonna be is dead." He stepped back over him and hobbled back toward where Jacqueline stood. "The world's moved on, boy," He muttered over his shoulder. "Best you do, too."
After the door closed, they could hear the boy yell after them. "I will not leave, do you hear me? I'm never leaving."