I...don't own Doyle, I don't own the Secret Saturdays, I don't own Doyle's parents.
I do own...the kids that are picking on Doyle, the shopkeeper, Faizura "Fae" Tailor, and her tutor/chaperone/whatever-he's-supposed-to-be.
And Anzu. Though I'm starting to wish I didn't.
You'll see why soon enough.
This chapter was originally titled "Cruel."
You'll see why soon enough.
Um, I mentioned that discrimination will occur within my story, right? Including occasional ethnic slurs.
Now what was the reason for bringing that up?
Oh, right.... This was the reason.... (And this won't be the last time.)
I refer to the Grey Men in this chapter as "grey demons." I typically refer to them as "grey demons" (after someone else calls them that, first). The difference becomes relevant in Chapter...35.
Timing: a few months following chapter 11. Summer, maybe? Same year, at any rate.
Anywho:
Child's Plight
Doyle was hungry.
He was hungry, and afraid, and confused.
The animals kept telling him to try the bigger houses; those places had more food, more good food. But he still bore the scars one of their people had given him the last time he'd tried, and he was afraid to try again.
He found himself approaching one of those houses, in spite of his fear. Some instinct pulled him to this house. He'd learned to trust his instincts; they sometimes showed him danger where there was none, but they rarely let him walk unknowing into danger.
He approached a lone house, and finally heard what pulled so hard at his instincts.
Some small animal was in there; a kitten had fallen into a hole on the other side of the fence. He'd heard the animal crying for help.
He found the hole, but the fence post was too deep; he couldn't get to the kitten from this side. He glanced around to be sure that no human watched him, and climbed through the fence.
He peered into the hole before deciding on a move. The dirt was loose, and if he wasn't careful, he could send it on top of the animal. The kitten had already found that out when he'd tried to climb out on his own.
Doyle sang quietly to the kitten and its momma, easing their fear before he reached in.
He shoved some of the dirt around, a little here, a little there, and finally he had room to grab the kitten and pull him out. Doyle set him on the ground so his momma could fuss over him and wash him off.
The kitten hadn't been hurt, except for his pride; he had only been scared, though now he tried to pretend he wasn't.
Doyle laughed at the kitten's act...and heard someone behind him join in.
He spun around to see a young woman watching him. He trembled and pressed himself up against the fence.
The woman either didn't notice his fear, or pretended not to notice. She reached down and picked up the kitten and his momma, and cuddled them to her.
"Did this nice young man rescue you, my little daredevil?" The woman made a clucking noise at the kitten, and he purred and rubbed against her throat. "Such heroism must be rewarded, don't you think?" The kitten meowed in agreement.
She motioned for Doyle to follow her. He blinked. She...didn't seem like she'd want to hurt him. There was something about her, something nice. Not magic, like momma and daddy had, but something that felt...good about her. Something he hadn't found in the other villagers. The animals liked her; even the kitten's pride faded in the face of his love for this human. And Doyle's instincts rarely let him walk unknowing into danger....
But he still bore the scars from the last time he'd approached one of these places.
Oh, do as she says, already, the mother cat purred at him. She didn't speak in words, exactly—words were more a human construction—but that was the feel of her thoughts. She doesn't bite. Least not at little starveling kits who haven't the fangs to bite back.
But she's human, Doyle protested in the same form. They always try to bite me, sooner or later. You haven't seen what I've been through!
The mother cat hissed and bared her teeth at him. Insolent kit! She doesn't bite, but I've half a mind to; I'd smack one of my own kits for talking back. I will not take that from a feral runt who hasn't even a twitch of a scent what he's arguing about.
Doyle considered arguing further, but decided against it. The cat might've been his age in years, but her mind was adult and her spirit ancient. And her tone sent that she knew exactly what other humans had done to him. If she saw that, and still believed that this human was different....
The cat settled her fur back into place. Just because the two-leggers you've run into have got more claws than brains doesn't mean all of them are like that. This one knows a good kit when she sees one. She grumbled, but she sounded pleased that Doyle had changed his mind. And even some of them as don't have brains aren't so quick to use their claws, except to get someone else's claws out of them.
The woman merely quirked an eyebrow at the cat's quick change in moods, and when Doyle got up, she led him inside.
Inside, the woman put down the cats and looked Doyle over. She wrinkled her nose at the state of his clothing, wandered into another room, and came back with a pile of clean clothes. She held them up to him, one after another, until she found a few sets that looked like a good size.
She made a wry expression. "Guess it pays to be the tailor's daughter. And if anyone complains about what I do with my investment, I can always argue that charity looks good on taxes."
She grabbed the few outfits she liked the size of and steered Doyle into another room with a huge tub.
"Can you get yourself clean, or will you need some help?" she asked as she filled the tub.
Doyle stared at the rising steam and almost missed the question. He had to think a bit about the dialect before he could answer. "Yes ma'am...I mean, I can clean myself."
She saw his expression and tried to hide her amusement. She'd expected him to react that way to a good meal, but to a hot bath? "All right, then, once you get cleaned up, try on those clothes I got out. I don't know if they'll all fit quite right, so you tell me if you need something different. If you've got anything with you that you want to keep, get it out, but as for your old clothing...." She looked him over again and grimaced. "Those things aren't even any good as rags anymore."
He stared at the floor. "Yes, ma'am."
She showed him the knobs and the drain, in case he needed to add water or refill the tub, and spread out a few different soaps and utensils for him to choose from. "If you need any help, with anything, let me know. Meanwhile...I'll try to have some food ready by the time you get out, okay?"
He nodded. The woman, unwilling to discomfort him more than he was, left to follow up on that promise. Once he was sure she wasn't coming back in, Doyle stripped and climbed into the tub.
He soaked in the water until it turned cold, refilled it and added some of the soap she'd given him, then had to fill it a third time to rinse away all the soap. He dried himself off with two soft towels and reveled in the feeling of finally being clean for the first time since the attack in the mountains.
His stomach growled, reminding him of what else the woman had offered. He glanced over his old clothes, checking for spells that daddy might have left, then ignored them as not worth keeping. He picked through the new clothes until he found several articles that fit him well enough.
He heard yelling, and paused while trying on another shirt. There was a man out there, and the man was arguing with the woman.
"—too much time with that Benton savage!"
"Excuse me, sir, but my father pays you to teach me academics, not to tell me who's allowed to court me and who isn't. And Benton is not a savage!"
"Hunter, savage, same difference. He spends all of his time out in the woods, killing wild animals for a living. He's hardly fit company for a lady, Faizura, much less a suitable partner—"
The woman replied with a string of very rude words.
"I rest my case." The bathroom door opened, and a man dragged Doyle out before he could even react.
The man shoved Doyle towards the front door. "And now he's got you taking in beggars. For someone supposedly intelligent, you don't seem to realize just how dangerous that can be. Sure, some of them are harmless enough, but one can never tell." The man paused and reached into his jacket. Doyle took that moment to finish struggling into the shirt.
The man pulled out a few coins and shoved them at Doyle. "Here, boy, go buy yourself a meal." He glanced at the woman. "Cheaper, still looks good on taxes, and far safer than letting a stranger into your home."
The woman gaped. "You can't expect him to go back to that village. He's a gypsy—"
The man smiled. The expression was neither cruel, nor nice; the man merely looked...bored. "All the more reason not to let him into your home."
The woman swore again. "You know how those idiots are about gypsies; they'll tear him apart!"
But the man wasn't listening. He shoved Doyle outside and slammed the door in his face.
Doyle glanced at the coins in his hand. He knew people bought things with different kinds of money, but he hadn't the slightest idea what kind he'd been given. And he wasn't sure he wanted to know, not with all the people who'd hurt him for it. But he wasn't sure what else to do, so he dropped the coins into a pocket of his new pants and trudged back to the village.
He could still hear the man and the woman arguing behind him.
He shook as he went back into the village, but as usual, most of the people chose to ignore him. More than usual, actually; maybe because he didn't look so much like a beggar anymore. He stood up a little straighter; maybe he could do this.
He smelled fresh bread, and he let the scent lead him into one of the stores. He looked around and saw a man behind a counter.
The man seemed to ignore him, but he approached. "Excuse me, sir?" He stretched up to drop one of the coins on the counter. The man immediately turned at the sound and put on a bright smile. "What can I get for this?" He thought the question might be dangerous, but he didn't see how not asking could be any worse.
The man looked at the coin and took in the appearance of the boy before him, and put on an even brighter smile. Judging from the clothes, he was probably one of Faizura's charity cases, and the man didn't want to risk losing her family's business by being less than polite. "Why don't you give me a moment, and I'll see just what I can find, all right, kid?"
Doyle nodded. The man went into a back room for a few minutes.
Doyle suddenly stiffened. His instincts alerted him to danger even before the door opened.
"Hey, now, lookee here at the rich little gyppo." The speaker spit out the last word like it tasted bad. Doyle whirled to face the speaker, a boy who looked nearly full-grown. "Nice clothes, gyppo; where'd you steal them?" The boys behind him, almost as big as the speaker, laughed.
The man came back out when he heard the laughter, still holding the knife he'd cut bread with. "Here, now, why are you trying to scare away my customer?"
Another boy shrugged. "He's no customer, he's a thief."
Doyle pressed himself up against the counter and looked wildly for an escape route. But the boys were crowded in front of the only door.
The man snorted in derision. "Pretty well dressed for a thief. Did you see him steal something, then? Or are you just trying to make your usual trouble?"
The first boy spoke up. "Of course he's a thief; he's a gyppo."
"A gypsy, huh?" the man snarled. The boys nodded, and one of them laughed.
At that statement, several things clicked in Doyle's mind at once. Gyppo...gypsy. What some outsiders called them. Romani, daddy's people. Daddy had told them that not everyone liked Romani, that some people were mean to Romani. These boys called him a thief...because he was a gypsy. And that woman had said that the villagers might hurt him...because he was a gypsy?
His eyes widened at the realization, and he glanced up at the man, hoping for some kind of reassurance. The man had been nice to him when he walked in, even if it was just because he was going to buy stuff. Surely the man wouldn't let these boys hurt him....
Doyle cringed. The man looked very angry...and he was looking at Doyle.
"A gypsy," the man repeated. "A thief. In my shop."
The man walked around the counter, still holding the knife. Doyle recoiled from the man's anger; his whimpering threatened to turn into screaming. The boys moved around to get a better view.
"Out! Out! Get the hell out of my shop!" The man waved the knife in Doyle's direction. "Vermin! I'll teach you to come into my shop, you filthy little rat!"
Doyle stumbled into a wall. He glanced around frantically, and made a break for the door.
Some of the boys applauded, as though the man had put on a show just to entertain them.
The man stomped back to the counter, shaking with rage. "A gypsy," he hissed, "in my shop." He glanced at the coin Doyle had left, smiled, and dropped it into a pocket. "Here, you," he said to the boys who stayed behind. He pulled a handful of small coins from his cashbox—the total worth maybe half the coin he'd gotten from Doyle—and handed them over to the boys. "Go buy yourselves a treat."
One of the boys turned to the first one. "Are we going after him, or what?"
The first boy shook his head. "Nah, not yet. Let the runt get a head start." He counted down a few seconds on his fingers. "Okay, go!" The boys ran out in a pack, each trying to out-shout one another, hollering about what sort of things they might do to Doyle once they caught him.
Doyle had noticed that nobody was following him. He wanted to slow down, to catch his breath and look for a hiding place. But his instincts warned him to keep running.
Be the hunter. The hunter is calm. The hunter doesn't panic. Be the hunter. He repeated that mantra, and started to slip into his trance.
And then he heard the boys hollering at him.
He darted around a corner. His smaller size let him avoid certain obstacles more easily than they, but he was out of breath, and they were bigger, stronger and faster.
Be the.... "NO! Nononononononononono...."
He felt something strike his back. One or more of the boys had grabbed stones to throw at him. He tried to run past the pain, let it force more speed into his legs, but otherwise ignore it.
One rock struck him near his knee. It threw him off balance, and he fell to the ground with a yell. The boys swarmed around him, kicking him and throwing their stones at him. He tried to get up and run away, but they grabbed him and threw him back to the ground. They called him "gyppo," and "thief," and yelled insults he only vaguely understood and other things he didn't understand at all.
After a while, they stopped hitting him, but three of them still held him pinned to the ground. One of the boys asked their mob leader what they should do with him.
The first boy thought for a moment. He looked around at where they were, and a grin formed on his face. He grabbed Doyle by the hair and forced him to look up. "You see that river over there, gyppo? They say a demon lives there." Doyle tried to pull away, and the boy snickered. "Yup. A demon that eats people. They say a lot of people died on that river, because of the demon." He released his hold on Doyle. "Do you know where demons come from, gyppo?"
Doyle shivered and shook his head.
The boy frowned. "You ought to know. They come from the same place as gyppos. They come from Hell." He sneered. "Maybe if we feed a gyppo to the demon, it'll go back to Hell and stop eating our people."
Doyle stared at the boy and struggled to get free. He started crying.
Some of the boys started to shift uncomfortably at the suggestion. One suggested that since he's a thief, he should be punished like a thief. And everyone knew that that you punish a thief by cutting off his hands.
The first boy glared at the one who'd objected. "Nah. He could still be a problem for us honest working folk. And then there'd still be the demon." He jerked his chin towards the river. "Take him."
The other boys looked at each other warily...but none of them were willing to contradict the first one.
Doyle tried everything he could to get free. He screamed, he kicked, he bit, he clawed, he begged for them to let him go. He tried to dig his feet into the ground, but they held him up so he couldn't reach. None of them were brave enough to contradict the mob leader, and every time he twisted free of one boy's grasp, another one stepped in to grab him.
Doyle screamed and cried; he wasn't sure what he said, though he thought he'd called for momma and daddy at one point. The mob leader snickered about that.
And then the boys dropped him. One of them gasped. Two more started to scream. And then all of them ran away.
Doyle huddled on the ground and shivered. He didn't understand why the boys had run away; if something scared them, how much worse would it be for him?
Several moments passed and nothing happened. Doyle forced himself to look up...and his eyes widened.
"Momma! Daddy!" He grinned and got to his feet as quickly as the pain would allow...and daddy shoved him back to the ground.
He blinked. "Da—daddy?" He looked up at his parents in confusion. They looked strange; angry...and mean. "Daddy, what's wrong?"
How dare you? Pathetic little brat! Doyle stared. Little coward! This is all your fault! You killed us!
Doyle cowered away from his father. "N...no! I didn't—"
Daddy slapped him, and Doyle screamed. The merest touch burned worse than even what those bad hunters had done to him.
That monster attacked us because it was after you. Those grey hunters killed us because they were after you; killed us, and sent your sister to her death.
"No!" Doyle shrieked.
Momma scowled at him. Oh, she survived. But we couldn't protect her. We could have gotten away from the first monster, if this sniveling little brat hadn't run away. But no, you ran away, you left us to face that thing, left us too busy to protect our own daughter!
"I...I didn't run away," Doyle sobbed. "I tried to help you, I did! The monster hit me, and I—"
And now you make excuses, Daddy said with a sneer. And you dare to beg us for help? Filthy little vermin. You let those grey hunters kill us, and now you think to shelter among the dead?
More ghosts appeared and surrounded him, ghosts of wet people, or broken people. These other ghosts looked as angry as momma and daddy.
Momma's smile was cruel. Oh, but perhaps he should shelter among the dead. It would make things so much...easier for us to deal with. She reached out and grabbed his ankle...and started to drag him towards the river.
Doyle started screaming again. He didn't know how he got free, but he felt her release him, and ran away as quick as he was able. He kept running until he was too tired to take another step, and collapsed, weeping. Fear alone kept him awake.
It was only when exhaustion caught up with him that he finally passed out.
—
Anzu dissolved his illusions and shook his hand where Doyle's magic had stung him. He chuckled to himself. A child, a mortal child, had actually managed to hurt a god. That child might be more interesting than Anzu had first believed....
Jonathon and Anna, no longer blocked by the god's power, stared at him.
Jonathon saw only Anzu's amusement, and his rage built until he couldn't keep his mouth shut. "What the hell is wrong with you?!"
Anzu glanced up at him, then continued to try to work some feeling back into his hand. "Funny thing, but swearing at a god doesn't have the same effect that it would on a mortal." He glanced back at Jonathon. "I find the religious epithets especially amusing."
"My lord, you'd promised to protect our son," Anna said through her tears.
"I promised to ensure that he is prepared for the role he must play," Anzu corrected. "He'll need to be self-sufficient."
"Self-sufficient?!" Jonathon shrieked.
Anzu winced at the blast of mental energy. "Shrieking doesn't do much, either. I admit, you were more powerful than most humans to begin with, and as a ghost, you are stronger yet in the supernatural department—" He rubbed at his injured hand. "—and your son clearly stronger still.... But the fact is that you are still a mortal, and I am still a god."
Jonathon snarled at the god. "Self...sufficient," he repeated. "You? You mean to make him paranoid. You mean to keep him from ever trusting anyone!"
The birdman cocked his head. "There's a difference?"
"Lord Anzu, please," Anna said. "Whatever your goal, do you honestly believe it was necessary to terrorize him?"
Anzu shrugged. "I certainly couldn't have him running to 'mommy and daddy' whenever he felt like it."
Jonathon tried to swallow back his tears. "But you—you made him think that—that we—" Grief warred with anger.
Anzu snickered. "You don't have much confidence in the boy's strength, do you? He'll get over it. He's stronger than even you. I wouldn't thought him useful if something this minor could damage him beyond repair."
"I'm sorry," Jonathon growled. "I forgot. I'm talking to a damned god, who isn't even capable of understanding mortal emotion, and thinks it's funny that he traumatized a child!"
"And they say that the gods have no patience," Anzu muttered. "My goodness, I never planned on leaving him like that. I'll fix it...eventually."
"You fix it now," Jonathon replied.
Anzu shook his head. "What's done is done, and my capacity to undo it is...limited. And if I try to fix it, before he's had the chance to grow stronger and move past it on his own...." Anzu shrugged. "You just said I don't understand mortal emotion; suppose I damaged him more?"
Jonathon glared at the god. "I don't care that you're a god, I will find a way to kill you."
"Do let me know when you've found it. Or at least, don't mention it again." The birdman yawned. "Empty threats are so dull." He flew off, leaving the two ghosts to weep into each other's arms.
*Jaw drops*
I repeat Jonathon's question, though with different words. What, in the name of all of the gods, is wrong with Anzu? Do all of the more sadistic gods go that far?
Though I'm starting to wonder if even "sadistic" is a strong enough word to describe him.
And the same question goes for most of the villagers, especially that mob of nearly-grown boys.
(Oh, the age and size thing is important. The three he mentioned in a previous chapter were about twice as big as Drew was back then, and this mob is nearly full grown. And Doyle is...well, approximately a year older than when the avalanche occurred. I guesstimated he was five when that happened, so he'd be six in this chapter—as is only relevant in the few chapters that refer to a specific age—but he might've been younger. Not sure how much my timeline would be affected by official information in that area.
Huh. And it took three from that mob to pin him down. So brave of them, don't you think?)
Wow. A chapter that makes Doyle the victim, and it isn't because of the Grey Men.
A lot of the trouble he faces throughout my generic history is due to prejudice against gypsies (when it isn't because of Anzu or the Grey Men, and sometimes even then....), but this is the first time he made the connection.
On a lighter note, remember that business with "animals behave strangely"? I...still haven't taken that as far as it's going. How far I take it depends on the story. It'll reach a certain level in this generic history, but some of my later stories take things further yet.
(And to fish for specific reviews, what—good or bad—do readers think of the manner in which the animals communicate? I want to use that concept in my original fiction, so please let me know how it worked. I go into more detail in Chapter...um...27.)
Some of you may have noticed that I tend to repeat myself. Maybe a basic concept, maybe half a phrase, maybe an entire sentence, but I will repeat some things. Some are accidents—I change around a scene, and forget to remove one line or another—but others are deliberate.
I still want constructive reviews, but remember, "I meant to do that" may be a valid response if you call me out on certain "mistakes."
And not just about the repetition.
Thought process:
Fae "originally" appeared...in the next story arc. (Not next chapter; next arc. This one's got three more chapters.) She ended up in this chapter because I needed some reason for Doyle to have money on him when that mob decided to go after him.
Oh, and she wasn't just standing around arguing with that tutor; she was trying to get back out to bring Doyle back inside. She just never managed to do so before he left.
And that tutor wasn't being cruel; he's just as prejudiced as the villagers, and ignorant of the cruelties the villagers are capable of, but not cruel in and of himself. He was being practical by pointing out that bringing a stranger, even a beggar child, into one's home can be very dangerous.
More about Fae:
Her full name, Faizura, started out as an accidental mispronunciation of Turkish "Fairuza," but turned into a combination of that name and "azure."