Lessons

[Berkley Whispers]

Summer 36th, 487 AV 12th Bell Keep running. The mantra repeated over a strange cadence in the boy’s mind was loud; deafening. Arms pumped and lungs burned as the spindly legs churned against what felt like an evil wind bent to on taking the lad from his feet. This only seemed to pile on even more grit in the drive to succeed. His pigeon chest rose and fell rapidly but not half as quick as the patter of his worn out shoes against the dusty roads of the Sunset Quarter. It had been a long run from the Castle Commons. The street urchin had gone past the Library and all the way across Baroque Bay before making it to the slums- his home. The mission was simple. Go and deliver a note to a man outside of The Pig’s Foot Tavern then take the long way home. Berkley’s father called it that because there was a quicker route but it meant going through the Seaside Market which had been crawling with spotters from the Slave Market; the Seaside’s southern neighbor. It was simple math- a couple dozen extra strides were far less of a risk than being bagged up for taking a shortcut through the bazaar. It was a smart plan and one that the young messenger had only needed explained once. Things had gone well so far and Berkley was confident that the pattern would continue now that he was on friendly soil. Still…he was tired. It had taken almost every ounce of strength that he possessed to not stop up to this point. Now that he was so close, it’s all he could think about which began to affect his form. His legs fell out of rhythm and failed to hold a straight line. These random steps soon caused his arms to flail as the imbalance spread higher up his body. Finally, with his mouth hanging open and dry from sucking in short breaths, Berkley collapsed on the alley’s busted up surface in a tumbling heap of limbs and dust. The boy was face down against a pile of discarded rags and vegetable husks that smelled rancid. Heaving for air, he pushed himself up from the filth and over onto his bum. A few tears streamed silently down his face leaving streaks in the dirt. He was angry and tired but set his jaw and dusted himself off with both hands. His knees were both bleeding but not in a serious kind of way. His right elbow stung something fierce and the tickling sensation of blood dripping along his arm from the gash felt very strange. The boy’s body was covered in scrapes but he felt how the pain just made him more determined to get up. With a grimace born of pure heart, the ruffian pushed his weight up into a squat then stood up as fast as he could. The tightened and damaged skin protested with a ricochet barrage of pain but once he was upright, the youth already felt better. He was still wheezing and trying to catch his breath but was able to make regular strides, albeit slow, towards his home. When he crested the hill and turned his light gaze down towards his father’s shack, he saw a large man leaning against the defunct well.