Dust and Water: A Song For The Stained Novella (A MAGICAL SAGA) Read online

  The boy next to him just waves his arms around, like they’ve taken on a life of their own.

  The ma counters with her own sharp hand movements, a flutter of her fingers, a touch to her chin, a brush of her arm, and I think they’ve both lost their marbles.

  “Right then, tea’s getting cold,” the da says.

  “Took your sweet time, didn’t you,” Dom says.

  I flip him off again and stand waiting for a bread roll – or bread roll and bowl of broth, which would be even better – to get tossed at me.

  The ma pulls a roast from the wood oven, and the da sets about carving it up whilst bowls and plates containing all manner of vegetables, salads and steaming slices of bread are passed around the table. My stomach growls loudly and Jenny turns to laugh at me.

  “You not hungry?” she asks.

  I try to speak, but the smell of roast pork hits me and I just stand there with my mouth hanging open.

  Dom laughs and this time I’m ready to pounce on him and beat the dung out of the pig-kissing-son-of-a- … I don’t finish that thought-sentence.

  The da clears his throat. “Sit, boy.”

  “We’re not going to throw the food into that open mouth of yours,” Dom says.

  Their father’s at the head of the table but the other seat left empty is opposite him. Possibly the only seat I don’t want to sit in. My style of eating is grab it, and get out of there. So, sitting at the table is an issue – sitting opposite the guy in charge is just crazy.

  I grab the chair, and the plate, and drag them to the corner of the table, with the exit at my back and three other people between me and Dom, then his da.

  Dom shakes his head and sighs, but I’m sick of looking at him. Across the table their ma sits down. Next to her three boys, maybe in the six to ten age bracket, are arguing over some toy they have hidden under the table. Their ma levels an icy gaze on them and the middle boy quickly stuffs whatever it was under his shirt. Followed by some of his odd hand movements.

  “Can’t he talk?” I say before I have a chance to stop myself.

  Everyone looks at me, but the kid I’m talking about. After a second, he acknowledges the fact that every head in the room is facing my way and he turns too.

  “Oh,” I say. “He can’t hear.”

  The kid sticks his thumb on his nose and waggles his fingers, flipping me off – telling me I stink. Only their ma manages not to find that funny.

  “Well, your nose works fine,” I say.

  “Here,” the girl says, passing me a bowl of round, juicy, vibrantly green peas.

  “Tar,” I say, taking it from her.

  “What?” she asks, chuckling a little.

  “Tar. You deaf too?”

  She out and laughs at me, making me freeze mid pea serving and consider flicking my spoonful all over her.

  “Da, what’s ‘tar’ mean?” she asks.

  “It means you shouldn’t be talking to a vulture,” Dom says, his tone serious and his eyes on his own meal – he didn’t say it just to mock me.

  “My name’s Hunter, not Vulture,” I mutter.

  “Ease up, Dom,” the other boy says. “Anyway, everyone introduce yourselves to our guest.”

  “Good idea, Ash,” the da says. “Hunter, my name’s Roland.”

  “You can call me Sareen, son,” their ma says, and I really hope they’re not expecting me to remember their names; I’ve lived my whole life avoiding the kids on the street, not befriending them. I only bother with one name, my cousin Mercy.

  “Andy.”

  “Scott,” the middle kid says, his sounds drawn out. So he can’t hear, but he can speak, kinda.

  “Dan.”

  “I’m Jenny,” the girl says, introducing herself again.

  “I’m Ash, and I’d better introduce my big brother Dom for you. Seems he’s lost his manners,” Ash says, wrapping his arm around his brother’s neck and scrubbing his knuckles through the bigger guy’s hair.

  Dom pushes Ash aside, but he’s smiling – so he’s not a complete dung-ball after all.

  Roland, Sareen, Andy, Scott, Dan, the girl, Ash and the dung-ball – Dom.

  “Er,” I say, getting another chuckle from Jenny. “What?”

  “We don’t go into the city very often,” Sareen says. “So we don’t hear street talk very much.”

  “Slang, ma, it’s called street slang,” Dom corrects.

  “It’s just talk to me,” I say with a shrug, then I dive my fork into my food and I’m determined not to emerge from this tunnel of bliss until all of it is gone.

  Rotten Threats.

  The straw is warm, and the food in my belly has me sinking into something deeper than sleep, more like a stupor. I’ve always wondered what bliss would be like – this is it.

  “Hey,” Dom says, grunts actually, kicking my foot.

  Lucky I still have my boots on, as if I’d take them off and give these fools a chance to steal them.

  “What?” I grunt.

  “I just want to make sure that you aren’t going to be here in the morning.”

  I open one eye and stare up at him. I’ve always been good at sensing things, like when dung’s about to get slung. I’m sure he’s not my best friend, but he’s not about to hurt me either – not yet.

  He crouches down, lowering his face close to mine. “Let me be street-rat clear, have your sleep, then get yourself and your stench out of here.”

  I stretch and yawn, using the opportunity to put my fist in an about-to-smack-you-in-the-face position.

  “Let me get this straight, are you saying you don’t like me?”

  He grabs my shirt and lifts me closer. “No, and if I see you tomorrow, I will run you through.”

  Standing he adjusts his belt, making sure my attention is drawn to the sword hanging off it. Then he marches from the stall, the door banging loudly but not latching.

  “And don’t ever talk to my sister again,” he calls.

  Muddy Morning.

  I roll over, surprised to see shafts of light cutting through the space above my head.

  My cellar doesn’t have any natural light. Then I remember I’m in some strangers barn, not my usual corner of potato sacks piled into a bed.

  “Oh, good. You’re awake,” Dom says.

  Sludge rains down on me. I only just manage to close my eyes and mouth before I’m covered in watery, chunky, mud.

  Dom laughs. I sit up out of the straw and scrape my eyes clean enough to open them.

  “What did you do that for?” I shout.

  Somewhere on the other side of the stable Dom stops laughing and clears his throat. “What’s the matter, rat, I thought you liked being covered in filth.”

  “No,” that’s Ash’s voice. “He’s a vulture, remember, not a rat.”

  They start laughing again. I scamper out of the mound of hay, which I was using as a blanket, and check that my hoard’s safe. Yep, the mud missed the lot of it. And it’s a good thing too, or I’d have to clock that guy one on the nose for ruining good coin.

  I march past them, ignoring their crap talk, and to the water trough. My vest is still here from when I washed up last night, and I use it again to get most of the mud off me.

  “No wonder you people don’t get many visitors out here. Talk is it’s because of the bandits, but it’s really because you’re all dung-balls.”

  “Oh, we do get bandits. They’d skewer the likes of you and not even realize they’ve done it,” Dom says.

  I know they get bandits; I make a good part of my living from finding lost things after battles. Dom’s missed the point of my comment, to do with his dung attitude, and I’m not about to try and argue stupidity with the stupid.

  They set about saddling their horses and I layer and fold the selection of shirts, pants, belts and other stuff, so I can tie it up and carry it into the city.

  Roland clears his throat and slowly, ready for a wallop, I turn.

  His hands are on his hips, and he doesn’t loo
k impressed, but there certainly isn’t an I’m-going-to-kill-you glint in his eye.

  “Any man who leaves a place looking like that doesn’t rate very highly in my books,” he says, his gaze set on the mud covered stall.

  “Well,” I begin.

  Dom, his horse’s rein in his hand, is watching us from the barn door. An ever-so-slight smile on his face.

  “Your son did that,” I say.

  “Did he just?” Roland looks back at Dom, catching him still smirking in our direction. “Well, it’s only fitting that he helps you clean it up, then.”

  Roland stalks from the building, stopping to take the reins off Dom and clock him on the back of the head.

  “Good one, rat,” Dom says, marching towards me. “Here.” He throws a rake at me and grabs himself an oversized bucket.

  “What? You’re going to clean it up?” I ask, shocked.

  “Of course I’m going to ruddy-well clean it up. Wouldn’t have to if you’d done it, would I?”

  “You know for someone who’s older than me you act a lot like a child,” I mutter, staring at Dom as he begins to shovel the messed straw into the bucket.

  “Well?” he says.

  “You’re doing a great job,” I say.

  “Get to work,” he says, trying to clock the back of my head like his dad did to him – and missing.

  Muttering I find myself a spot furthest from him and start raking. The mess slides, with as much force as a rake can muster, closer and closer to the bucket. Then, finally, I manage to get it all over his shoes.

  I let myself cackle at him.

  He drops his shovel and dives across the pile, tackling me to the ground.

  “Oi,” I shout. “Not me’ hoard!”

  “Your hoard?” Dom mocks with both his water coloured eyes wide. “Oh, these things.”

  He reaches out and grabs a handful of muddy straw.

  I writhe, trying to get out from underneath him, but he has me pinned and he’s a dung-pile heavier than I am.

  “Don’t do it,” I growl.

  But it’s too late, the outer layers are now covered in big, long, smears of mud and straw. He reaches for another handful and I sink my teeth into his side. He screams and scrambles not just off me, but out of the stall too.

  “What did you do that for?” he demands.

  I’m looking down at my mess-covered hoard, trying not to cry with just the thought of the beating I’m going to get over this. To dung with the mess in the stall. I grab my pile, mud and all and I hoist it up onto my shoulders, behind my neck.

  “What’s going on here?” Roland booms.

  I step out of the stall, ignoring Dom with his shirt raised to display a bloody bite mark. Actually, no, I’m not going to ignore him. I kick him in the shins on the way past.

  “Thanks for the straw, Mr.” I say to Roland, walking past him.

  I can hear talking behind me.

  “Hunter,” the girl says, running from the house to greet me. “Are you leaving?”

  “That was the plan,” I say.

  “But I just convinced mother to let you join us for breakfast.”

  Right, then my stomach grumbles. Breakfast doesn’t exist at home.

  “I’ve gotta be going,” I mutter, stumbling a little as I get the rhythm of my load.

  “Oh, well,” she begins. “I’m clearing a field today, out there,” she says, waving towards the forest behind the house. “But I’m sure Da would hire you on, you know work for food type of thing, if you decide you want to stay for a bit.”

  “Look, girl, I have a home and it’s less of a dung heap than this,” I growl, marching out the gate.

  Dung Luck.

  At the end of their driveway, I stop and dump my hoard on a little cleared spot. I kick a loose stone, then a stick, then the air, as the frustration bubbles up inside me. Here I am putting my things down nice and neat, looking after them so I can make the coin that my Pa will be expecting, and they’re already ruined! Whilst I just rejected perfectly good food!

  The sun creeps higher, but I don’t want to go anywhere, or face my Pa, I just want to kick a stone for a while. So I keep kicking things.

  “Having a bad day?” a man asks.

  I glare at him as he walks towards me. A healer. I humph, and reach for my things.

  He looks down at the bundle. “Ah, looks like you’ve been having a bad day.”

  “What would you know?”

  “Everyone knows about having bad days, boy. Bad luck doesn’t discriminate.”

  “Dis-crim-inate?”

  “It means bad luck isn’t choosy. It will smack anyone it wants right across the face. There’s no point trying to fight it.”

  “This luck you’re talking about, I guess it’s one of your gods?” I ask, but I’m already trying to load my hoard onto my back, and I don’t really care what the guy has to say.

  He chuckles, which sparks a little bit of care in me. I stare at him. He’s not that tall, kind of old-guy-hunched-over; I could easily kick his seat-cushion, if that’s where this conversation is going.

  “No, even the gods have to contend with luck and all its pleasant or nasty tendencies. Though, rumour of a goddess of fate has circulated amongst the temples. That could just be talk. If she’s real, she hasn’t visited this part of the land yet.”

  “Look, I’m not really interested.”

  His hand shoots up, and for a second I’m sure he’s going to whack me, but he stops. Still like a statue.

  “What?” I ask my voice low.

  There’s no one else on the road. No noises coming from the bush. No clouds in the sky or anything else that would make the face of a man of magic crease in worry and fear.

  He lifts his hand high above his head and rubs his fingers together. As if testing the feel of the air. “Bandits,” he says.

  I drop the load from its half-on-my-back position and stare nervously into the trees.

  “Not here,” he says, shaking his head. “Over there.” He points off towards the Rathernfen homestead, the direction of the fields that the girl pointed out.

  I can’t breathe.

  The healer doubles over as if he’s just been hit by an invisible foe.

  “And pain,” he says, grunting.

  I grab his arm, helping him to balance until he can stand straight again. There’s not a mark on him, and no blood either. Wide-eyed and confused I look from his wound free body to his clearly shaken expression.

  “Not me, boy. I must go. Someone has been hurt, badly.”

  He shakes of my assistance and rushes, old-man-like, down the road. So, the person in need of a healer isn’t from the Rathernfen homestead, because the healer’s headed somewhere else, but I can’t stop a nervous sensation from jumping around inside me, like someone just let a crazy-fluffy-long-toothed-rabbit out of its cage.

  I run to the Rathernfen homestead.

  Dom’s just leading his horse out of the stables, a sour down-turned look on his face.

  “Quick, where’s the girl?” I ask.

  “Get out of here you. I only just finished cleaning up that muddy mess, now get lost,” he says.

  “Shut it, where’s Jenny!”

  “Out working, which you wouldn’t know a thing about,” he says, waving vaguely in the same direction that the healer did.

  I know the healer wasn’t worried about these people, but if bandits move on from one attack, they’re not just going to wonder nicely past the opportunity for another.

  “And did you just tell me to shut it?” Dom says.

  This guy is dense. I run up and try to rip the reins out of his hand. He might be dense, but he’s also strong.

  We wrestle for a moment before I shout, “There’s bandits in the area.”

  His eyes open wide, every feature on his face changes from pain-in-my-butt to fear stricken.

  “How would you know?” he demands.

  “A healer on the road warned me.”

  Now he believes me. Mounting
up he shouts, “Ma, bandits!”

  And he rides off down a narrow dirt track.

  Great, he could have given me a lift. No, instead I run – hope it’s not too far.

  Clear Honesty And Dirty Lies.

  With my legs pumping faster than street-rats with the authorities on their tails, I clear the forest just behind Dom. Panting, my lungs on fire; I look around the half-cleared field. The girl’s manoeuvring a plough behind a horse, the three younger boys are picking up stubborn clumps of grass and throwing them off to the side, and Dom’s eyeballing the tree line for any danger.

  He rides his horse up to me. “You sure?”

  There’s no malice or argument in his voice and for a second all I can do it nod. Then I find my voice. “Would a healer lie?”

  “Right,” he says with a nod. “Bring it in guys. It’s not safe.”

  The girl looks across at her brother with a frown, then her gaze lands on me and she bursts into a huge smile.

  Why would she do that? And more importantly how can I stop her.

  Oh, bother. “Come on, let’s go,” I shout, walking over to help her.

  The horse struggles to move whilst the girl fumbles with the leather straps. I grip the only thing dangling in front of me, the horse’s reins, and try to keep him still, standing as far away from him as possible, and the younger boys start dragging the small plough towards the cart.

  “I thought you’d left,” she says, taking the reins from my hand.

  “I have left. Couldn’t leave you lot out here on your own, though.” Which reminds me. “Where’s Roland and Ash?” I ask Dom.

  “They can look after themselves,” Dom says, his eyes still scanning our surroundings.

  “Are you sure? I can handle this, you should go find them.”

  “You? You’re not even armed,” he says, looking at me long enough to flash a mocking grin.

  I’m not about to tell him that I’m wearing more blades than his whole family owns. They wouldn’t be an effective self-defence if people could see them, now would they?

  I hold the horse still again so the girl can hitch him up. The boys are already in the cart, ready to go.