From Dark Beginnings

Hey guys,

Here’s my latest piece, a brief story set in a friend’s universe, “A Story of Salt”. This tale is about a poor fishing apprentice, who is mercilessly hounded by his own personal devils, “The Greedy Boys”. It’s the darkest piece I’ve written, I was debating not posting it at all, but here it is anyway. As always I appreciate any thoughts or feedback you might have on the piece.

We warned, the piece has some very dark themes and strong violence.

I promise I’m not a serial killer.

Cheers,

Jevan

As soon as Malcolm saw the Greedy Boys, he knew he was in trouble.

He’d taken the long way back from the fishing house, adding at least an hour to his journey, but still they had found him. He’d emerged out of the small alley, groceries for his family in a small wicker basket, clutched tightly to his chest, as though the air itself would steal it as soon as his grip slackened.

In this damned city, it wasn’t too far from the truth.

Ark was supposedly a jewel of the Empire, but the people who said that had obviously not spent any prolonged amount of time in the fifth ring. The furthest ring from the center of the city. The guard only rarely did patrols through the Roosts, one of the poorest districts in the whole of Ark, and when they did, it was only because Michael Mercy and his gang of “Hatters” had paid them too.

Luckily, the Hatters didn’t deal with children.

Unluckily, some kids at his age did.

They were the richest boys in the district, all because their father was a close friend and colleague of Michael Mercy. Sadly, as well as money, their father’s relationship to the crime boss brought them power too. Nobody would refuse a request, or show them any form of confrontation.

Because that would mean that their father would hear about it.

Which in turn would mean that Michael Mercy would hear about it.

A lesson had been taught, when a butcher had cuffed one of the Greedy Boys round the ear, telling them ‘They needed to learn some manners’. Within a mere day, Michael and his gang had ‘stopped by for a visit’.

Stripping all the skin from his body.

Every inch.

Then he hung the body in the market square, right in the centre for all to see. The worst thing though, was nobody took the body down for a full day. It was left rotting, in full view of a rare passing guard patrol, who remarked how terrible it was for a butcher to fall on his own knives.

Since then, nobody had crossed the Greedy Boys.

They had developed an obsession with Malcolm, ever since they saw him walking back from his job at the fishery one evening and the only thing worse than well connected little shits, was bored well connected little shits.

They jeered at him, saying all manner of hurtful things about how he smelled and how worthless he was. They threw stones at him, giving him a nasty cut above his right eye. This was shortly after the incident with the butcher, so Malcolm wanted to be as far away from them as possible. He had fled, as fast as his legs could carry him.

When he arrived back at his house, his mother saw his face and demanded to know what had happened. Initially, he told her a stray fishing hook had whipped past him, but she always knew when he was lying. After a few questions, he broke down into a fit of tears and told her the truth. She held him tightly and cleaned him up, saying only one piece of advice.

“Take another way home from now on sweetheart.”

Since then, he mixed his routes back home every day, but alas, there were only so many routes in the roosts he could take. They found him. Sometimes not for days at a time, but sometimes every day of the week. Each evening he made it back without seeing them was to be treasured, because sooner or later they would find him again.

The best days they found him were just when they hurled vile insults, for they were too tired or busy for anything else. The worst days were the beatings. Never enough to prevent him from working or walking, for if they did that, what would keep them amused tomorrow?

There were three of them, all brothers. Tommy Greedy, Simon Greedy and the biggest and cruelest, Viktor Greedy. Vicious, poisonous bastards.

“Oh boys, look and see what we have here!” Tommy said with a sinister smile. He was sitting casually on a broken brick wall, one arm resting on the crumbling structure, the other dangling by his side menacingly. Although the youngest of the three, he made up for it by always being the one to give the last blow, whether it was with his fist or his sharp tongue.

The sound brought him back to the present, where he stood in the alley, still gripping his groceries firmly.

Malcolm’s grip tightened on the basket. His eyes went wide with fear.

“If it isn’t the little fish, all alone! Where are you going little fish? Where are you going without saying hello?” Simon said patronisingly, like someone might speak to a newborn babe. His thin frame seemed to appear out of another adjacent alley, like an ant emerging from a crack in a piece of woodwork. At thirteen years old, Simon stood fairly skinny, but he had a horrible way of being able to soak his every spoken syllable with a horrible chill. It never failed to make Malcolm’s stomach twist with horror.

Malcolm wanted to run, he really did, but he was rooted to the spot. Even though he was bigger and older than the two boys, he was unable to think of anything to say. Unable to make his body obey his commands. As the two brothers drew closer and closer, he felt the dread descend on him utterly, making his eyes wet with tears.

“Aww look at him! Bless his soul, he’s crying!” Simon said with his horrible voice.

Before Malcolm could even think, another voice sounded directly in his ear. He felt the hot sour breath on his face and he could smell the faint traces of soap in the air.

“We missed you yesterday, this should make up for it.”

Viktor.

Unlike the other two brothers, Viktor’s body was nearly a man’s. He stood tall and proud, at that dangerous age of sixteen where his mind was just realizing what his father’s protection truly meant. He would walk through the streets as if he owned them, taking “gifts” from stall owners and simple merchants, ridiculing anyone who he deemed not important enough to know. He had outgrown violence, savouring the taste of ordering others to do it instead.

Apart from when Malcolm was concerned.

He felt Viktor’s strong hand grab a handful of his messy hair with a hard yank, making him squeal in panic. The basket slipped out from his hands as he tried to regain his balance.

A fist crashed into his stomach, driving all the air from within him, making him gasp for breath that would not come. Bright light burst from his head as he was thrown onto the ground, hitting the rough cobbles harshly. A savage stomp landed on his ribs and he felt white hot fire blossom in his chest.

He found the breath to scream.

The sound seemed to spur the brothers on, all three of them wearing hideous, wide grins. Malcolm couldn’t stop himself from sobbing, curling up to protect his burning chest.

“Again again!” Tommy laughed, clapping his hands with an evil glee.

Simon moved in to deliver another brutal kick, but he was stopped in his tracks by Viktor, who calmly raised a hand and waved him back. He looked down at the wicker basket lazily, almost as if it was the most boring thing in the world. Delicately, he bent down, inspecting the goods carefully with a quiet, menacing focus.

“What’s all this for little fish? You can’t possibly eat all of this, fish don’t eat eggs or bread.” Viktor asked innocently, his voice deep and gravely like his father’s. With a slight nod, Simon kicked the back of Malcolm’s head, making him cry out yet again.

“It’s for my ma…” He managed to say in between sobs and groans. His head throbbed and his chest was burning, like a thousand hot needles stabbing him over and over again.

Viktor’s eyes crinkled in confusion as he took a handful of ash out of the basket, letting it fall through his fingers freely. Before he could ask about it, he found a prize at the bottom, which brought another wicked smile to his face.

“Sugared almonds? Oh little fish you’ve outdone yourself! What a treat eh boys?” He said holding his arms out wide. Tommy and Simon gleefully dipped their fingers into the drawstring pouch, stuffing handfuls of the sweets into their mouths furiously. Viktor looked again at the now-strewn contents of the basket, shaking his head dramatically.

“For your ma eh? She could do with going hungry for a bit, the fat bitch!” He snarled, stamping on a fresh loaf of bread, crushing the middle, embedding the dirt and grime of the alley deep all over it.

Malcolm wanted to shout “Stop!”, or to run far away, but he stayed curled up in his ball, praying for it to end. He wanted a bolt of lightning to descend from the sky above and blast them into pieces, but alas, as much as he hoped, no lightning came.

Tommy and Simon joined in and soon everything that had been in the basket was reduced to inedible mush. The eggs had been smashed, the milk thrown against a wall, the small pouch of salt ripped open and scattered into the wind.

Malcolm just curled up tighter.

Viktor knelt down and grabbed Malcolm’s hair again, making a whimper escape from his quaking lips.

“You’ve got tomorrow off, because it’s the seventh day, but we’ll see you on the first. You can be sure of that.” He growled, leaning forwards as he spoke, until he was only inches from Malcolm’s face. He held him there for a few more seconds, defying him to make a move, but Malcolm kept quiet refusing to meet his eyes.

Viktor stood and motioned to his brothers.

“Come on, let’s go. Those almonds have given me a thirst.”

He strode purposefully away, with Simon licking at his heels, running to catch up. Tommy lingered for a moment, his eyes narrowing with hate. He spat on Malcolm, then ran away giggling to himself.

Malcolm lay there, in the middle of the alleyway for some time, with only the dirty cobbles for company. Dirt was all over his clothes now, spattered across him in a thin mist. He didn’t move, because moving made his chest burn hot and sharp. Through his bleary eyes, he could make out the small pile of ash across from him, unblown by the gentle wind.

He most certainly didn’t put that in the basket.

*********************

On and on it went for poor Malcolm, each meeting growing seemingly worse and worse for him. Although the torture continued, day after day, he did what most others would fail to do.

He endured.

It was a credit to the young boy’s character that he could keep going onwards, despite the constant abuse. They robbed him, kicked him, disrobed him, beat him and tore at him with their horrible words. Over and over again.

Each time however, a little piece of Malcolm became more and more twisted. With every fist that hit him, another piece of his soul cracked and strained under the hatred he felt for the Greedy boys. It tore him asunder, knowing that he was powerless to stop them, both physically and because of their terrible father.

Every name they called him sawed and frayed his spirit, making his mind wander to many dark places he had never known to tread.

When Viktor had broken his nose six months later under his bootheel, the pain was surprisingly not the first thing which came to him. The snapping of the bone was excruciating of course, but at the precise moment when it happened, a dull feeling swept over him, covering him completely and utterly.

Shadows danced within his mind. Visions of ash falling and whispers of nothingness talking echoed faintly in his head. It was at that particular moment, before the pain hit and made him scream, he heard a teeth rattling sound all around, of glass shattering.

Strangely, he found comfort in the noise.

The noise of something within him, giving way.

*********************

“Petir, tell me you’ve finished those nets now? You’ve been on it all pissing day!” Rutter said, with frustration hanging off of every syllable he uttered.

Petir, a fairly useless lump of a man, shrugged and continued to tinker with the broken strands in the large net. He possessed the remarkable gift of being able to appear like he was working, without actually doing any work.

Rutter shook his head and looked over his small workshop with a sigh. He had men cutting and filleting the fresh catches, getting them ready and primed for sale at the market square. He had men fixing and repairing small fishing boats. He had men checking and stowing equipment for the next set of fishermen. He had men cleaning and tidying the large room, sweeping scales, dust and offcuts into piles to be emptied later.

But he only had one damn man mending the nets, or at least, pretending, to mend the nets.

He cast his gaze around, searching for something in the room. After a moment or two, he scratched his silver stubbled jaw and frowned.

“Petir, where’s Malcolm?”

The useless lump of a man shrugged again before he answered, never taking his eyes off the broken strands of netting he held.

“Dunno boss. I think he’s had to get back to his ma. He left in a hurry once he’d done the knives.”

Rutter’s frown intensified.

If that bloody boy’s gone without anyone’s say so, there will be hell to pay. I swear to the saints…

He moved across the room, weaving in and out of the working men, until he stopped by an old man, running a fillet knife across a whetstone with a careful hand.

“Arthur, where’s Malcolm? I thought he was supposed to be helping you.” He said sternly.

The old man looked up from his sharpening and cracked Rutter a wide, friendly smile, albeit one that was missing a few teeth.

“Oh I’ve sent him home, he’s done a grand job today! All the blades are sharp as razors, you could shave a spider’s arse with em! He came in early and I know he’s got to get back to his ma. She’s had some problems as of late.”

The old man waited, expecting some kind of reply, but Rutter stood still, gazing at the vast array of knives laid out on the table in front of him.

“Is everything alright boss?” Arthur asked.

Rutter continued to stare for a few moments before he answered.

“We’re missing a knife.” Rutter said, confusion twisting up his face.

******************

Simon Greedy tossed yet another stone into the canalway below him, watching the coin splash and disappear under the murky waters. He leaned his head right back and sighed heavily, reaching into the ground next to him for more ammunition with which to continue his assault of the innocent body of water.

Viktor Greedy took out his timepiece from his waistcoat, giving it a quick glance before returning it into its rightful resting place in his pocket. His eyes darted around like a shark’s, searching his surroundings, looking eagerly for prey.

“That little bastard is making us wait! He should have been here by now…” Viktor snarled, to nobody in particular. Simon lazily cocked his head over, halting mid throw casually.

“Maybe he just went another way home?”

“No. The Mcdolan boys told us he’d left ten minutes ago, heading down the canalway you stupid idiot! He should be here any minute now.” Viktor spat the words out with such vigour that Simon actually flinched from them.

“Yeah, you’re right…I am stupid…sorry Viktor.” Simon agreed, throwing another pebble.

Just as the water swallowed the small rock, they both heard a series of scrabbling footsteps from the roof to their left. A moment later, Tommy Greedy’s impish face appeared, smiling brightly with a childish glee.

“He’s here! He’s just round the corner!” Tommy whispered over to them both.

Viktor’s eyes narrowed. The corners of his mouth crinkled slightly as he smiled.

Simon dropped a handful of stones and stood up straight, joining his brother with a sinister grin.

Sure enough, just a few heartbeats later, Malcolm appeared out of the alleyway in front of them. He was holding another wicker basket full of groceries, cradling it with one hand on the front and one on the back.

There was something different about Malcolm. Gone was the fear in his eyes. Gone was the hopeless look that he usually wore, although to the excited Greedy boys, they noticed nothing of the sort. Their minds were too preoccupied with thoughts of anger and contempt.

Viktor spat onto the cobbles before he spoke.

“You filthy little fisher boy…do you think you can keep us waiting?”

Malcolm didn’t answer, his face as smooth as a stone.

Tommy clambered down from the roof with a child’s efficiency, but lacking any form of finesse. He wobbled as his feet touched the ground, arms flailing for a moment, although in a second it passed and he focused his full attention on Malcolm.

“Yeah you dirty gutter rat! Do you think you can-”

Viktor cut him off, slicing his hand through the air viciously like a sword. “Be quiet, or you’re next.”

Before Tommy could register what had happened and form an appropriate apology, Viktor began walking very slowly over to Malcolm.

“Now, we were going to let you off with a good kicking and then taking whatever’s inside that lovely basket of yours…but now, I’m going to beat you within an inch of your life.” His hands curled into shaking fists of pure rage. Simon obediently followed his brother forwards, mimicking the movement of his fingers into little fists of his own.

“Not even your own mother will recognise you after we’re done. I might even-”

He was stopped, mid sentence as Malcolm calmly dropped the basket to the ground, took a few confident steps forward, then punched him in the chest. It did not have much force, but it sent an electrifying flash through his bones.

Viktor was speechless. He started to laugh at the sheer cheek of it, when Malcolm jabbed him again. Although it was not with the practised sharpness of a fighter’s movements, it still made another burst of electric run through him, as though every fiber of him was heaving a great breath in. Viktor laughed coldy and wound his arm up for a punch, planning on breaking Malcolm’s nose again, but he lost his balance and fell to the floor in a confused heap.

It was only when Simon screamed he knew something was wrong.

Viktor looked down and saw a dark red stain blossoming onto his waistcoat, an odd warmth radiating from the area instantly. The pain and shock hit him like a brick wall then, making the feeling of electricity vanish in an instant, replacing it instead with a horrible, wrenching ache that came from deep within his chest. He curled over, gasping and groaning, pressing his hands clumsily against the wounds.

Simon was still focused on Viktor when Malcolm approached him. Just like moments before, the fisherman’s son was completely calm, his eyes as peaceful as water resting on a lake. The knife in his hands was slick with blood. Simon lashed out with a panicked fist at exactly the same time Malcolm swung for his neck. Malcolm was knocked aside from the force of the blow, but unlike Simon, he was able to stand up afterwards.

He retrieved the fillet knife from Simon’s neck and turned around to face the last Greedy boy.

*********************

Malcolm had thrown the knife off of the edge of the path soon after. The basket holding the groceries still sat on the ground, untouched by the violence around it.

For a long time, he stood in utter silence, his gentle eyes surveying the scene. Truth be told, he had no idea what came now, he hadn’t thought this far ahead. The whispering in his head had been guiding him through, step by step and now, it was quiet. It had told him to bide his time and wait. It had told him to take one of the filleting blades. It had told him to kill those three boys.

The repercussions were beginning to settle in on his weary conscience heavily, now that the deed was done. It had been an easy thing to follow what the voice said, but with it’s sudden disappearance, he felt lost and more alone than ever. The weight of it all was slowly pressing down upon him.

More time passed.

The sun had begun it’s sacred fall over the horizon, the moon and stars eager to get their share of the clear sky. It was either pure chance, or the fact that the Greedy boys had been very successful in choosing a secluded spot, because nobody came walking through the alley. He was left by himself.

Still he stood.

Malcolm didn’t know what he was waiting for, whether it was the guard coming to imprison him, whether it was a shopkeeper to stumble upon the corpses, or whether it was most of the town coming to cheer him for his heroic actions. He should have felt elated. He should have been dancing around, jumping for joy. His torment was finally over after all and now he was free of the horrible boys forever…

So why didn’t he feel that way?

He felt empty. Hollow.

There was no surge of pleasure when the Greedy boys had died, no flash of satisfaction in seeing them dead on the ground. It was just a task that had needed doing.

A chill gust of wind roused him from his thoughts. It had come seemingly from nowhere, which was a peculiar thing in itself, due to him being in an alleyway, surrounded by walls either side of him.

His breath misted in front of his eyes, despite the fact he could still see the summer sun just peeking out on the horizon. A thick fog crept suddenly into the alley, obscuring everything but the three bodies. Still, Malcolm felt nothing. No fear. No concern. No Excitement.

Snow began to fall, right before his eyes, the flakes tumbling down with a slow, majestic grace. He held up his hand, still spattered with dried blood, catching them delicately. As soon as the first piece landed on his outstretched palm, he knew something wasn’t right about the snow. It took him a few moments to recognise it, but it was too powdery, too warm…

It was ash.

“My my Oz, I didn’t think he had it in him. I suppose you do know best about such things.” A voice said, strangely jovial and chipper.

Malcolm jumped at the sudden sound after so long in silence. He’d been so focused on the ash falling around him, he didn’t see the arrival of two hooded figures in front of him.

The voice had come from the figure on his left, who was dressed all in black. Such a deep, bottomless black he found his eyes getting lost in the material. It looked as though it had been weaved out of shadow itself. The falling ash somehow passed through him, as if he was not standing in its path. A hood obscured his face completely, although it was not pulled down low over his brow.

“I told you, this boy is special Cinis.” The other one called Oz said, his voice low and faint, as though his voice did not belong in the world. It was as soft as a whisper, but powerful, like a rumble of distant thunder. He wore a cloak of swirling grey, that impossibly moved and rippled, changing into dark shades, then light shades intermittently. At the bottom of the garment, small, thin shards of bones hung, which rattled and swayed with the wind. The hood hung low, covering his face in darkness.

“He certainly showed them.” Cinis said, gesturing to the corpses. “I mean, it’s not exactly professional work, but it’s got the job done, no arguing that.”

“Do not toy with him Cinis.” Oz warned.

Cinis shrugged.

“Out of all the people in this world, why choose a fisherman…well, fisher-boy?” Cinis asked, his words dancing with innocence.

“I’m just the apprentice.” Malcolm said quietly. The man wreathed in shadows turned and looked at Malcolm, then to Oz, then to Malcolm again. He laughed a warm, friendly laugh and shook his head.

“You are the apprentice eh? Well he’s got some stones I’ll give him that! There’s something else about him as well…”

“He has heard the glass shatter.” Oz answered.

“Oh…well that explains everything then.” Cinis said, clearly and genuinely surprised.

“Who are you? What do you want with me?” Malcolm asked, his voice once again oddly relaxed.

Cinis turned back to face him. Even though his hood wholly obscured his face, Malcolm could tell he was smiling underneath.

“All in good time my boy…all in good time.”