exercise-based research, he would never know the reality. He had to be sure, had to be utterly certain that he would succeed, or such was the spite of his bullies, he may not come out the other side. And to be certain took time. A lot of time.
He found himself sneaking out at night, watching bar-room brawls, analysing them until he could plan and successfully imagine his resistance. And soon such drunken scraps were not worth the effort. He needed something faster and more refined. He needed to watch the professionals. And so he did.
He found nooks in the crumbling periphery of the Fields; the training grounds for the Royal Guard of Delfinia. There he absorbed the greater challenges. He watched duels and flashing blades, marvelling at impossible skill and dexterity, and he would act along in the shadows, mimicking. At first he imagined winning the fight with his own sword and shield, and then he knew he could do it with his bare hands. He was quick, and his mind was shrewd and path-rich. He was a match for a master of Delfinia; or at least he was in his imagination. He must surely be a match for a bunch of pitiful bullies. Surely. Was he certain?
“Oi, Jossie.”
Two years had passed, two years of lifting, pumping books, and climbing monkey-like through the library. He was now even able to scale the walls to the Royal Gallery, and had once snuck in to sample the opulence. It left him breathless. He even found maps sprawled over a table, plans for the latest actions against the Mandari. He desperately wanted to consume that high-end military theory, to further enrich his learning, but his time in that place was short. Maybe one day.
“Get here you little girl.”
Was two years enough? Surely it must be. He wasn’t certain, but then what did certainty feel like? He had never encountered it before.
“GET―” His training reacted, dancing through his head, and he side-stepped neatly, twisting until Chick stumbled and hit the floor. “―HIM!”
He turned to face the approaching Beef, now twenty-one and still fucking children. He puckered his arse. That reflex would never leave him.
Chick pulled himself from the floor, wiping filth from his face. Beef came up alongside, and the third gang member would be blocking the exit. His brother, Brin, was sniggering in the shadows, as had become usual. He should be angry, but he wasn’t. His heart pumped and something deep inside him squirmed. It was the same thing that propelled him in his learning and his imaginings. But it was constrained. Something restrained him.
It was the senior gang member who cajoled first.
“What’s the matter, little Jossie? Grown some balls?”
He stroked the leather-bound book, another copy, and the cold spread through him. He wanted to antagonise, to get them frothy and reckless, but the confidence wasn’t there. What right did he have? He was the lowest scum, after all.
He placed the cheap copy on the dusty floor, and tried to dredge his learning from the remnants of his fracturing mind. But it was gone. His lessons were lost to the isolation in which he flourished. Here he recognised his worth, and so he was pliant. He exhaled audibly in resignation.
“No. No I haven’t.” A tear escaped, and that was a first. But he was not crying because of the bullies. He was crying because he had failed, and he always would. Once on the bottom, always on the bottom. He’d read that somewhere.
A blow to the stomach doubled him over, and despite the silent roar of his constrained anger, he couldn’t do anything. He didn’t have the right.
When they’d finished with him, he wished he’d been a girl. At least then it would have been remotely natural.
As the bullies left him on the ground, he watched his brother grind the book into the dust of the street, tearing the pages with the action. The darkness came, as it always did, but this time he clung to an idea, repeating it in his head so that he would recall it on the other side. ‘Worship the page’. It was something Bulge had taught him.
________
This was his favourite book. He stared at the volume with nothing short of wonder as it sat snugly in his grubby little hands. There was a ripe bruise across his lower arm, a gift from that last beating, but it was starting to fade. Just.
As he focussed back on the book, he recognised that it was plainer than the copies. It was barely more than a chord bound collection of yellow and crumbly papers. There were two coarse pieces of card sandwiching the papers, but there was no spine, and so the pages had a habit of muddling themselves up. And indeed, any sort of indexing was completely missing, meaning that there was a very real risk of the volume being rendered useless.
But when you knew the words as he did, it didn’t matter. He could recite them word for word.
Because they were Delfin’s words, by her own hand, and he was in awe of her. What she had done meant that anything was possible. He had to cling to that.
And these were the original documents, by her own pen, and the experience of reading the volume was all the more powerful for it. There were smudge marks where she’d cried; sharp deviations where she’d hurried away; crossings out and annotations. The very mind of Delfinia’s foundation was in these pages. He was in awe of being able to touch them at all.
As he walked to the clerk’s desk, he opened the front board and started reading. He didn’t need to see the page, and he whispered the words with a practised rhythm. The first page may even be his favourite.
His fascination was only broken when he reached the front desk. The clerk looked at him over those spectacles, and offered the usual scorn. He gulped, and held up the volume.
“I would like to borrow—”
Rage was not a sufficient expression of the clerk’s reaction. The pencil-thin man drew himself around the desk and attempted to wrestle away the precious volume, but when things were about to get dangerous, Bulge intervened.
“What is going on here?”
“This … this vagabond is trying to steal Delfin’s journal.”
“Borrow!”
“You’ve seen what happens when he takes books from this place. They come back ruined. This is a national treasure.”
And it was undervalued at that, though he didn’t say it.
Bulge leaned over his belly and peered into him. “Why, Jossie? We have lots of copies of that text.”
He gulped, but retained his composure. “I cannot escape without it. I need to worship the page.”
Bulge stood back to his full height, and his face betrayed what Jossie could only describe as sadness. But then he turned to the clerk.
“Let him go. I will take full responsibility.”
He left to the chaotic sounds of the clerk’s incredulous objection. He would have to thank Bulge for this. Either that or apologise. He clutched the volume tightly.
________
“Oi, Jossie.”
He fingered the incredibly valuable collection of papers, conscious of the sweat dripping from his nose. But it wasn’t because of the heat. Beef was before him, and the rest of the Farmyard Friends were coming up behind. This was soon, even for them, but that was nice in a way. He was still warmed by the drama of extracting the precious book. The Friends rounded on him, and the anger bloomed.
He may be scum, but this book was the very definition of value. The ignorance of these beasts must not be allowed to soil such artistry, and so he was the guardian. He was the guardian.
He walked to the side of the alley, and placed the literature delicately on the floor. Then he returned to face the bastards. They looked confused.
“Now I’ve grown some balls, and you’re not having them.”
Beef sniggered. “It’s not your balls I’m after.” The bully pulled at his sleeves, and stepped slowly forward.
Was two years enough? It didn’t matter when he had that book to protect. The anger coursed through him, and he balled his fists.
“Are you going to resist, princess? Come now; pull those trousers down―”
A red veil dropped, his righ
t hand was plank straight, and he jabbed with such ferocity at Beef’s apple that the man recoiled with a spasm. Hot breath was ejected, but he was not distracted. His fury was focussing and his guardianship was gratifying. Beef wriggled on the ground, and that was funny in a satisfying way. It was a new sensation for him, the product of the anger that lay within. An anger that was usually cloaked. It was his passion and his fury, and it drove him on.
“You git!” Chick came at him, restraint in his purpose, but he was prepared. As Chick’s right hand extended, he shifted and forced Chick to follow his momentum until he crashed into the third thug coming up behind. Their skulls cracked satisfyingly, but they soon had their senses back. For what that was worth.
Chick was the first to taste real punishment. A swift kick to the balls doubled him over, and there was real savagery in the strike, such was his hatred of those genitals. As the thug was bent double, he thrust a well pointed knee at his nose. Blood exploded and Chick spilled to the ground, movement entirely absent. He may have killed him, but he didn’t care. The fury still coursed.
The third thug – who he noted he’d never known the name of – was motionless on the ground, but the twitch of an eye gave the game away. He ducked, and Beef’s fist flew over his head. He then grabbed the passing forearm and hit at the elbow with as much as he could muster. It turned out that it was a lot, and the arm sheared exquisitely. Beef fell to the floor, wailing. It was the point of victory,