Let’s step back some twenty years.
At seven years old, John Miglene was tall and thin for his age, with dark hair and chestnut eyes. He had a troublesome streak about him, always playing pranks and running off. Always teasing the neighbor’s child. Always restless. He ran around his parents’ farm from dawn till dusk, kicking up sand as he made his way from one adventure to the next. Even his parents, George and Melinda, who were certainly no laggards, couldn’t keep up with the boy. He was simply full of energy. From the time he first learned to walk, he ran; and he would never stop.
His family was poor, but John never really noticed. He was too busy running and playing and climbing trees. By the time he was six, he knew that farm’s nooks better than anyone, including his father, and that came in handy when he was in trouble.
“John…” his father called to him that day, “did you feed Samson honey again?”
A snickering could be heard.
“I see you behind that tree, John. Get on out here!”
There was a rumpling, and suddenly George could see something scurrying through the bushes. “That boy’s lucky I love’m,” he told himself. He shook his head and walked back into the house. He didn’t have the heart or the energy to chase after him.
“Damn boy ran off again,” he reported to his wife. She looked up from her place at the table, tired and worn from another hard day’s work. Despite her frugal dress and scraggly hair, she still managed to be attractive. George always knew he had outdone himself when he married her. He was fairly tall and strong and perhaps even on the handsome side, but he didn’t even come close to matching her aesthetically.
“That’s no surprise,” she said. “Ya had t’know he was gonna do that.”
Her husband shook his head.
“Melinda, I just don’t know what we’re gonna do with that boy! I mean, I hate having to scold him, but we can’t just-”
Suddenly there was a loud banging at the door. Melinda jolted up, startled, and the two exchanged a curious glance.
Another bang.
“I’ll get it,” George said at last.
Slowly, he stepped toward the entrance, the banging growing ever louder as he approached. He stopped just before it, taking a deep breath, then cautiously opened the door, hoping not to see the sight that would indeed meet his eye.
The man was tall and muscular, as were the three soldiers surrounding him. He had a rugged face with greasy, porous skin and lips that curved like the Nile. His dress was gruff and untailored, a shameless attempt to look dignified, his hair long and uncut. From his side dangled a large metal sword sheave, and in it slept an instrument that had sent many a man to his death. It hung there defiantly, a cruel reminder, ready to strike at any moment.
George Miglene quivered at the sight.
“Y-Y-Yes?” he stuttered. “Can I – Can I help you, Mr. Farv?”
The eyes were dead. The expression sheet rock.
“You owe taxes,” Farv said with a nod, for indeed it was he. “And I’m here to collect.”
Miglene rubbed at his chin. He looked back at his wife, who had stood and now remained breathless by the table.
Beads of perspiration began to form upon his forehead.
“I’m afraid, Mr. Farv,” he said, turning back, “that I have nothing to give you. For,” – he chuckled nervously – “we’ve paid all we can pay.”
He was smiling, trying to win over whatever little compassion might be left in the corner of Farv’s dark heart, but it seemed that Farv was not taking. For a moment, he stood there shaking as Farv eyed him down.
Then Farv laughed:
“A-heh-heh-heh!”
He turned to his men.
“A-heh-heh-heh!”
“A-heh-heh-heh,” they returned, not quite as enthusiastically.
Miglene eased up a little. He too began to laugh.
“You see, then,” he said, chuckling, “I’m afraid that there’s nothing else I can tell you, Mr. Farv.”
Farv turned to him. The laughter had stopped, but he was still smiling.
“That’s true, Mr. Miglene,” he said. “But I’m afraid I have something I must tell you…”
Miglene tried to smile back.
“And what’s that?” he asked.
Farv started to laugh again. “That – A-heh-heh – That we’re – A-heh – Oh, this is funny!” he chided, glancing back at his men, who nodded in agreement.
“What’s that, Mr. Farv?” Miglene inquired.
Farv’s head spun round and his eyes met the simple farmer’s. His face was smiling but his eyes were terrifying.
“I’m afraid then,” he said, “that we’re going to have to take your farm.”
Miglene’s face dropped and for a moment he stood in shock. Melinda stepped up closer, but was checked by Farv’s glance.
“No!” Miglene cried. “You can’t do that!”
Farv shook his head.
“Oh, but I’m afraid we can, my friend.”
“But what will we live on?”
Farv started to laugh again. “That’s not my problem, I’m afraid.”
Miglene’s eyes grew stern and fearless.
“No,” he said. “No. I won’t let you.”
“Oh, you won’t?” Farv returned. Suddenly his arm shot out and knocked Miglene to the ground. All at once, his men drew their swords and began filing in through the door, right past the fallen farmer.
“Get out of my house!” Miglene screamed from the floor.
But Farv’s sword about his neck quickly quieted him. “Do you know the penalty for not paying your taxes?” he demanded.
Miglene’s chest heaved in and out. He dared not speak a word.
Farv poked the sword ever closer, nipping at George’s neck.
“Death…”
“Noooo!” Melinda cried.
…………………………………………..
Little John began his walk back to the house, laughing as usual. Since his father hadn’t bothered to chase him, there really was no point in hiding anyway, and so he skipped gaily home, stopping only to swing on an occasional tree branch.
…………………………………………..
By the authority vested in me by the Duke of Lonn,” Farv declared, “I execute you for the crime of tax evasion.”
His sword lifted into the air.
Melinda screamed.
…………………………………………..
John’s laughter came to a sudden stop. He knew his mother’s voice.
Suddenly Samson was barking.
…………………………………………..
“Somebody shut-up that damn dog!” Farv ordered.
A sentry reached for the foaming beast, but Samson was too quick. He slipped past the soldier’s grasp and made for Farv’s throat, springing into the air; but with one quick swat Farv had sent the canine sprawling to the outside, shutting the door safely behind him. Samson scraped at the wood, barking ferociously.
…………………………………………..
John rushed to the side window. His heart was racing now and it almost skipped a beat when he saw Farv standing over his father with a sword. A tear formed in John’s eye and trickled down his face. He began to whimper. His father laid there, immobile, and John began to wonder what he was doing, why he was all red, why he was lying on the floor with his eyes open. What’s wrong with him? he thought. What’s wrong with daddy?
He heard his mother groan, and looked over to see two sentries, one on each arm, holding her at bay. Her face was red and tear-streaked, her eyes scornful.
“Why? Why?” she screamed.
The man with the sword looked up at her. He smiled and walked closer, pacing back and forth before her.
“Melinda Miglene,” he said, “you are guilty of the crime of tax evasion…”
“No!” she cried.
“…By the authority of the Duke of Lonn, I hereby sentence you to death.”
The monster-man pulled up his sword.
“Please, Mr. Farv! My boy would be lost without me!” Melinda pleaded. “What about my boy?”
“Don’t worry,” Farv said with a smile, “we’ll get him, too.”
John’s mother’s mouth fell open, but with one quick thrust her words became unspoken. Her lips quivered and her body began to shake. Then her eyes fluttered and soon her agony was over.
The soldiers threw her down next to her husband.
For a moment there was silence as Farv stood casually over the body. Then a sound; a soft, whimpering sound. The rugged man turned in a huff toward the window, and there he caught the eye of the young innocent, his face drenched in tears.
“Get him!” he ordered.
The three sentries ran out the door, the poor boy frozen by the window sill. He heard them coming round, but could not get up, could not move; his legs had lost all sense of direction. His mind was clogged, his heart drained, his eyes overflowing. The footsteps grew nearer and nearer yet, and surely young John would have died had not the foaming canine awoken him. Samson was roaring, scraping at him with his paw. Get up, boy! Get up!
The sentries turned round the bend and Samson ran up to meet them. They halted at the sound of his bark, stepping back in fear as he challenged them with his teeth.
“Grrrrrrrrr…Grrrrrrrr…”
John jolted to his feet. His eyes were so weary that he could hardly see, but he knew that if ever there was a time to run, it was now. He started, pausing only to look back for Samson, but the dog would not follow. And so John ran on; alone; through the woods and the grass and the wheat and the trees. He ran far and fast, though he knew not where he was going. He ran till he felt he was safe, and safe he never felt, nor would he ever feel it again. And so he ran all the way through one town and to the next, and the next, till finally he dropped down against a wall from sheer exhaustion.
The next day brought only more hardship to his young, poorly clad feet. But he must go on, he knew, he must get away from the bad men. He walked, Oh, how far! – from town to town without a single bite and without so much as an idea of where he might be going. It was growing late and dark and scary and where was Mother and Father and Samson and the monster-man? There was no sun and where had it gone and was it ever coming back and why was his head spinning so so fast with so much red red red? It hurt so much! Oh how it hurt!
He dropped down that night outside of a blacksmith shop, cuddled up against a wooden rail.
Sister O’Brien found him like that just before dawn.
…………………………………………..
When John woke up he found himself in a warm, cozy bed, next to a window with light pouring through. His eyes flickered back and forth and he tried to tell himself that it was all just a bad dream, that none of it had actually happened; that his mother and father were in the next room making breakfast as usual. But he couldn’t tell himself that. He knew that this was not his house, that this was not his bed, that those were not his flowers.
He remembered falling down and then somebody carrying him, but who or what it was he did not know. Where was he? What was this place? He leaned up and looked around. The walls were all peach-white and the room looked like it had been built from limestone. There was a dresser next to the bed and another bed opposite, but other than that the room was unfurnished.
John propped himself up on his knees and looked out the window. Outside children were play-fighting while vendors hawked their goods in the street. The light was almost piercing to his eye and he felt as if he were in some sort of imaginary world, much different from the happy one that he had come from.
“I see you’ve awoken,” a voice stated.
John spun round in fear. His chest heaved in and out, though he could see that it was only an elderly nun.
“Don’t worry,” she said, putting up her hand. “I’m not going to hurt you. I just want to talk, is all.”
Saliva. A gulp.
“You have nothing against talking, now do you?” she asked, stepping closer.
He pressed his back against the wall, creeping slowly away from her.
She sat down on the bed beside him. “What is your name, boy?”
John said not a word.
“Well,” the woman said after some seconds, “I’m sure you’re hungry, now aren’t you? How about something to eat?”
He shook his head No.
“Aah, don’t be silly now,” the old nun replied. “You must be hungry, a boy your age.” She stood up and began walking toward the corridor. “I’ll be right back,” she said. “You lay yourself down if you want.”
A moment later she returned with a hot bowl of soup. John had moved hardly an inch He eyed the old woman curiously as she entered.
“Here,” she said, extending the soup to him, “sit down and have some of this.”
He glanced down at the bowl and then back up at the woman.
“Take it,” she persisted. “It’s good for you.”
John carefully took the soup from her hands, his eyes on hers, and slouched back down onto the bed. There was a spoon in the bowl, but John didn’t bother with it. He brought the bowl to his mouth and slurped it up in one long breath.
“My God! you must be hungry!” the nun remarked. “When was the last time you ate?”
John handed her the bowl and wiped his lip with his sleeve.
“Do you talk, boy, or do you just eat and sleep?”
“I talk.”
“Good,” said the woman, “then talk to me…How did you get here?”
He glanced down at his knees.
“I walked,” he said with a shrug.
“No,” the lady said, “I carried you here. But both of us know that that’s not what I meant.”
The boy looked toward the window, avoiding the nun’s eye.
“Tell me,” she said, turning his face back with her hand, “what happened to you?”
John let out a small sigh, his eyes going from the bed to his knees to the nun and back to the bed.
“Speak, boy.”
He looked up at her, innocently.
“You’re not gonna try t’kill me, are you?”
The nun leaned back in shock.
“Kill you?” she said. “Why would I want to kill you?”
“Well, I mean, you’re not with them, are you?”
“With who?” the sister asked.
“With those men…”
“What men?”
“The bad men…the ones that hurt my mommy and daddy…”
“They hurt your parents? How so, boy? What happened?”
“I dunno,” John replied. “All I know is that they hurt them…I don’t know why. There was this big bad man with a sword named Farv, and I saw him hurt my mommy, and I think he hurt my daddy, too.”
“Hurt them how, dear?”
“With the sword,” John explained.
The old woman’s face became stern and fearful. Her hands holding the bowl fell to her lap and she began rocking back and forth. “My Lord.”
One hand rose up to the boy’s face and began rubbing his baby-soft skin.
“Don’t worry now, boy. You’re safe here.” She let her hand down to her lap again. “What is your name?” she asked.
“John,” he said.
“John what?”
“Miglene.”
She nodded.
“I’m Sister O’Brien, John Miglene. Now lay down and get some more rest. You’ll need it. We have mass in an hour. After that you’ll meet the others.”
…………………………………………..
Mass was like nothing John had ever seen before. His parents hadn’t been religious, and to John the whole thing was like some sort of amusement show with lots of pretty windows and chanting. Sister O’Brien had put him next to a boy about his age but much larger than him, named Ezra Dunn. She introduced the two, then took her own place away from them by the other nuns.
&nb
sp; John watched her walk away and suddenly he felt helpless. He looked over at the boy next to him, who was presently ogling down at him with a most peculiar smile. He turned his head away, pretending not to notice; but a moment later he felt his legs being swept up from beneath him, sending him crashing to the ground.
He jolted to his feet.
“Whadgya do that for?” he snapped.
A wave of “hush”es came across the room.
“Just welcomin’ ya t’the neighborhood,” the other boy replied with a grin. “Can’t have ya thinkin’ you’re all that, now can we?”
John kept his mouth shut. What did he have to talk to this boy for anyway? He watched the rest of the ceremony without event, taking a keen interest in it all since the whole thing was a curiosity to him. Toward the end, the man up top in black gave a little talk that young John found very enlightening. He felt that the man must know an awful lot of things, and if he knows a lot of things maybe he can explain what happened to his parents. John thought he’d ask Sister O’Brien about this.
A moment later everybody began to file out, and so John realized that the ceremony must be over. The heavy boy next to him who had tripped him, was nudging at his side, saying, “Go, ya fool. He’s done. Go.” John looked around for Sister O’Brien, but couldn’t find her with all the people. He stood stationary in the aisle for a moment, until finally the bigger boy grabbed him and said, “Come on, stupid. I’ll show ya where t’go.” He wasn’t the greatest of guides, but John didn’t seem to have much choice. He followed the boy out into the hall and then down the corridor to a large, open room.
The room was filled with boys, about fifty of them, ranging from John’s age to fifteen or sixteen. They were all talking and laughing and throwing pillows; for each boy shared a bunk bed with two cubbies stacked next to it. Some of the boys were running around chasing each other, while others sat on their beds reading or playing cards. The room was noisy, filled with the sounds of boys screaming and fighting and making accusations. John had never heard such noise, and after such a long, quiet ceremony, too! He covered his ears and winced.
“Come on,” Ezra said, waving him on, “I’ll show ya to your bed.”
The larger boy took off and John followed in his shadow, his head turning from side to side as he watched boys swing from bed posts and toss things at each other.
“Is it always like this?” he asked.
“It’ll quiet down in a minute when Father Contrati walks in,” the boy told him. “Right now everyone’s just gettin’ their kicks in while they can.”
Two boys ran in front of John and he had to stop for a moment. Not wanting to lose his only guide, he charged ahead when they had passed, accidentally crashing into another boy.
“Hey!” the boy snapped, shoving John to the ground. “Watch it, shrimp!”
The boy was obviously older than John, and bigger too, and for a moment he didn’t know what to do. Something, though, told him to get back on his feet. The boy looked at him, curious.
“What are you gonna do?” he said.
John took a gulp.
“Watch it!” Ezra said. With one swift movement of his arm he knocked the boy off to the side and onto his butt. “This kid’s with me. Don’t give’m any trouble.”
The other boy gave Ezra a nasty look, but just got up and walked away.
“Thanks,” John muttered.
“No problem,” Ezra said. “Let’s go.”
He walked a few more paces and this time John made sure not to lose him.
“Here we are,” Ezra said at last, stopping before one of the bunks. “You’re on top.”
“Where do you sleep?” John asked.
“Same place,” Ezra said. “Sister O’Brien told me t’look out for ya.”
“Oh.”
“Do ya have any stuff?”
John shook his head.
“Well, if ya do come across anything you wanna keep, you can keep it in that cubby over there. Other than that just do what they tell ya. If ya have any questions, ask me n’ I’ll help ya out.”
“Just one question,” John said. “When will I see Sister O’Brien again?”
“She’ll come around,” Ezra replied. “Knowing her, she’ll wanna check on ya. The boss, though, is Father Contrati. You’ll meet him soon enough.”
No sooner did the words leave his mouth than did there come an aged, shrill voice from the front of the room.
“Boys!” Father Contrati scolded. “Knock it off! Or I’ll have each n’ every one’a ya scrubbin’ the chapel floor.”
At the very sound of his voice the room had gone quiet. Every boy stood rigid, including Ezra.
The old man took a moment to stare them down, then slowly began advancing toward the middle of the room, his steps echoing loudly as he went. His face was raw and rugged, withered with time and wisdom, from which John could decipher a strong tendency for discipline. He dressed as he should: all in black, save for the white collar, which, for some reason, seemed to catch John’s attention.
“You all know the rules,” the Father proceeded. “There is no running, there is no fighting.” He fired his eyes at a small brown-haired boy, who in turn licked his lips and looked down at the floor. “And there is no swearing.” He stopped walking. “Now…do you all understand?”
“Yes, Father Contrati,” they said.
“Good.” He began to walk again. John hoped that he wouldn’t stop in front of him. “Now…you have exams coming up. I hope that you are all studying…”
“Yes, Father Contrati.”
“Very well. Because” - he turned in amazement to a tall, heavy boy - “Samuel!” he cried. “Where are your pants?”
The boy looked down at his undergarments, as if he himself had just noticed that they were all that covered his bottom half. He shrugged his shoulders.
The Father, his hands pressed behind his back, approached him in as calm and distinguished a manner as possible, his eyes wandering from Samuel to his undershorts and then finally to the small, blue-eyed boy next to Samuel, who stood smiling with his eyes gazing out the window.
“What’s going on here?” he said.
Neither boy said a word.
“Samuel,” the Father repeated, “what happened to your pants?”
Some boys down the line broke out giggling, but Father Contrati put a quick end to this with a sudden jerk of the head. Suddenly the room went silent, and all eyes fell back to Samuel. John truly felt bad for the poor fellow, now painfully frying under the Father’s gaze.
“Samuuuuellllll…” the Father sang, “…is there something you want to tell me?”
Samuel’s eyes wandered from Father Contrati back to the floor. The Father nodded. He stepped to his left, pausing directly in front of the small, blue-eyed boy.
“What about you, Bo Willy?” he said, leaning over. “Do you know what happened to young Samuel’s pants?”
Bo shook his head.
Again the Father nodded.
“They wouldn’t be, let’s say, under your bedspread, now, would they?”
“No,” Bo Willy said. “Honest they wouldn’t, Father.”
“Oh,” the Father replied. “Then I suppose you wouldn’t mind if I checked?”
The young boy gulped.
“Go ahead, Father.”
Father Contrati stood his body up straight and started toward the boy’s covers. He had barely put his hand out to retract them when suddenly Bo Willy broke loose and folded.
“All right, Father,” he cried, “I admit it; it was me. He traded them to me for a strawberry pastry.”
Father Contrati was astounded.
“For a strawberry pastry?” he said.
“Yes, sir.”
“It was good,” Samuel added.
“Boy, are you insane?” the Father cried. “You traded away your only pair of pants for a strawberry pastry?”
“With custard.”
“I don’t care what it was with,” the Father snapped. ?
??It was your only pair of pants, boy!” He turned to Bo. “And what exactly were you gonna do with a pair of his pants anyway? They’d never fit you.”
“I was gonna trade’m t’Seth for ’is marble collection.”
The Father turned and eyed the accused Seth, who suddenly took to whistling.
“Give him back his pants,” he ordered Bo. “And there’s to be no more trading.”
“But what about the pastry?” Bo persisted. “He already ate it.”
“Well, if he barfs it up, fine. Otherwise, too bad. That’ll teach you to make deals like that, Bo Willy. And if that doesn’t, then the three hours of kitchen service that you’re all gonna hafta do – you included –” he pointed at the whistling Seth, “will.”
“But Father…”
“No buts! I’ll come get you all at six o’clock tomorrow morning. You’ll work on the pots.”
He turned and started off, but stopped midway and turned again to Bo.
“Give’m back his pants!” he yelled.
The boy jumped to the bed and pulled out a large pair of brown slacks. He tossed them over to Samuel, as the Father made his way out.
“Way to go,” Bo said, plopping down on the bed. “Look what ya did.”
Samuel shrugged, stepping thoughtlessly back into his pants.
“Oh well,” John remarked to Ezra. “That coulda turned out much worse.”
“Yeah,” Ezra noted. “Especially since Bo traded me two slingshots for that pastry.”
…………………………………………..
John quickly adjusted to life at Father Contrati’s church, known to all as St. Edward’s. Sister O’Brien visited him regularly, and he had his daily lessons with Sister Margaret, whom he also liked. Father Contrati was rarely seen, appearing only at mass and occasionally for disciplinary purposes. Most of the children feared Father Contrati, though for no particular reason, since he never actually hit anyone; and most of them liked him, too. He was their leader and their provider.
John and Ezra soon found that they had more in common than they originally thought. Ezra’s mother had died when he was only three, and his father had been killed by some of the Dark Duke’s men in a fight over a piece of land. Ezra had been picked up by Sister O’Brien as well, and since then he had been living at St. Edward’s, learning.
Ezra told John all there was to know about St. Edward’s: who to make friends with, who to avoid, what foods to eat. John liked Ezra because he was tough, and Ezra viewed John as his pupil. Together they were a team, in which the sum of the parts was not quite as great the power of them combined. Together they would work at their chores, tend to their lessons, and, indeed, cause some bit of mischief.
When other kids would give John trouble, Ezra was always there. And whenever kids would try to play on Ezra's mind, John always fought back with a tongue as sharp as any steel. Quickly, the two built up a reputation - as best friends and as plotters; for the two were always scheming ways to get an extra roll at dinner, or an extra mint at mass, or to get others to do their work for them. The planning was mostly John's part, since it was he that had the sharper mind; Ezra usually supplied the muscle.
Three years went by, and not a thing changed among them. John and Ezra became closer and closer as time went on, as did they both with Sister O'Brien.
One evening, while the fire waned before them, John and Ezra sat with Sister O'Brien in the Church den, listening in silence as she read aloud to them from one of her favorite books. As usual, they were on the floor and she was in Father Contrati's red chair, turned ever so slightly so that the light of the fire could illuminate her reading. By this time, most of the other children were away in their rooms, finishing their homework and preparing for bed. But Sister O'Brien liked to grant certain children special privileges, and two of those fortunate children were John and Ezra. She loved them, they could tell, and they loved her as well. And they loved how she would read to them and tell them stories and explain things to them without the least bit minding, laughing and reminiscing about old times while the fire danced gaily off her cheekbones and lit up her eyes. Her face wasn't pretty, but to them it was the prettiest, most comforting face in the world. - Especially when she smiled with those rare pearly white teeth, matched in brightness only by the cherishing look in her eye.
John would look for that eye. He felt it. It warmed his heart when she would look at him like that - like he was a king and that somewhere - somewhere - there was a place for him where everything was better - a magical place with plenty of food and people who were nothing but kind. It was a wonderful place, a place which John often dreamed about, and she could take him to it. Take him to it through that eye and that smile - the one that made him feel warm and at home.
He was watching that eye right now. Watching it bounce and squint; watching it laugh and cajole, tearing at times from utter excitement. He sat dazed, staring up at it as the eye told him about wizards and warlocks, titans and midgets, all brought to life in that wonderful eye. And when she was finished, and when she was laughing, John sat laughing too. Not because of the joke and not because of the story, but because of the eye that had ordered it so.
Sister O'Brien closed the book and lifted herself out of the chair.
"Now," she said, "I think it's about time for you children to be getting yourselves off to bed."
"Can't we hear just a little more?" Ezra asked.
"I'm afraid not, dearie. You know Father Contrati won't have it."
"Oh, all right."
Ezra nudged John, who, for some reason, sat still as a statue.
"Come on, John," he said, "let's go." But the boy wouldn't budge. He sat immobile, like a hawk perched by the sunset. "Come on," Ezra repeated, giving him an elbow. "Time for bed."
"All right, all right," John said, pushing himself up from the floor. "I'm sorry."
The two boys began to saunter off, as Sister O'Brien stood herself before the fire. John was about to walk out, when he noticed her slouching there, and told Ezra to go on without him.
"Why?" Ezra asked.
"Just go," John told him. "I'll be there in a moment."
Begrudgingly, Ezra stepped out, his footsteps echoing down the hall as he made his way toward the boys’ room.
John walked up to Sister O'Brien.
"Is everything all right, Sister?" he asked.
He could see she had tears in her eyes, and he knew that this time it wasn't the book or the fire that had caused them.
"I'm fine, John," she said, gazing at the flames. She reached across and touched him on the shoulder, but her eyes never met his.
"Are you sure, Sister?"
She nodded slowly, her hand coming up to her face as she let out a soft whimper.
"John," she said, "you know how I care for you, don't you? You know that I love you, right John? You know that, no matter what, I will always love you, don't you, John?"
"Why, yes, Sister," said the boy. "I know it like my name."
"Good," said the Sister. "Then don't forget it, no matter what, understand? No matter what…"
"I won't, Sister. You've been like a mother to us all, and we love you, Sister."
Sister O'Brien turned away as more tears found their way onto her cheek.
"Thank you, John." She lifted her hand from his shoulder to the back of his neck. "Thank you very much, dear. You're such a good boy."
John stood silent for a moment, not quite sure of what to say. But, although he could not know it, his presence alone was most comforting to her. She knew that he was a true boy, because he stood there even when there was nothing to say. Yes, this boy was something special.
She rubbed the back of his neck.
"Sister," he said at last, "why do you think Farv killed my parents?"
For the first time Sister O'Brien's eyes turned to meet his own. It was a question that she had rather he had not asked, but he had asked it innocently enough and deserved a response. But what to tell those young, sweet
eyes?
"Well," she said, rubbing at her nose, "I suppose it was for the usual reasons: money…greed. To people like Farv, my dear, other people are only ants to be stepped on - slaves to be used until they are no longer valuable, then disposed of. The man has no heart, only ambition, but someday it will come back to haunt him, you'll see."
John nodded, his eyes falling slowly to the ground.
"I wish there was a better explanation," said the Sister, "but I'm afraid that there isn't. Your parents died in vain it seems, for little more than a few rupiks. But they're watching you, I'm sure, John. They're watching right now, probably."
John glanced around the room as if indeed he might see them, but all there was was darkness.
"You listen for them," the Sister explained, "and you'll hear them."
John turned his eyes toward the fire. Thoughts were compounding him now, bouncing around his head like a rubber ball, galloping from one concept to the next without much sense or reason.
"I think I'll go to bed now," he said at last.
Sister O'Brien brought her hand up to rub his ear, smiling at him proudly.
"You do that, John Miglene, and you dream yourself a saint, ya hear? Dream yourself a saint."
"I will, Sister."
Without another word, John turned away and headed toward the door. He paused a moment before it to look back, but Sister O'Brien had already returned to gazing at the fire, and so he left. He walked down the hall wondering the whole time whether he should go back to her. But he knew he couldn't.
That night, as John lay tucked within his cover, he tried desperately to dream himself a saint as Sister O'Brien had requested; but all he could see in his mind were the images of a sad Sister with a crown of heavenly gold.
…………………………………………..
The next day John was awoken early by a terrible stirring within the room. Boys were screaming, shouting, running back and forth like madmen, grabbing on to covers and books and whatever else they could get their little hands on. Two boys fought over a loaf of bread, while another two pulled and tugged over a pillow. An apple came up and hit John in the chest, causing him to jolt forth and turn round in confusion.
“John!” Ezra called, appearing suddenly out of nowhere. “Get up and grab as many things as ya can – Farv’s men are shuttin’ the place down.”
John’s eyes fell back in horror.
“Shuttin’ it down?” he said. “Whadaya mean ‘shuttin’ it down’?”
“No time to explain,” Ezra said, taking John’s cover in his hand and shoving it towards him, “just grab up all ya things n’ let’s go.”
Ezra turned away from John and tended to his cubby, quickly loading his things into a plain brown satchel. For a moment, John sat stagnant.
“Quickly, John!” Ezra scolded. “And don’t let any of the other kids get any of ya stuff.”
“That’s my rupik!” someone yelled.
“Quickly, John! Come on!”
John slipped down from the bunk, landing right next to two boys wrestling on the ground over a piece of ham. His head still wasn’t working properly, so it was only his instincts that told him to take the bag that Ezra handed him and to begin shoving all he could into it. He had just managed to cram his blanket in when he heard footsteps from the outer hall. Instantly, all the boys fell silent.
“In there,” they heard a voice call. “Quickly – get them out. All of them.”
Suddenly the room broke into a complete frenzy, with those boys who had been fighting letting go so that they might scrape up their each and every last possession. Some screamed and jumped from their beds. Others ran to their cubbies and began throwing things cross the room to each other. John looked around desperately, though he knew not what to take. Two oranges rolled on the ground beside him, and quickly he picked them up and tossed them into the bag. He was about to make a run for another, when, with a loud, obnoxious bang, the doors burst open and in stepped a band of no less than a dozen soldiers, all clad in gray.
Some of the children tried to rush past them, but only in futility; for Farv’s men grabbed them and tossed them like pebbles. One of the men, the leader it seemed, took up an eight-year-old boy and drew a dagger to his throat.
“Listen up!” he called out, the boy squirming in his arms. “There will be no trouble here. You have one minute…to get up your belongings and get out of here. Otherwise we’ll kill you like the worthless vermin that you are.” He let the boy down and tossed him to the floor. “Get going.” With that said, the man turned on his heels and walked out, leaving the others to watch the now desperate group.
Ezra grabbed John by the arm.
“Come on,” he said. “Are ya done?” – to which John nodded – “Good,” said Ezra, “then let’s go before it’s too late.”
Like a bull through water, Ezra cut past the other boys and toward the outside, leading John all the way. He pushed and shoved, knocking past even some of the bigger boys, and surely most of the little, till finally they reached the front. A mean-looking sentry stopped them by the door, but only to give them an evil glare and send them on their way. Four more soldiers rushed past them as they cut through the church hall and out onto the street.
There they saw two wagons, surrounded by beggars and vagabonds, being pushed away by the men in gray. Girls, some of whom John recognized, were coming out of the church dormitories in herds, looking round in the same desperate manner that he was. One girl stood with a doll in her hands, screaming and crying as men with swords rushed past her and into the church. One of the soldiers bopped her on the head to stop her, but it only sent her whirling to the ground, causing her to cry even more.
“Come on, John,” Ezra said, tugging at his shirt, “let’s go. If we don’t get out of here they’ll kill us for sure.”
John was about ready to follow, when suddenly he heard a terrible scream. Looking back, he could see two soldiers carrying a woman out from the church, her hands tied in rope. She was railing and screaming, dragging her feet in utter defiance, crying-out, “No! You can’t do this! No!”
John’s body froze. It was Sister O’Brien!
“No!” John yelled. “No!”
He ran toward her, stupidly, as it was; for one of the sentries quickly swatted him to the ground.
“John!” Ezra screamed, scurrying after him. He rushed to the ground and took hold of him.
John leaned up and felt his bloody lip. His eyes opened to see the sentry now standing over him, his sword pointed at John’s head.
“Stay put, boy.”
“John!” Sister O’Brien called. “Don’t move, John. You hear? Don’t move.”
The poor boy obeyed, though his passion told him otherwise. Ezra stayed crouched behind him, his hands on John’s shoulders.
The sentries took Sister O’Brien by the arms and threw her into the back of the wagon. Three more sisters emerged, including Sister Margaret, each bound by rope and each thrown into the wagon with Sister O’Brien, who by now was tearing heavily.
A moment later, more shouting was heard as Father Contrati was brought out, half-shaven and beaten-up. They took him past the first wagon and brought him to the second, tossing him in like they would some raw piece of cow meat. The scene on the street had become much larger by now, as all of the children, boys and girls alike, rushed out of the church and onto the street, only to scream in pity as they watched their caretakers being taken away.
“Quiet!” a man yelled, his voice deep but piercing.
Suddenly the crowd fell silent as the man, dark and rugged looking, emerged from behind the wagon. He was dressed all in black, with black gloves and a long, razor sharp sword hanging idly by his side. His eyes told a terrible tale that no one wanted to hear, and no one there doubted that he would kill them should he be given the opportunity.
John remembered him well. His name was Farv.
“We’ll have no more ruckus here,” Farv declared. “King Harris has ordered tha
t I shut down this monastery, and should I hear a peep from a single one of you, then I’ll start slicing heads, women and children first.” He looked around at the silent crowd and shook his head. “Good,” he said. Then, turning back, he noticed John on the floor before the sentry. His eyebrows burrowed, and slowly he walked over.
“What is this?” he said, staring down at the boy.
“He ran at us,” the sentry explained. “He was going for one of the sisters, I believe.”
Farv nodded. He placed his hand over the sentry’s sword and pushed it back, away from John.
“You must be very brave, boy,” he remarked. “Or stupid.”
John’s body jerked but Ezra held him down.
Farv laughed.
“My goodness, boy,” he said, “you are a feisty one, are you not?” Again his eyebrows dropped. “Say,” he remarked, “you do look vaguely familiar now. Have I seen you before?” John said not a word. “Probably on the streets just like the others,” Farv proceeded, “but I better not see you again.” He turned to two of the sentries. “Get him on his feet,” he ordered.
“No!” Ezra started in protest, rising; but he was quickly thrown back and onto the ground as the two sentries propped John up.
“Don’t hurt him!” Sister O’Brien yelled, only to be swatted hard across the face by a nearby soldier.
Farv shook his head. “Tsk, tsk,” he said mockingly to John. “Didn’t anyone ever teach you to be polite to authority, young man, or do you not have parents?” Farv flashed a vicious smile, to which John responded with a silent glare. – Crack! – Farv’s hand caught him hard across the face. The sting enveloped John’s entire body, but he refused to show any emotion, hanging his head languidly off to one side.
“That’s for you to remember me by,” Farv said. He punched his stomach, and this time the pain was even greater. “And that’s for that glare in your eye,” Farv told him. He waved his hand and the men threw John back onto the ground. His head was spinning, and had it not been for his weakened condition, he might surely have charged after Farv as he walked casually away.
Ezra rushed over and took him in his arms.
“John,” he said, shaking him. “John, are you all right?”
But the boy could barely utter a sound as he watched the wagons roll away.
…………………………………………..
John and Ezra would never see Sister O’Brien or Father Contrati again. Nor would they ever go to another orphanage, for the Dark Duke quickly had them all shut down, claiming that they were “a drain on society.” The Church, you see, represented a threat to his power, albeit a foreign one, but a threat nonetheless, and he could not let it go unchecked.
The street was John and Ezra’s new home. They banded together with some of the other boys from the orphanage, as well as some that they met along the way, and together they raised quite enough fuss to be constantly sought after by the Dark Duke’s men: stealing swords, gold, horses, and whatever else they could get their hands on. Not wishing to harm the commonfolk, they mostly stole from those that were friends of the phony king, often infuriating the greedy elite.
Where there is a weed to grow, it will grow – undoubtedly. And the weed will frustrate and persist. It will grow tall, and should one look to cut it down, it will only rise up again.
John Miglene became a weed.
Soon enough the boy grew into an adolescent, and finally into a man. Through the years he emerged as the undoubted leader of his band, with Ezra his trusty second. Together with their motley crew, the two would hide, steal, and fight when necessary, all the while never forgetting the justice that they owed to Farv and his men. This propelled them. John became rather handy with a sword and bow he had stolen, though not in the traditional sense, being entirely self-taught. Ezra, on the other hand, could handle himself quite adequately be it with stick or knife.
Their cause and their living became one. Every theft and every robbery was a shot at Farv and the Dark Duke and all that they stood for. Secretly in the night, they would attack the Dark Duke’s property, often leaving his men to be found the next day amongst the people who John swore to protect. This led to much indignation on the part of Farv, since he was the one charged with rounding up such “hooligans.” But he never quite put together that the “hooligan” known as Miglene was the boy he had taken so very much from.
Chapter 14
A Leader Among Men