As the eyes of guardsmen and thief alike fell upon me, I knew that it was time to run.
Melting snow became slick underfoot in the quiet of Autumn, and the lingering ships still left in Liat’s frozen port were all preparing to venture southward, moving weakly before their sails became too heavy to hoist.
It was a time of great urgency in the northern city of snow, its people excited by the final blessings of a warm sky, but apprehensive of the approaching winter.
I ran.
I’m not ashamed to admit to my cowardice of those days, and as I withdrew into the silent alleys of shadow I slowed, allowing luck to be tested for one moment longer. With pause I searched the crows for any sign of the man who had just returned my voice. He was gone so again I ran.
The open street was now brimming with the passings of morning traffic, and I could hear the echoing cries of several merchants who entreated the quality of their wears as they warmed weary hands against golden braziers that decorated their storefront.
The city of Liat has bred a strange people and its cold has only aided their superstitions. You must be invited into a store before you enter, with no honest sale being found therein if tradition is broken. Many visitors would call the city rude without first knowing its customs, without first seeing how these people strive through each winter, praying to the gods that they may have enough warmth to survive. It’s so easy to become dulled against hope while the snow falls. In the frost, yearlong and ever cold, many will soon forget the kindness of their heart.
Liat is not without its moments of joy and of celebration, but these occurrences are tender, they are private in a way that visitors are seldom used to.
You may have heard that we do not smile; this is true, but only holds real meaning when a person is greeted. It is a fair insult in Liat to smile as a greeting, as it shows that you are in better spirit than the person before you, as if you think yourself above their struggles. If you find yourself in Liat it will pay for you to simply nod. To the left if the person is close to your heart, straight down if they are a friend, and to the right if they are a stranger.
As I said, they are a strange people.
The noise of the street returned to me, and I remembered that an urchin should never be seen. In my first years without voice, I had quickly learnt of the hatred cast towards my kind from the shop keepers of the main street. I had no money; I wore the rags of a child without home; and because of this they thought me to be diseased. It is belief that a person’s misfortune shall remain in their step, and many would sooner call the guard than allow a person like me to walk freely into their home.
Clutching the gift under my coat to assure myself that this was no dream I ran on knowing in my heart what had been handed to me but too afraid of it being stolen to look in its direction. For the first time in two years, I had spoken. I had found a voice through the will of stranger and saw the warmth of kindness in his actions.
So, to a safe place I did then run I and did so without halt.
It was some time before I could look upon the small knife that was now held in my cradled hands. It was simple, in many ways, but nonetheless more beautiful than I can ever describe. It had a clean blade of long dulled metal that slowly became honed into that of a shining edge able to glint within the totality of darkness. Its handle was carved from a simple wood and had seen the use of several hands throughout its existence. The knife had a rounded point arching downward to the fine edge of the blade that was kept as clean as the day it had been forged; its shape tricking many laymen into believing it to have been broken. It was beautiful and I soon understood why its previous owner had asked for it to come to no harm.
With a laugh of recognition, I had known it as a sailor’s knife and thought of my short time spent as a rope maker’s apprentice before the fires had stolen that life away from me. By near accident I had found the small marlin spike tucked into the handle as I turned the knife in my hands. It a simple decoration for those who wouldn’t know of its purpose, a brass pebble the only sign that it was there at all.
I could feel this knife had been loved, it was a sacred thing handed down from friend to friend since its creation. By every mark upon its blade I could see that it had not once been used in anger and upon that day I swore to uphold that.
My shelters in those years were sparse and often changing. Stronger urchins, with more desperation or cruelty in their hearts, would look to force competition away from their homes, and I had to fight for my own life far too many times to admit that I was without violence in those years of silence.
I had found gentle respite in a small nook that was built into the foundation of a saddlery. Three bricks could be knocked loose into a void of no more than a meter square, a foundation that was left hollow as the street sloped away towards the port. It was dry and at night became filled by the warmth of a fireplace that was built into a nearby wall.
Knowing it to be safe I had stolen hay and blankets, and, if undiscovered, believed that I could survive the winter without the frost slowing my heart or stealing my breath away until I could no longer breathe.
I would have remained in the sanctuary of this place for an eternity, as within its walls I had found the remembrance of home, but as a day had passed, the necessity of hunger drew me once again into the street.
The baker of a nearby lane had recently taken to allowing me to steal their bread that was no longer fit for mouse or sought by tourist.
I was early, the strangeness of the day before had upset my usual route and I had forgotten to search the alleys for clothing left unwanted or to steal from the drunks tossed into the snow so that they may sober up or simply freeze. The door had only just closed as I saw a small knot of bread left upon the bakery’s back step. It was a simple thing, dark in texture and of the Kamenka forest by style. The loaf had three neat slits deeply shorn into its top so that you could place in a knuckle of melted butter and then share with family, a tradition that I could only vaguely remember to be true.
I reached for it, terrified that it may be illusion or that I may rest in taunting fever. A small whisp floated into the morning frost and I recoiled as a note of unfamiliar warmth greeted my outstretched hand. I snatched at the bread, now realising that it was freshly baked, and a tea towel had been folded neatly underneath so that it may have insulation from the cold of the step. I held this bundle to my chest and felt its faint warmth radiate a fragment of life back into my heart, there was a crispness to the air that made the bread’s fragrance fill my lungs and give me a joy that I can still remember so succinctly. Nothing has ever matched the smell of that bread.
Woken from my dream I looked to a face that had just noticed me through the window of the bakery, she regarded me for a moment and then nodded to her heart, a gentle action showing me a weakness so foreign in Liat.
‘Thank you.’
The words fell from my tongue without my meaning and with no effort could I ever draw them to be unsaid.
The Baker looked at me surprised as I fled. They called after me, but I was too afraid to listen, why had they left this charity for me instead of scraps? What had changed in this world that people should now notice me?
Many years have swept by since my youth, but I did eventually return to give proper thanks to the baker. After my travels I sailed to Liat and walked the streets as a stranger, the pride of a full life lifting my chest and drawing me forward.
Finding the bakery still standing within the coiled alleys, I noticed that it looked as though it was but a painting of some faded memory, a silent thing found dusty within the back of cupboard and spoilt of its former lustre.
A bag of coins I had placed on the counter and again I said my thanks before the feeling of closure had overwhelmed me and I had to bid the weeping baker farewell.
It is improper to cry in Liat but stepping into the brisk air of that morning and feeling the tears begin to freeze upon my cheeks I knew that I was no longer a part of its existence. I had left the city as a child and in that moment, I finally knew that it had left me as only a memory.
J. McCray
2022
Sunday Short Stories 