Chapter 2: A Spark is Kindled

Rixar lashed out and knocked Spirit into the tavern wall. Spirit bounced off and tumbled to the earth. He pushed himself up to make an attack, but a quick kick in the ribs put him back on the ground. The stone walls of the buildings on either side of him cast a deep shadow that hid this little scene from the pedestrians on the street.  

Rixar towered over him, his four arms hanging menacingly over Spirit’s curled up body. His massive purple muscles bulged with malice and his bald head glinted in the setting sun.

Spirit heaved himself up on one elbow, trying once again to stand. Rixar lashed out at Spirit’s ribcage and with a great whuuff all his breath came out and he collapsed on the ground, semi-conscious. “Tha’ should teach ya a lesson not to mess with me, ya orphan rat!” Rixar chuckled darkly and trudged out of the alley, around the corner, and out of sight.

Spirit laid there, the world swimming before his eyes. His weak breaths formed little cyclones from the dirt floor of the alley. His mind hovered between reality and the netherworld of thought. Memories swirled through his head like water down a river, first a trip with Aunt Laura and Drac down to the strawberry fields. Romping through the tall grass, fruit stains on his hands and the smell of crushed thyme in the air. Then that memorable Celebration of the Full Moon, when Drac had accidentally overturned the wine vat(with no small help from Spirit) and soaked himself, Reorin, and a few other people. Others sped past his minds eye, nothing more than a blur of color and sound, when a colossal banging noise brought his mind back to reality.

The clip-clop of horse’s hooves sounded from the town square, and all of Spirit’s   injuries came back to him in a rush of agony. He groaned and curled into a fetal position, the numerous cuts and bruises that were scattered all over his body seeming to throb with renewed vigor, as if eager to make up for the time they had lost. Slowly, agonizingly so, they began to recede, and there he lay, vitality slowly returning to his muscles. Bit by bit he brought his arms under his body and pushed himself off the ground. He felt about his body, wincing at the sharp sting. Nothing felt broken, but his ribs would be really sore in the morning. He limped towards the opening and out to a dazzling sunset. His breathing slowed and a smile began to spread across his face as he gazed across the brilliant hues of the sky.

He stood there for a long moment, then turned around and began to make his way to the smithy. He shuffled slowly down

Guild Road

.

Mr. Colin the blacksmith was standing over his anvil with a hammer and what seemed to be a half-finished plow. His barrel-like chest and brawny arms lifted the huge hammer up and brought it crashing down on the stubborn piece of iron. Sparks flew with every impact and sweat poured from his prematurely graying hair into his bushy moustache. Taking off his cap, he wiped it across his brow. Glancing up, he saw Spirit walking down the lane and gave him a surreptitious wink. “Allo laddie. Where are you goin? Didn’t think ye could go past without sayin hello did’ye?”

“No sir” Spirit answered with a slight smile. He deviated from his course and turned into the smithy.

 “So how’re ye doing?” he said, setting his hammer on the anvil and turning to face Spirit. A concerned expression came over his face as he saw his injuries. “What happened to ye laddie?”

 Spirit started at the question. “Um, playing ball sir.” He tried to look innocent, but Mr. Colin wasn’t buying it. He gave Spirit a searching look for a long moment, then let it slide. When he saw Spirit glancing down at the anvil, he chuckled and said, “If you’re wondering, the plow’s for Cormac. He’s looking to hire some hands for the farm. He say’s he’s getting too old for that type o’ work. Plans on retiring soon.”

Spirit visibly relaxed. “Really? That’s certainly news for the tavern gossip.”

“Hm. No doubt by the morrow it’ll be that he’s goin to conk out, an’ he’s lookin’ for someone to pass his farm on to.” He laughed. “Thought you’re brother might have wanted to hear abou’ that, seein as he’ll be needin work soon.”

“You’re probably right. Thank you, I’ll remember to tell him.” He looked around, watching for prying ears, then leaned in close to the bigger man. “Say, about that favor I asked you…”

“Yes, it just finished hardening. Come on in.” The big man motioned Spirit into the warm confines of the shop, past the great bellows and towards the cooling room. The brick that made up the walls here was hard and in some places cracking and brittle from the almost constantly blazing fire. Spirit loved this room, especially the fire for some reason. As Mr. Colin’s apprentice, his normal job was to keep the coals at an even heat, a job he took to with pleasure. For some reason he loved the crackling flames and soothing heat.

 But as he passed by the fire, the room became noticeably brighter, and the flames seemed to burn higher just outside his vision. Startled, he twisted his head around for a second look, but the flames were simmering just above the embers, like normal. He shrugged and followed Mr. Colin. 

They skirted the bellows and entered the ‘treasure’ room. It was here where all of Mr. Colin’s finished products sat to cool and harden. Hoes, shovels, axes and much more hung on the dusty walls. Mr. Colin walked over to the far corner, reached behind an iron strongbox and withdrew a small dagger. Spirit gasped as Mr. Colin gently placed it in his hand. The perfectly shaped blade was still warm. “And ‘ere,” he said “is the sheath.” He handed him a small tooled leather sheath. He slipped the knife into it. The fit was snug, and the whole thing would hang quite comfortably on the waist. “Sir, this is positively amazing! It’s so light. Are you sure…” he reached for his purse.

“No Spirit, wouldn’t think of it. It’s a gift. Give Drac my best.”

“What, you won’t be able to come?”

“No, I’m goin to stay with Rosie. She’s feeling a little poorly, and want’s me to stay ‘ome. Sorry.” Mr. Colin’s wife had always been one of the first people to get sick when diseases came around, but she always ended up getting better. When she wasn’t sick, she had often been like a second mother to Spirit, and he loved her as much.

“That’s quite alright sir. Drac’ll understand.”

“Thank you lad. Well, you had better get ‘ome or your Aunt’ll have both our heads. Run along now,” he said gruffly. Spirit grinned as he followed Mr. Colin out of the Treasure Room and out into the dusky streets. Mr. Colin nodded as he picked up his hammer, then continued to beat away at the piece of metal. “Bye sir!” Spirit yelled over the ringing of the hammer strokes.

Turning, Spirit continued walking and noticed with surprise that walking was easier now, less painful. With a small skip to his step, he proceeded onward to the marketplace. Even at this time the market was busy, with people either trying to buy something or just standing there talking. Merchants stood behind their brightly colored carts, shouting at everyone and waving their hands about wildly, trying to sell whatever they could. Both workers and the upper-class stood around in groups, chatting and laughing.

He stood at the edge of the crowd for a moment, trying to decide which way to go, then shrugged and just plunged right in. Navigating through the press of bodies always proved to be a little arduous, and today was no exception.

Spirit hadn’t walked more than ten feet when, trying to squeeze through a gap between a lady and shopkeeper haggling over the price of cloth, someone bumped into him, nearly knocking him over. “Oh, sorry Spirit,” the boy said. Spirit grinned as he recognized his best friend. “That’s alright Conor.”

Conor was a short, thin lad of fifteen years. His straight black hair hung over his mischievous brown eyes. He had inherited his lanky build from his father, who was a professional entertainer. With his multiple talents for flipping and tight rope walking, Shaun made a decent amount of gold. Conor was following in his old mans’ footsteps, and had begun to carve out a reputation for himself among the children of the village as a balancing act.

“What are you doing here?” Spirit asked.

“Oh, well, my mom wanted to come and see what the new trade caravan had brought in.”

Conor carefully looked left and right, then put his head close to Spirits and said in a conspiratorial whisper,

“There are rumors. Some people say this caravan came all the way from Parmiea!”

 He straightened back up and snorted. “But of course that’s all nonsense.”

 Spirit knew what Parmiea was. Everyone had heard the stories of the misty island way down to the south. Over the last few months, rumors had begun to circulate, whispers of dark things, of nameless powers rising again in the ancient woodland realm.  Most did not believe these stories, as the bearers were beggars, criminals, and outcasts. Spirit however, liked to believe them, as they gave him something to think about when he had nothing else to do.

“So, any last-minute changes to the plan?” Conor asked. Spirit stared at him. “What do you…oh, Drac’s manhood celebration! No, every thing goes just as planned. Any changes you know of?”

“Yeah. Reorin has more canning to do, and she told me she couldn’t get it done by herself. She was wondering if we could help.”

Spirit groaned. “Why does it have to be canning? It’s the most boring job in history! Ugh. Tell her I’ll get there as soon as I can. Hopefully we can finish it before tomorrow.”

Conor grinned. “Thanks Spirit. I’ll tell her!” he yelled, already ducking off through the crowd. Spirit grinned too, and continued his trek to the other side of the marketplace.

He made his way out by ducking under the stand of an old merchant who was trying and failing to sell odd pieces of jewelry to some ladies who were obviously ignoring him, and emerged on an empty road that led right to his house. Free from the press of bodies, Spirit started to jog, but hissed in pain as his body protested the maltreatment. He settled for a brisk walk down the dirt lane. The sound of laughter and the scrape of cutlery rang out from the houses on either side. He grimaced as he remembered that he would not be eating supper for a long time.

The setting sun cast a golden glow over the thatched roofs of the village. Spirit walked along until he came to the small wooden house at the end of the lane. Smoke wafted gently from the chimney, and the light of candles shone from the windows, casting a merry glow over the little stone path in the front lawn. Striding up the path, he opened the door and entered the little two-story cottage.

Making his way through to the far wall, he pushed open the kitchen door. The homey room was filled with the smell of delicious food. Pots and pans littered most of the rough wooden counters, a moderately sized cooking pot sat above the fire to be brought to a boil, and Aunt Laura was at the counter chopping potatoes. Her bun had fallen completely apart, and hovered about her head like a storm cloud.

“Oh Spirit, there you are!” she exclaimed, “I’ve been worried sick about you.”

 Her old, weathered face wrinkled as she smiled at him. The smile turned to a gasp of horror as she noticed his injuries. “My goodness, what happened to you!? Was it that Larcen again? Oh Spirit.” Reaching out, she enveloped him in a hug and started humming a lullaby.

He tried to protest. “Ow! Really Aunt Laura, I’m, ouch, fine! Let me go!” Fighting free of her grasp he gave her a pleading look.

“Could you please not do that? I’m not ten years old anymore.”

She shook her head reproachfully and went to the medicine cabinet. He in turn went to the water bowl and tried to wash the worst of the dirt off, which proved to be a pointless venture.

“We really should do something about that boy,” she said, her voice muffled by the cupboard.

Spirit tried not to roll his eyes. “We can’t do anything about it. His father is the head of the Merchants Guild. No one would believe our story, and Rixar isn’t about to come forward and confess.”

She pulled her head out to give him a reproachful look. “You don’t need to take that tone with me.”

He winced at the hurt in her voice. “Sorry.” He said.

She sniffed. “That’s quite all right.” Then she returned her attention to the cabinet. The kitchen fell silent, save the bubbling of the pot and Aunt Laura’s hands searching for bandages. 

“I can’t stay long either, I have to be going again” he said over his shoulder.

“Where are you going?” Aunt Laura asked, coming over with several strips of cloth.

“Out.”

She put her hands on her hips and stared at him indignantly. “Come now Spirit; don’t give your aunt that. You aren’t of age yet, so I have a right to know what you’re doing after dark.”

“I’m going out with some friends.” he relented. His sixteenth birthday being two months away, he was not yet of age, so his aunt did still have some control over him. “Where’s Drac?”

“He’s upstairs in his room. Why?”

“Oh, no reason.” However, he knew Drac would not stay there for long. He needed to get out of the house before Drac could spot the dagger concealed in his pocket. While his aunt’s eyesight was poor, Drac would spot the tell-tale bulge in an instant.

 Looking down at bowl of water, he sighed. This method of cleaning was taking too long. Aunt Laura started to wrap a bandage around his arm, then took it off when he gave her an exasperated look. She pursed her lips, put the bandages away, and went back to the potatoes. Turning his attention back to the problem of cleaning up quickly, he thought for a moment, then picked up the bowl and walked outside.

“Spirit, what are you doing? Don’t put that water on your cuts or bruises, it’s dirty, and they might get infected.”

 Ignoring his aunt, he took off his shirt, grabbed the bowl and splashed all its contents on himself. He went back in, grabbed a towel, and dried himself off, wincing as the rough material brushed his injuries. As he picked up his shirt Aunt Laura pleaded with him, “Don’t put that shirt back on, it’s got dirt all over it!”

 He was just slipping on his shirt anyway when Drac came barreling into the room. Quickly Spirit turned so was to present his profile to Drac. “Mum, who’s at the door… oh, hey little brother, where you been?” Drac said with a mischievous twinkle in his blue eyes.

“I thought I told you don’t call me little! I’m only half a year younger than you, and two inches taller,” he said, playfully punching Drac in the shoulder. All the while, he kept his side pointing away from his cousin.

“Hey, that hasn’t been proven.”

“Sure it has. Don’t you trust Aunt Laura?” Spirit teased. He felt behind him for the door handle, found it, and grasped it.

“Where are you off to in such a hurry?” Drac asked.

“Away.” Spirit replied, and without another word rushed out. Drac turned to his mother. “Do you know where he’s going?”

“I don’t know. It’s getting harder for me to understand either of you.” She said with a huff, and threw the last of the potatoes into the cooking pot.

Down the front path and into the road Spirit ran. The sun had set while he was inside the house, and now the streets were dark and quiet, and the alleys were blacker then an old wine cellar. He took the road back into town and made for the community kitchens. The village seemed almost menacing in the darkness, and Spirit could not get the image of Rixar out of his mind. Rixar waiting in an alley to jump him, the sadistic pleasure on his face at the pain he inflicted. He shook his head like a dog trying to get rid of a flea. Stop it Spirit, he said to himself. You can’t let that purple creep control your life! Bending his head down, he tried to lose his fear in a rush of speed. Slipstreams whipped his hair about his face as he ran through the village darkness. His bruises and cuts stung with every step, but he ignored the pain. Buildings zipped past through his peripheral vision; the tavern, the brewery, The Faries Wing Inn, the kitchens, Kevin the fletchers… wait, the kitchens! He skidded to a halt and turned around. Yep, he had run right past the public kitchens. The front door opened and a little girl poked her head out.

“Spirit, was that you?” She looked around but obviously could not see him.

“I’m over here Jenen.” He jogged back towards the correct building, chuckling slightly at his mistake.

She turned to look his direction. “Spirit!” she squealed as she pattered towards him, brown hair trailing out behind her like a banner. He knelt down and spread his arms wide to catch her as she leaped right into his arms. He held her close to his chest and laughed. Jenen giggled when he tickled her chin. Her smile scrunched up her freckly nose as she looked at him adoringly. Her tiny pink and blue butterfly wings fluttered behind her.

“You’re getting heavy.” he said. “You haven’t been sneaking cookies from your sister again have you?”

“Oh yes, I am sure she has. I have been wondering how they disappear so quickly.”

Spirit looked over Jenen’s shoulder at the voice. Reorin walked towards them, drying her hands on a towel. Her beautiful yellow and mauve wings were currently folded up behind her, and her cascade of blonde hair was held back with a rough headband. An apron was belted across her slender waist, and a sweet smile graced her exotic features as she greeted him.

“Hello Spirit.”

“Hey Reorin. You doing ok?”

“I am fine.”

“Good.” He set Jenen down gently on the ground, and she toddled back towards the kitchens. Reorin gave Spirit a quick hug.

“Thank you so much for coming. There is still a lot of work to do.”

He stepped back. “You’re welcome.” They walked through the door and into the steamy kitchen. The windows were fogged and several huge pots sat over empty fire pits. Freshly baked loaves of bread sat on tables near the great big oven. The fire in the oven was still going, and, though there was little wood on it, it began to burn quite nicely when the trio came in. The pantry door was at the back of the room, and beside it was the door to the meat curing room. That was locked, so all in all it smelled pretty good in the kitchen. Spirit looked over to the counters and sighed, for on the long counters were rows upon rows of cans. On the other side were several small mountains of fruit. Reorin walked towards the end of the counter, and Spirit, after a longing look at the loaves of bread, followed. There they stood, with the mounds of fruit on one side, and the army of cans on the other. Reorin briskly explained to him what they were going to do.

“I will hand you the fruit after I cure it, and you will can it. When a can is full, push it to the side. We will sort them later. Make sure you do not mix the fruit, because it will rot if it is not stored with its kin.”

“Right” He cracked his knuckles and glared at the mounds of vegetable.

“Good. Let us get started.”

And so they canned. And canned. And canned. Jenen sat on the floor behind them as they worked, playing with anything she could get her hands on. Mostly they allowed her to play with what she wanted, but when she grabbed the meat carver, Spirit walked over and took it. She wasn’t all that depressed about it though, and soon began exploring the pantry, which gave Spirit and Reorin a chance to talk. Reorin leaned her head close to Spirit’s and murmured,

“Were you able to get Drac anything?”

Spirit grinned. “Oh yeah I got him something. Take a look at this.” He grabbed a rag from beside one of the diminished piles of produce and attempted to clean his hands. Once he got the worst of the juice off, he reached into his pocket and slowly withdrew the knife. Reorin drew in a breath sharply.

“Wow! Where did you get that?”

“Mr. Colin made it for me. I kinda thought it would be a useful thing to get when you’re finally come of age. Drac’s never had a knife before, so he’ll be happy to get something like this. Here, you can hold it.”

She accepted the knife with a look that was both apprehensive and excited.

“Careful, its sharp.”

She nodded her understanding to him, undid the clasp and slowly withdrew the blade. She stared at the small piece of steel with a look of intense concentration such as he had only ever seen on the face of a Storm-Elf when handed a weapon. The same look came over her father Jacrith whenever he handled his sword. While he, like the majority of other males of his species, did not have wings, he could still be quite an intimidating person if he wanted to. He was a good man, loving and kind in his own gruff way.

She blinked once, twice, then handed Spirit the knife with a quiet “Thank you.” He accepted it, placing it carefully in the sheath and back in his pocket.

Reorin held out another handful of gooey mass with a slight smile. “Tomatoes.”

He took it and found that they were almost finished. He cheerfully accepted handful after handful of vegetable and before he knew it, they had finished. Reorin placed the final globule of fruit in Spirits hand, then sat on the edge of the counter and breathed a sigh of relief. Spirit collapsed into a chair with a dazed look on his face.

A muffled banging sounded from somewhere in the kitchens and he jumped right back up, every sense alert. Reorin spun around, then let out an exasperated snort when she heard Jenen’s barely audible cries from the pantry.

Spirit looked at Reorin, letting out a shaky laugh. “Is it just me, or did she lock herself in the pantry?”

“Yes, I believe she has.” Reorin said, walking over and pulling open the door. Jenen tumbled out, sobbing, and Reorin scooped her up into her arms. Standing, she placed Jenen on a chair and went back to the counter. Then she picked up one of the rags and was about to start wiping off the counter when Spirit tapped her on the shoulder.

“Uh, Reorin, isn’t that rag almost as dirty as the counter?”

She looked at him. “Yes it is, but it is all we have.”

He shrugged. “You’ve got a point there.”

Spirit went over to the jars, grabbed as many as he could and took them to the pantry, where he did his best to sort them. After Reorin finished with the counter she went over the pantry door and looked inside. Spirit stood there with a jar in each hand and a bewildered look on his face. Pressing her wings together, she walked into the tiny room, gently took the jars from Spirit and put them in their proper places. He gave her a grateful look.

“Thank you.” He said, running a hand through his hair, now sticky with fruit juice.

“You are welcome.” She replied with a smile.

Together they walked out of the pantry and towards the door. Reorin lifted Jenen of the counter and put her on the floor. Jenen had stopped crying now, and merely looked tired as she clung to Reorin’s hand. After they passed out the door, Reorin produced a key and locked it behind them. She yawned and stretched her arms and wings. “I am glad that is finished.”

She walked down the steps and together they started down the darkened street towards their houses. As they walked Reorin looked at Spirit. “Thank you. You were truly a big help. I could never have done that myself.”

“No problem. It’s what any friend would do.” Spirit said, trying to wave it off, but Reorin would not let him.

“No, really, you were tremendous. If I had not been able to go to Drac’s party, I…” Reorin stopped abruptly and lowered her head. She attempted to hide it, but Spirit could tell she was blushing. Spirit smothered a laugh. He had always known that Drac had a crush on Reorin and vice versa, but they hardly ever let on to it. The conversation died for a few minutes, until Jenen began complaining loudly.

            “I tired! Wings hurt.” Her tiny wings fluttered as if in agreement.

            Spirit tried not to laugh. “How can your wings hurt if you haven’t been flying?”

            She thought for a moment, then shouted, “Tired!”

            Spirit rolled his eyes and slowed to a stop. Reorin covered her mouth, but a small giggle still escaped.

“All right, all right, come on up.” Spirit grunted as he hefted her into his arms. She immediately got a contented look on her face and curled up in Spirit’s arms. Reorin shook her head as they resumed walking. Not a minute had gone by before Jenen was fast asleep. They passed down the black roads until they came to Spirit’s house.

“Good night Spirit.” Reorin said. She tried to take Jenen from Spirit but he held her fast.

“Oh no, I’ll walk you home. I don’t like the idea of you girls walking around the village at this time of night.”

“Thank you again.” She gave him another smile and they resumed walking. The rest of the journey was passed in silence, but this was a friendly one. Eventually they arrived at Reorin’s house. Spirit kissed Jenen softly on the head. She stirred slightly but did not wake. Reorin held out her hands and Spirit reluctantly handed over her baby sister.

“See you tomorrow.” Spirit murmured as she eased open the door.

“Goodnight my friend.” She whispered back, then closed the door. Spirit waved and proceeded back up the street. The yawns that he had been holding back all evening finally burst forth, and fatigue poured over him in waves. He could just barely keep his eyes open, and by the time he got to his house he was staggering slightly. He swayed up the front steps and into the dark cottage. After inching the door back until he heard the latch fall, he crept to the far right side of the room and up the stairs.

The walls here were adorned with more decorations, but Spirit ignored them as he counted the steps in his head, because the second to last one squeaked. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, skip nine, ten.

The second floor landing was as dark as it was downstairs, with no light shining out of either bedroom. He tiptoed down the hall and into him and Drac’s room. Sure enough, Drac was sound asleep on his bed, a book on his chest. The candle on the little table in between their beds had probably gone out an hour ago. Convinced that he was safe, he staggered over to his bed and collapsed. He just remembered to take off his boots before sleep hit him like a physical force, and he fell into a deep slumber.