An Urchin’s Life

Gala dozed, her eyelids half-shut and flickering with the fitful beginnings of sleep. She leaned against the damp cellar wall, shoulders sagging lazily, head lolling to one side. The tiny hairs on her arms rose in response to the creeping cold. A tiny shiver cascaded into a spasm, and her head fell forward, jarring her from slumber. She pulled her ratty blanket tightly around her, then curled into a tiny ball, trying desperately to trap as much heat as she could. Slowly, the obfuscating haze of sleep consumed her mind once more.

Howling wind gusted in fitful bursts outside, rattling the loose cellar door in sharp, quick thuds. A thin draft ghosted through the narrow gaps in the rotting hatch planks, chilling the room. Gala’s breath came out in thin, wispy clouds. Another shiver, more violent than the first, startled her awake once more. She pushed herself up, and sat against the wall. Hugging her blanket close, she fought the waves of shaking. She yawned loudly, and looked to the other side of the dark cellar.

Robyn lay against the opposite wall. Her chest heaved with short, ragged breaths, tendrils of pale white drifting up, disappearing into the darkness above. Her head was bowed, almost as if in prayer, but her shoulders shook with the cold, breaking the illusion. Her jaw hung limply open. Deep bruises circled her mouth and chin. Gala said a small prayer to Eos that Robyn would continue to heal quickly.

Robyn shifted in her sleep, slumped to the floor, and did not stir again. Worry swelled up in Gala. She stood, still shaking. Despite weak legs, she walked to where the woman lay, careful not to make any noise. The last thing she wanted was to wake her mentor.

The older woman’s body was warm under Gala’s frail hand, and her chest heaved to a shallow, but rhythmic beat. Gala checked her pulse. It was steady, and slow. She brushed the woman’s hair from her face, studied her silently, then smiled slightly in satisfaction.

She looks better, Gala thought. She stretched, shrugging the blanket from her aching shoulders. I guess I won’t be going back to sleep. Her jaw cracked with another deep yawn, and she blinked sleep from her heavy eyes. Best find some food, Robyn will need all the energy she can muster to heal from that wound. Her stomach rumbled loudly, and she felt her face go hot with embarrassment, even though she was the only one awake to hear it. She smiled wanly, I guess a little food wouldn’t kill me, either.

Gala popped her knuckles, then rolled her head back and forth along her shoulders, cracking her neck. Yawning once more, she shook her head, driving the last vestiges of sleep from her mind. She could not afford to be tired, not outside where every move she made would have to be calculated. Risk was an everyday part of life on the streets of Rudston, but every action became all the more precarious at night, when everything was scarce.

Hundreds, perhaps thousands of street urchins, thieves, gang members, and vagabonds called the Lower City their home. Life was not easy on any of them. No one else was looking out for her; she had to look out for herself. She had seen strong men cut down in the street by another thief hoping for a scrap of bread, urchins beaten to the brink of death by guards, women give up and die alongside sick children, falling asleep forever on the frozen ground. No, life was never easy in Rudston, not with death around every corner.

Gala climbed the cellar steps, and popped the latch to the door. As she pushed the hatch up, the wind caught it, flung it from her grip, and smacked it sharply against the ground outside. The hinges groaned, almost as if in agony, and the wind pinned it to the ground. Gala braced herself against the frigid gusts, stepped outside with slow deliberation, hands raised to protect her face. Hair flew about wildly in the unpredictable flurry. She struggled to grasp the door, straining to lift it from the ground. Her small frame fought against the gale, but she managed to heave the hatch closed. She threw her full weight on top of it, listening for the small click that indicated that the latch had caught.

Gala squatted low, bracing her slight frame against the powerful gusts of wind. She slipped through a crack in the wall of the building above their cellar home, seeking both refuge and a place to hide from prying eyes. She hunkered down by an empty window frame, glad to be out of the howling wind, and scanned the street beyond. Minutes passed. No one was around. Gala let out a pent up breath she had not realized she was holding in, and nodded resolutely to herself. Time to save the day, again.

She knew the next several weeks would be difficult. Night was always hard, especially on the poorest among those in the Lower City. Food was the hardest thing to come by, particularly since nothing of any real value grew during the dark cycles of the year. Everything became scarce when the sun went down. Blankets were a commodity, but even simple things like water could be difficult to come by when the wells froze over, and the ground was littered with vile, muddy ice.

Gala walked the streets, arms across her body to try and keep the cold at bay. Time was limited, her feet could only take so much punishment before they went black with death. She stopped at every crossroad, checking in all directions to be sure that she was alone. It took precious seconds, but the last thing she wanted was to run into another person, a scenario Robyn had taught her to avoid on every excursion.

Along the way, she checked every dumpster and pile of stray refuse for food. Even the moldiest of bread was an invaluable resource when the darkness took hold, but she always held out hope for a fresh apple. One heap of garbage yielded her a half-eaten, gelatinized chicken. Another, a loaf of stale brown bread and a furry green bundle of carrots. She tucked those into her belt, and continued on, hoping to find more.

*****

A sharp bang sounded overhead, and Robyn sat bolt upright, her jaw lolling to one side. Fear spread over her mind, clouding her already foggy brain with a dark well of anxiety. Sweat beaded on her brow despite the cold. Her eyes darted about wildly. Who was that? Where…. Where am I? Her mind raced, trying to catch up to her surroundings. Breathing deeply, she tried to order her thoughts. Slowly, her surroundings came into focus. I’m in the cellar. She stood on shaky legs, bracing herself against the dank, dirty wall. Who is knocking?

The pounding came again, abrupt and emphatic. She twirled, looking around the cellar, before her thoughts settled on the hatch above. A trickle of fear returned, but she pushed it aside, and gingerly tested her balance. She almost fell before her hand found the wall again to keep herself upright. She quickly scanned the room, looking, listening for her apprentice. She was gone. Gala must have stepped out to relieve herself, and tripped the latch again by mistake. I swear to Eos, that girl…

She stumbled to the stairs, then climbed them on all fours. The blackness obscured her vision. Without any depth perception, she knocked her knees into the steps more than once, eliciting pained groans. Tenderly, she touched the rotting wood of the hatch, and pushed it gently, trying to open it outward. The wood creaked softly, but did not budge. As I thought, she’s gone and locked herself out. Robyn flipped the latch, then pushed upward again, fighting the gusts of wind. The hatch swung outward, got caught by a gust, and slammed open, revealing the empty blackness of the sky above, broken only by a disc of haggard blue. The moon silhouetted a figure, standing over the opening, one hand on a hip.

“Hello there, Robyn,” A grating voice said, piercing the whistling sound of the wind.

‘Hello Corbin.” Robyn responded, an icy bite to her voice. She hated the man with a deep, unabashed fury, a hatred born of death and sorrow. What is he doing here? She thought frantically, watching him intently.

Corbin was the leader of the Nightpack, a Lower City gang. The same gang that claimed the territory Robyn and Gala lived in. He was a conniving, cruel man. Unlike the other gang leaders, he never killed anyone without first extracting what pleasure he could from them. Many said it was better to die by your own hand than let Corbin get you alone.

“What are you doing here?”

He was still for a pregnant moment. A sinister smile played across his lips. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath through his nose, and let it out slowly. When he opened them again, they gleamed with a silent intensity.

“What do you think I want, bitch?”

“Corbin, I—”

“Don’t give me one of your pathetic excuses,” he warned, a dangerous note edging his voice. “I am tired of hearing them, and besides, I have given you more breaks than you deserve.”

“I don’t have your money,” Robyn replied simply. Corbin was too sly to slip anything past him, so she chose not to try. “In case you have failed to notice, I am a bit indisposed.”

“I do not care,” he snapped back. His face was impassive, but anger tinted his voice. “Give. Me. My. Money.” He punctuated each word with a hard slap on the wall overhead.

“What about ‘I don’t have it,’ are you too dense to understand?” Robyn retorted. Anger bubbled up inside her. She knew better to antagonize the man, but something about him always set her off. Maybe it was the medicine, or the injury itself, but for a brief moment, she simply did not care what happened. “My mark got away last night, and the only thing I got in return was a broken jaw.”

He sucked his teeth, making a disgusting tssssk sound. After a moment, he spoke slowly, as if considering. “You know what happens to rats who don’t pay me.”

The anger sluiced off her like oil in the rain. Her heart missed a beat, stopped cold, then resumed beating frantically.

“I can have it for you tomorrow,” she said. She struggled not to sound demure, but her sudden acquiescence after the display of anger made it hard.

“In your condition? I might as well sell that pretty little daughter of yours to a brothel.” He said, turning to the side. Moonlight highlighted his hooked nose. His brown, windblown hair flowed to his shoulders, occasionally stirred by a gust. “There is no way you can make enough in one night. Give me one good reason not to kill you where you sit.”

“I can, and I will,” she said, grinding her teeth despite the pain. The thought of his greedy hands coming within a dozen paces of Gala brought white-hot anger soaring to the surface again.

“Fine, you have one night,” he spat. “If you fail, you die and the girl gets to play backstreet whore for the rest of her short life.” He smiled cruelly, and then turned to leave, his boots crunching softly in the fresh snow. “Oh, and one more thing,” he said, stopping with his back still to her. “If this happens again, I won’t ask questions. I will kill you.”

Robyn watched as the night swallowed him. She shivered, but not from the cold, then went back into the relative warmth of the cellar. This is bad, she thought. She slumped against the wall at the bottom of the steps. Cold leached into her, but she paid it no mind. I need a plan. What am I going to do?