|
Writer
Join Date: Dec 2004
Posts: 45
|
A Price Too High [working title -- just over 3800 words]
I think it has too long of an introduction, what should i trim? Other critiques appriciated as well, of course.
-----------------------
Sam’s mother was dying. She wouldn’t admit it to anyone, but none-the-less, day-by-day she was slipping away. Sam could see the signs. He wasn’t the smartest boy, but neither was he completely blind, and he was her son--he just knew.
Her cheeks were gaunt and sagged loosely on her frame, and she bruised more easily than ripe-fruit. It was a cruel comparison, but sadly, an accurate one.
The problem had started with her cough. First Sam had thought that the woman was coming down with a summer cold, and then some kind of whooping cough. Now, in such a progressed stage, the strange disease sent torrents of hacking chokes – her weak attempt at coughing, now that her body was too tired to perform the real action – through her frial frame; chokes that sent trickles of blood sliding from the corners of her lips down her sickly pale skin, mixing with sweat to form a congealed mass of a tinged-red.
Mr. Sharpton, the physician that had agreed to see Anne, had proscribed an herb, that when boiled helped tremendously to sooth the bouts of coughing, and Sam had bought as much as his meager income, garnered by working as dish-boy at one of the city pubs, could afford.
But the herbs, Mr. Sharpton had made clear, where only a temporary solution. They would calm the fits, yes, but not cure the disease itself. Even Mr. Sharpton wasn’t sure the exact illness that had afflicted Sam’s mother, but he knew it was likely caused by a bacteria inhabiting the lungs, and irritating them to such excess that the body eventually coughed itself out. Literally. And while he wasn’t positive that Safrote root would cure the disease, Mr. Sharpton said that he would bank on it. And so Sam had banked everything on it.
Daniel Huft, Sam’s late father, and Anne’s late husband, had passed away -- when Sam was but a babe in arms – in military service. His body, the Guard Captain had said, could not be recovered – behind enemy lines as it was – because the city-state of Uhrul did not see the need to expend the necessary resources; the moss-covered grave-stone in the back of Sam’s property was just a marker. Sam’s mother was all that he had left, and he wasn’t giving her up without a fight.
When Anne was first diagnosed with the affliction of the lung, Sam decided that they had to get out of the city. The filthy environment was probably what had caused the bacterial infection in the first place, and could only worsen the condition. Although Daniel hadn’t left his family with much, he did own a summer cottage in the foothills surrounding Uhrul, and it was to there that Sam moved his (for it was his now, not his mothers, not anymore) household.
The cottage was just one large room, with an attached loft, but it was refreshing compared to the city, and even though Sam had to walk five miles to and from work, it was well worth it. Anything to keep his mother in better condition, anything.
As Anne was in no position to tackle the ladder up to the loft, it was Sam’s sleeping area, and it was there that he was sitting, contemplating decisions not meant for a boy of less than seventeen winters.
One-hundred pieces of gold.
That was what, as far as Sam was concerned, stood between him and his mother’s health. For that was the estimate Sharpton had given for the bare minimum of doses.
One-hundred lousy pieces of gold.
Most of the city merchants had more than that much to spare, but would they listen when Sam begged on street corners for his mother’s life, falling to his knees in front of the greedy bastards? No. Because they had to buy the missus new silks from foreign lands, and afford their trips to the brothels without causing their wives too much suspicion. And God forbid they forgo these pleasures of life for the sake of an old, dying woman.
It’s not like they’d starve if they donated a few pieces of gold… probably wouldn’t even notice, Sam thought, his fingers idly twirling around a piece of scrap-wood that Sam had found in the loft’s corner. The piece bounced merrily from finger to finger as he thought, over and over; Sam had always been deft of hand.
According to Sharpton, without the proper medication Anne would be dead in a month or two. One month. Sam tried to picture life without his mother, but his mind could not grasp it. She was just there, and always had been… how could she go? Something wet was sliding down Sam’s cheek, and he wiped it away.
And now the roof’s leaking, he thought.
Slowly he climbed down the ladder to the main room of the cottage, avoiding the one creaky rung so as not to wake his mother. He opened the wood-stove, and stoked the coals before adding a few pieces of wood. It was only then that he realized the roof hadn’t been leaking – it was sunny and bright outside. Sam Huft had been crying. The last time he had cried was when he was ten, as far as he could remember. His mother had always frowned upon crying.
“What would your father say if he could see you blubbering away about a few scrapes? Show some respect, Sammy,” she had reprimanded him, her finger accentuating her point with little jabs at each word.
Never show weakness. That was one of the most important rules that Sam had been brought up by, only superseded by respect. But sometimes, late at night, Sam had seen Anne sitting in front of the stove, muffling sobs with her thick blanket.
“Sammy? Is that you?” A frail voice asked from the corner-bed.
“Yes mother, it’s me. Go back to sleep,” Sam said gently, his vision again blurry with wetness.
“You’re a good boy Sam. Your father would be proud of you.” And then a rustling of covers, and Anne dropped back to sleep instantly.
Your father would be proud of you. That was the highest form of compliment that Anne could give.
Sam sighed, stoked the fire once more, even though it was roaring already, then silently pulled open the door, and left the house.
********
Uhrul was a big city by any definition, and once Sam entered its gates, exhausted from his long trek, he was immediately assailed by calls from vendors to examine their wares – the calls cut short when he drew closer, and they saw his grubby clothing and empty purse.
The bar where Sam worked was close to the east gate – which was the one he used – so he didn’t have to bear the bustle long, but seeing so many people laughing gaily, flirting and spending absurd sums of money was enough to make Sam sick to the stomach.
His boss was named Ian -- a short fat man, who looked like an enlarged version of one of the round leather balls used in that kicking game that all the street-urchins were so fond of. Even his skin color was the same – the rich brown of the desert people.
“You’re late, Sammy,” Ian said, but gently – he knew about Sam’s mother – “and that’s the third time this week… I feel for you kid, but I’m not running a charity.”
“I’m sorry, Ian, it won’t happen again,” Sam replied, fixing his angry gaze on his poorly shod feet.
“See to it that it doesn’t. There is a large stack of dishes that are in desperate need of a wash, Sam. Get to it.”
Sam made his way to the bucket of skuzzy dishwater, gave it a disgusted look, and took the pail out back to fill it up at the pump.
There were a few drunks draped out over the alleyway, and two men with filthy, beer-stained clothes and hair were playing dice for scratched and bent copper pieces. Another of the drunks was propped up against the pump, and Sam prodded him with his foot. The man didn’t seem to notice.
“Great, just great,” Sam muttered darkly, and gave the drunk a more hearty kick to knock him out of the way.
One of the drunk’s hands shot out just before Sam’s foot connected, and grabbed Sam’s Ankle, pulling him smoothly down on top of the man.
Sam struggled for a moment, but froze when he realized that there was a hands-span of cold steel pressed against his throat.
He whimpered, a high-pitched, pitiful sound.
The drunk was breathing in Sam’s ear, and the stench of his breath almost made Sam puke, but something told that was not such a good idea.
“Who sent you?” The man whispered fiercely in Sam’s ear. “It was Hank, wasn’t it?”
“I—I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Sam pleaded.
The man seemed to consider this, consider whether or not Sam was telling the truth, and consider what Sam was sure would be whether to let him live or die.
After a long moment the tight grip around Sam’s neck loosened, and Sam dove away as fast as his body could propel him, breathing hard.
An odd sound came out of the drunk’s mouth, and it took a while before Sam identified it as a wheezing laugh.
He was being laughed at by a drunk, who had threatened his life.
His cheeks flushed red, Sam grabbed his water dish-bucket, and swung it in a half circle, bringing it down on the drunks head. Splinters of wood shot out from the explosion of wood and flesh, but the drunk man just winced, and pulled out a few large pieces that had imbedded themselves in his head. He wasn’t laughing anymore.
Sam stood still, shocked at what he had just done, until the man started laughing again, and staggered to his feet, a trickle of blood running down the bridge of his nose.
“You’ve got some nerve, kid. I’ve killed men for less, and a few young lads like you as well. But I like kids with nerve,” he said, in the slightly slurred tone of a man who has been drunk very recently, and still carries many of the ill effects.
“I—I’m sorry sir,” Sam pleaded very quickly, the words coming two octives higher than his normal voice.
“Yeah. I’ll bet you are. Now I’ve got blood all over my new suit.”
The man was wearing a torn and soiled thin linen tunic, so Sam assumed he was joking, and laughed shrilly.
“Ha-ha-ha… yah. Funny. Anyway, thanks for the wake-up call. Next time you touch me I’ll cut your balls off.” And with that the man walked away, his staggering gait becoming less noticeable as he went, until he was walking straight – and then he was gone.
From inside the pub a shout came for clean dishes, and Sam quickly grabbed a new dish bucket before vigorously working the rusty pump until a torrent of murky water came cascading out.
********
Ian made Sam work late to make up for his tardiness, and Sam knew he would have to rush home if he hoped to arrive in time to prepare food – and more herb tea – for his mother. So he opted to cut across the city directly instead of following the contour, and protection, of the city wall.
What’s the worst that could happen, he thought. Nobody is going to jump someone poorer than they are.
It was Sam’s pay-day, so in fact he did have a few coppers in his purse, but his clothes still marked him as poor, and he had muted the sound of the coins with a piece of cloth.
He knew the maze of inner-city streets well, as he had lived in them for most of his life, and he soon became lost in his thoughts as his feet followed familiar paths without needing guidance from the head they carried.
Darkness was slowly creeping its shaggy head above the mountain-peaks, and when Sam finally focused on his surroundings, only the light of lamps hanging from windows and signs lit the way onward.
“Goddamnit!” He said out-loud. He hadn’t been as fast in getting across town as he had hoped. Anne would be worried sick, if she was conscious at all.
“Hey kid.” A voice spoke from the shadows. “Wassa matta?” It was laced with thick city-drawl.
Sam quickened his pace, and didn’t acknowledge that he had heard anything.
Multiple voices laughed lewdly, and Sam heard the tell-tall patter of light-footed men jogging up behind him.
“Don’cha wanna play wif us, kiddo?” Another voice questioned cruely.
“I think he’s ignoring you, Jake.” A deeper voice answered, closer behind Sam. “Maybe someone should teach him a little respect for his betters.”
A rough hand grabbed Sam’s shoulder, spinning him around, and almost knocking him to the ground. A second hand grabbed at his purse, and tore it open, spilling the copper coins onto the brick street.
Sam tried to scream, but someone else was holding their gloved hand over his mouth and nose, cutting off his lungs from either forcing sound through his throat, or taking in air. Knowing that his life was in danger, Sam struggled anew, but it was no use; he was out-numbered and out-matched, and stars were beginning to explode across his vision… everything went spiraling down, down. down… Down into darkn—
“Wait.” A strong voice commanded, sharp as a whip crack. “Let him go.”
Suddenly the hand was gone and Sam gasped in fresh air desperately.
When his vision cleared, Sam found himself staring into the face of the man who had been on the receiving end of his dish-bucket earlier that day. The face smiled.
“This kid’s already had a rough day, Hugh,” Said the face, still pasted with a gleaming smile. “We should let him get back home before his mommy ousts the town guard into looking for him.”
Sam was lost for words. He had just been saved by a man who had attacked him earlier that same day, and whom he himself had attacked. “...and since this is our second meeting, I believe introductions are in order,” The man continued, talking with much more lucidity than Sam remembered – likely due to his comparatively low blood-alcohol level. “I’m Harry,” he finished.
“I—“ Sam stuttered, he was still trying to sort through what had just happened – it had all been so fast... “I’m Sam.”
“What brings you through our neck-of-the-woods, Sam?” Harry asked, his smile tilting up slyly to one side.
“Like you said—-I’m late getting home, and my mother must be worried sick, and she hasn’t had her medicine, please, just let me get home...keep the money, even! God knows it wouldn’t be enough anyway.” Sam said all this very fast, so that it came out as more of a constant squeal than a string of coherent words, but Harry and his men understood perfectly – they had been listening to the stutter and squeal of scared men for years, after all.
“Motha’s sick?” One of the men asked, imitating Sam’s tone mockingly.
“Ain’t got no money,” Another followed up.
“Well... we kind gentlemen couldn’t allow a poor innocent boy and his mother to starve, could we, fellows?” Harry asked. He had an odd gleam in his eye that made Sam wary, but at the same time another part of him was fascinated by what Harry was saying.
“You like your job at Ian’s pub, kid?” Harry continued. Some of the other guys caught on, and started grinning.
Sam caught on too. Or at least he thought he did. He knew that they could just be making a fool of him. If he let them.
“What’s it to you?” He said, putting on an air of confidence that he did not feel.
“Want to make more money than you’ve ever dreamed of?” Harry said, ignoring Sam’s question.
Sam would not be deterred. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying that they boys and I are a little short-handed for something I’ve been meaning to get done for a while... and we’d be willing to split profits evenly with you.”
“Is... Is it illegal?”
“Sam, You have to understand that not just you are hard pressed for money in this place. The rich just screw us over anyway – look at it as a little payback. And besides, no, I’m not asking you to do anything illegal.”
Inside, Sam was in turmoil. He knew that what Harry was saying was wrong, but his blood was boiling, and there was nothing his mind could do to stop it. Besides, he thought, Harry’s right. We are getting screwed-over by the rich... Maybe they do deserve a little pay-back. And the money could be enough, he knew. Just maybe – maybe – if he pulled this off, he could afford the medicine.
“How much?” He asked.
“200 gold, minimum.”
It was more than enough. That settled it.
“When do I meet you?”
********
The next morning came slowly, and brought with it a drizzle of spring-rain. It pitter-pattered on the roof, and it was to this sound that Sam awoke. At first he thought that the events of the previous night had just been a bad dream, but then he felt the twinge of pain from the deep-purple bruise on his shoulder where he had been grabbed.
His mother had been dead asleep when he had arrived home, so he had just collapsed, and fallen into restless bouts of half-sleep until he awoke.
Something kept nagging him. Sam knew that his mother would very likely die any day without the medicine, and he knew also that her being kept from proper care was unfair, and inhumane.
But something about what he had committed to disturbed him on a deeper level than he could fathom.
“Meet me behind the pub when you get off work,” Harry had instructed. “I’ll give you instructions then. Remember, this is just a one-time job. You do it, then you forget you ever saw me.” Sam had nodded mutely.
As he made his way down the ladder, Sam listened for sounds of his mother stirring, as she did almost every morning when he moved around the house. But he heard nothing. She was dropping deeper and deeper into her sickness, so Sam wasn’t entirely surprised. Just worried and afraid.
He went through his morning routines of preparing food and stoking the fire, then left, jogging over the muddy ground with his cloak pulled over his head to try to avoid the worst of the rain, his boots squishing loudly with each step.
The rest of the day passed in a haze. And all too soon Sam’s shift was over, and he stepped out in back of the pub.
A cloaked figure peeled away from the shadows and grabbed Sam’s hand, leading him through a new sequence of alley-ways until they arrived at a dead-end alley, where the other four men waited, huddled under an overhanging awning to avoid the ceaseless rain.
The cloaked figure was Harry, as he revealed when he pulled off his hood to identify himself to his men.
“Are we ready?” Harry asked.
“Yeah. All present and accounted for,” one of the men replied, “Now can we get this over with? I’m freezing my balls off.”
“What do you want me to do?” Sam asked quietly.
“You’re the lookout,” Harry answered, his eyes darting around to make sure they weren’t being observed in the fading evening light. “Just watch for guards-men, and if you see any coming, or anything else suspicious, whistle like this.” Harry made a sound that resembled a barn-owl, or some other similar bird of the night.
Sam tentatively copied him, and got the hang of it after a few tries.
“Good,” Harry said. “And it’s too risky for us to go around the front and pick you up, Sam, so you’ll have to meet us here after the job is done.”
After getting an affirmative nod from Sam, Harry set off, reminding everyone to mark their path back to the rendezvous spot well, unless they wanted to get lost.
Time passed, and darkness had fully descended before Harry signaled with his hand for a stop. In front of the group was a large open courtyard, boxed in by four elegant manors. In the center of the courtyard there was an ornate fountain, complete with stone mermaids.
Harry tapped Sam on the shoulder – the unrbruised one – and motioned for him to remain where he was until he heard the signal, upon which time he would return to the rendezvous.
Then the five cloaked men crept away, following the shadows.
More time passed. It was difficult to tell how much, because the moon was hidden by clouds, but Sam started worrying that something had gone wrong. How could they take so long?
He tried to pass the time by thinking of his mother healthy again, and how good life would be after this was over.
But he heard no signal.
He thought about how he wouldn’t have to work for years, and how he could buy nicer clothes to make a better impression on potential employers when his money supply ran low.
Still he heard no signal.
Once Sam saw the flicker of torches in the distance, and almost whistled the warning, but the flicker was gone just as quickly as it had appeared.
Finally he couldn’t stand it, and he set off back the rendezvous spot.
When he reached the dead-end alley he heard commotion from its far end, and thanked the Gods that the men had made it back.
He called out in a horse whisper “Hey!”
All sounds of movement stopped.
A minute passed with no one moving, and then someone struck flint to steel and lit a torch, illuminating all five of the men standing protectively around three chests.
They looked at one-another guiltily, and then Harry approached Sam slowly, his hands hidden deep in the folds of his cloak.
“Sam...” Harry said slowly, also in a whisper.
“I thought something had gone wrong,” Sam said, “I didn’t hear the signal.”
Again the men exchanged a glance, and Harry turned to Sam with a sickly glint in his eye.
“Look, kid, it would have been better if you’d have stayed away. We tried to just leave you back there, but now...”
“What are you talking about, Harry?” Sam asked, his voice raising in fear and indignation.
Harry gave Sam one last pitying look, and then jabbed his hand out lightning quick. A bolt of pain shot up Sam’s nerve, and suddenly his vision was spinning. There was something cold in his stomach. Cold, and steel.
“Did you really think we would pay you, kid?” Harry asked, quietly, as he pulled his knife out of Sam’s abdomen, and wiped clean on his clothes.
And then Sam’s world went dark. Forever.
Blood trickled in small rivers onto the ground, where the rain pitter-patted on the brick street, washing it away.
At Sam’s home his mother was dying. She wouldn’t admit it to anyone, but none-the-less day-by-day she was slipping away. And on the street, her son was dead.
__________________
"Ahh. A man with a sharp wit. Someone had better take it away before he cuts himself."
-Peter da Silva
|
![A Price Too High [working title -- just over 3800 words]](http://www.writingforums.com/iconimages/short-stories/price-too-high-working-title-just-over-3800-words_ltr.gif)
