Age 7, Last Earthday of Harvester

It was 12 years ago, but I remember it like it was yesterday.

I was too old too old to toddle along with my mother as she worked, and too young to get an apprenticeship in the market or on the docks. Our father was out on errantry, and mom didn’t talk about it much. I knew it made her sad, and I hoped he would be able to make it back home for the week of Brewfest, but I knew it wasn’t likely. These days my brother, senior of me by 3 years, would wander off before breakfast, and only barely make it home in time for dinner, always with a vacant gaze. So during daylight, I was left to my own devices, free to wander the streets of Greenlake.

I spent the morning playing with vagrant children my age. When I had been younger, they teased me for my blue skin. Sometimes I was the “Blue Fairy”, and sometimes I was “Briney Tim”. I didn’t seek their friendship, but we managed to find enough common ground to play anyway. Sometimes we would play hide-and-seek, and often we would chase each other up and down alleys with make-shift wooden “swords”. (I always bested them with those.) It was an idyllic part of my childhood – I got to run with the ruffians, but I always had a place to come home for dinner.

I spent the afternoon watching street entertainers. I was obviously not from wealth, so they didn’t bother to hustle me for compensation. When you have a child’s amount of free time, to wander the streets as I did, you look at the entertainers in a different light. They worked hard for their money, but they were always only second rate. I’ve seen street magicians accidentally light themselves on fire, I’ve seen sword jugglers lose fingers. When I realized it was near dark, with the sun well below the horizon and my companions long scattered, I decided to head back home.

My mind withdrawn into daydreams, I took a wrong turn in a back alley, and didn’t realize it until a few blocks later. I had always known to be careful when travelling alone in the alleyways. The less sane of the cities vagrants, the ones who existed only in the crevices of society, called some of these alleys their home. The one I was in was no exception. About 30 feet ahead of me in the alley was an obstruction. Some sort of worn lean-to, or tent, filling the entire breadth of the alley. An ominous red-orange glow emanated from between the folds of the ramshackle abode, along with the foul smell of singed hair and improperly disposed feces. I stopped dead in my tracks.

My heart was racing like a bard with a drum. As I took a step back, my foot slipped on some refuse and I managed to tumble backwards into a large crate off to the side of the alley. I heard a rustling nearby, and then a raspy male voice shouted out, “What’s that!? Who’s there?”

I lay inside that crate, as still as a moss-covered stone. I knew that I must not be found. Children that wandered blindly into the wrong alleys were often not seen again.

“My sight may not be what it used to be, bu-but I know someone is out there.” the elderly voice called again. Then he mumbled something about “rapscallion children” and “alley cats”. I stilled my breath but I knew I had no chance for a quiet escape.

“I will not be harassed by your folk any longer!” asserted the old man.

Then he started mumbling something. First barely audible, and then slowly getting louder. He wasn’t speaking the language of the common folk, nor the language of my own people or that of the elves I sometimes watched down at the market. The words reminded me of the mumblings of the street magicians that I often watched make fools of themselves. Before I made the mental connection, I felt my chest tighten and grow cold, as if grabbed by an invisible ghostly hand. Then excruciating pain as bolts of lightening burst through the boards of the crate, wrapping around my small frame, and then dragged me down the alley towards the smiling wretched old man at the other end of the lightening bolts.

“That’ll teach you you to bother Chester, laddy!” cackled the man, as I slowed to a stop near his feet. I struggled to lift my head to look up at him. As I did, a look of surprise crept across his face, followed by a look of panic. Chester cringed as he clutched his chest, and was dead before he hit the ground next to me.

I don’t remember walking home that night. I probably did, but I don’t remember – probably because I was so badly hurt. Lucky, though, to even be alive. I guess that was the reason for the look of surprise on the old man’s face.

A week later I worked up the gumption to venture back into that same alley. Chester’s body was gone, and his shack had been ransacked, its covering in tatters. I was getting ready to turn tail and head out when I noticed a worn book on the ground, the only recognizable belonging left behind and in one piece.

It was titled “Arcana for Beginners” - I made sure to grab it before leaving.