Change by Wen Wen Yang/ Muted Dragon

The bells tolls for the end of Mass. I’m not there of course. I am too busy taking advantage of the empty streets and bazaars. A scarf covers my face while a loose fitting tunic and pants hide the rest of me. Only my hands and eyes feel the heat of the sun. It is a hot summer, brimming with promise, brimming with anticipation. What am I waiting for? The revolution.

“You are early, as always, Ithun.” The shopkeeper says. She is short, round, much like the fruit she sells. I pick up a peach and bring it to my covered nose. It’s ripe, sugary and inviting.

“Six for four pence.” I offer as I begin picking out the ripest ones. They tumble into my bag that wraps around my shoulder and sits at my hip. Other produce already weigh it down. Thankfully, this is my last stop as I hear the church doors open.

“Seven.” She counters with her hands on her waist.

“Robbery.” I retort and hand her the four pence.

“There is a great change in prices due to the gold stores of the castle dwindling.” She snorts. This is why I shop here. News seems to always travel through her ears and out her loud mouth. “You are lucky you have pity on your side, else I’d order more.” She says as she turns to another customer before I can retort. This is why I don’t tell anyone of my past or present life.

I grab three more peaches than I bought and slip them into the inner pocket of my tunic. She won’t notice. And if she does, she’ll know better than to speak to me like that again. She knows I can manage more. At least that is one good thing about knowing someone’s past; you know the extent of their powers.

As the bells’ echo passes, I turn to the entrance of the bazaar. No one is there. Usually, throngs of people would already be present. I frown. Something is wrong.

With one arm tucked around my bag to keep pickpockets away (though they know I can do worse), I walk towards the entrance. The murmuring grows louder as I approach. Women are in the outer circle, followed by the men, and finally the children in the center. Their jeers and laughter pierce the air. I know that laugh. They are torturing something. I push past the crowds, despite their grunts of displease, and find the source of their amusement. A boy, maybe six, holds a scrap of fine red silk in his right hand. It shimmers in the light, contrasting his filth. Dirt covers his cheeks, wetted by tears and sweat. A bruise on the side of his head seems to be the worst injury among his cuts and scratches. Another stone nearly knocks him across the collar. He stumbles back as the men laugh and encourage their sons to grab the silk from the boy. His whimpering is drowning in their shouts. A stone finally hits him across the temple. He drops to the ground. The victor runs up to the boy and claws at his hand for his prize.

“Get away from him.” I throw a stone at the boy’s shin. It hits, of course. The boy falls and begins to cry. I break through the last line of children and make my way to the unconscious child. Wiping the mass of black curls from his forehead, I notice the wound. It is not deep. He just couldn’t take it anymore. The boy I wounded is calling for his father, a large, brawny man, who comes to his rescue.

“Violent wench!” He shouts at me as he brings his boy into his arms. “What are you to hurt a boy?”

I stand up, reaching my full height which reaches his nose. With a tilt of my head, the scarf falls, exposing my face. Black hair, straight like a sword, sits to my shoulders. My eyes are a dull silver. What makes me different is the scars across my face. One is a burn mark on the side of my face, when my hair was set on fire. A long knife wound across my cheek, right under my eye, has long since healed. Lastly, a series of scratch marks across my other cheek is still fresh. It was only in the last fortnight that I was cornered in an alley, and nearly broken.

“You’re one of them.” He spits out as he presses against the mob for support.

“Leave this child alone.” I whisper. There is a silence, like the moment before you butcher a pig, when it knows it has lost.

“Take him.” The man shouts. “Just a witch anyway.” With that, the crowd moves into the bazaar with clean consciences.

I stand for a moment longer, making certain all of them are gone. With a practiced hand, I recover my face, still watching my surroundings for a stirring. Finally, I kneel to the child’s limp body. I touch his cheek. Still warm. His breathing is shallow, his flesh moving only slightly against his visible bones. Rags adorn him. I gingerly press my hand onto his back. He whimpers but doesn’t move away. With a sigh, I lift him into my arms. His head bobs onto my shoulder as I judge his weight. He is light. That will make the trek easier.

I begin walking home, contemplating what I will tell Daria. Every once in a while, the child whimpers, but doesn’t stir. I am thankful because the trek home is difficult enough without a burden. Walking out of the city gates, I walk towards the capital. Halfway there on the main road, I walk into the forest. In a low-pitched whistle, I call out to the others, turning my head to send the signal in every direction.

At last, Norja answers in her two shrill whistles. In moments, she makes a ruckus running to me through the grass. “Late, late, very late,” she sings as she approaches. Noticing my bundle she bobs her head, making her fiery hair dance. “Oh, new thing, skinny thing,” she brings her nose to the child’s cheek. “Smelly thing,” She nods, agreeing with herself.

I laugh at her as I hand her the child. She cradles him in her one good arm, the other one is a stump. Her father sold her to her husband without telling him that she was lame. I wouldn’t say her husband had the best of tempers, but one can expect little from them these days.

She rubs the child with her stump. “Dirty thing.” She looks up at me with curious eyes. “Mine?” I shake my head and point toward home. She nods and skips along with the child. I follow behind, letting her break the news to Daria.

“Don’t drown the thing!” Daria shouts to Norja as she finishes her dinner. Norja bobs her head and brings the wet rag under the child’s chin. He still doesn’t wake.

“Sleepy thing. Never awake?” Norja asks as she seats the child onto a dry cloth and pats him dry.

“He was knocked out. I’m sure he’ll wake up again.” I offer as I watch her set the child in her bed.

“Couldn’t you bring him to the Knights? No one throws away a boy.” Daria says as she goes to the cave’s spring to wash up.

We are lucky to have this cave, or I should say, caves. There are three networks of them, one above ground level on the cliff side, one at ground level, and one below ground. Most of the time, we reside in the mountain top to watch for anyone trespassing on our land. But it is summer so staying underground is much cooler. All these networks are connected by other tunnels and they are separated into sleeping, eating and cleaning chambers due to the abundance of inner springs and waterfalls. Most of the time, we use torches to light the deepest parts, but that’s usually just long enough to find your sleeping place.

“I didn’t think about that.” I admit as I take another bite of the peach. “Besides, won’t it look bad for an Ashtra to bring a boy to the Knights? Not like we affiliate with them…” I wipe the excess juice from my lips. “The people said he was a witch.”

Daria spins around and stares at me with her wide yellow eyes. They match her hair, but are a hue darker. “You failed to mention that when you retold your story.”

I shrug. “Forgot.”

“Argh,” she groans as she looks over at the boy. “We will give him back to the Knights if he awakes.”

“Why? He’s an urchin, abandoned just like us, right?” I throw the peach pit into the basket for later planting. Standing from my pallet, I walk to Norja and grant her leave to prepare for bed. She skips into the darker caverns of the caves, singing a wedding song.

“If they say he is a witch, we cannot keep him.” Daria explains as she washes her face. Her blonde curls spill over her shoulders. If you didn’t look at her eyes, you’d think she was normal. But her eyes are not what other people like to see, so she is one of us, misfit, not a part of society. There are other girls here, not worth keeping so into the streets they go. Males with differences, however, the parents try to keep. Males are legacies of their own families, not to be sold off like daughters, then abandoned if they aren’t perfect. There are probably sixty girls in the caves at any given time. Perhaps one hundred total because some girls work the streets, while others are training. Training for the big day.

“I didn’t know there were witches around, much less male ones.” I say as I pat his cheek, making sure he is still breathing. He whimpers and grabs onto my hand before sucking my thumb. I pull it out immediately and wipe my finger on my scarf.

“You are naïve. You’d think being a daughter of a scholar you’d know more.” She says as she begins patting the wall, looking for the hole. She finds it and inserts her pinky. With practiced skill, she slips out a long thin scroll. Unfolding it, I see it is the plans for the invasion.

“I can read and write well enough to make that plan of yours.” I retort as I reach out for the child’s hand. He is still holding the red silk. It’s wrinkled in his tiny fist. I decide against touching it and, instead, fan him lightly.

“You can never take a joke, can you Ithun?” She slides her fingers along the writing. “How many more days?”

“Five. On the new moon, right?” I answer before leaving the child to wash my face.

“When the night is darkest, when we can move, and take it.” She coos to the plans. I am sometimes frightened when she does this. Luckily, the child takes this chance to wake up. With a small yawn, he opens his mouth and cries. The cave amplifies it, sending me to the ground. Daria looks over at the child, very annoyed. Some of the girls come running to see the cause of such noise. Noticing the attention, the child stops crying and giggles. He reaches for someone to hold him.

“Aren’t you too old to be held like a babe?” One of the girls asks as she crosses her arms. Another giggles and picks the child up into a tight hug. He giggles and curls up in her arms.

“Do you talk?” I ask the child as I look him in the eyes. He sticks a thumb into his mouth in response.

“Guess not,” Daria says as she walks over to him. With a finger, she lifts his hair to check his wounds. “He heals fast. Must be a witch.” She notes as she pats the child on the back. “I’ll give him to the Knights by sundown tomorrow.” The girls show their displeasure in several sounds.

“Take me with you then.” Zelire states with a grin. She is one of the strongest fighters, nearly taken by a man but even a man is too weak for her. “The Knights aren’t the nicest bunch.” With a nod, the matter is settled.