A/n- The second and final installment!

Disclaimer: Don't own CT, that's all Chaucer!

Summary: A boy is taught a lesson.

The Tale

This boy, he sits with his back against the brick wall of the local bank. The men of the world in their long coats and tall hats hardly gave him a second glance.

He will sit, perhaps all day, with his legs crossed neatly and his small lute in his similarly tiny hands, calloused fingers strumming. The gifted notes of his song fought valiantly against the heavy dampness of the air around him thick with smog.

The women, they notice, and the pennies they have either stolen from their husbands’ pocketbooks or profit from the linens they have sold, drop with high-pitched clanks into his lap.

He smiles at them, this boy barely eleven, and when he beams, the apples of his cheeks bloom with a bright rouge; melting the woman’s hearts as they coo to him.

“Won’t you be my boy?”

“Come, play the guitar for my guests and I.”

“Please, another song, another penny.”

Yet never does the boy reply, for his mother, waiting bedridden in the loft where they live, is in need of what food and care he can give her. He always returns home; to hang up his guitar, to feed her broth, to sleep what hours he can so he may be alert enough to play again tomorrow, to earn enough money for them to go on; so his mother may live.

“Nathan.” She says every night. “You are a good son.”

Yet today is different.

Today it will be different.

“Hey!” A voice calls to him from across the street; the automobiles choking the air muffled the noise with their soot.

The boy looked up, his hands pausing on his instrument. A group of city kids trudge over from the opposite sidewalk, some running and some limping behind.

“Hello.” The boy replies as they circle around him, looking at him with a curious eye.

“Whatcha do’en?” The group leaned in as Nathan pulls his lute closer to him, weary of these newcomers.

“Playing.”

They’ve seen him before, they knew who he was. One of the older boys sat down, pulling his legs into the exact same position as the small lute player, his arms on his knees.

“Got enough money?” The street boy quipped, reaching for a shiny quarter sitting in a neat pile.

“Yes.” Nathan shied away, starting to gather up his money.

“You sure?” The boy pressed, leaning in, a twinkle in his eyes. Some of the other children grinned and nudged each othe, their leader caught their eyes and flushed, a smile starting to appear on his lips

It worked; Nathan paused, for just second and locked eyes with the older street rat; who smiled.

“Ho ho! I see… business not going so well then?”

The young boy looked away. “I have to go.” He pushed past the others, his instrument and his money clutched instinctively to him. A voice made him pause.

“What If I could tell you how to get more… hmm? We’re in need of a boy like you.”

Turning around, they locked eyes for a second, the older boy still sitting on the ground, leaning forward, a wide, lopsided grin spreading across his lips. The voice seemed to die within Nathan’s throat.

The door to the loft, dusty and creaking; popped open on its hinge.

“Son?” A weak voice called from the other room.

“Yes, mother?”

Nathan set down a heavy parcel on the table.

“What have you bought for us today?” His mother searched out with her hands, not knowing if her son was near her- she was blind. Her thin back came up from where she was leaning against the headboard of the rickety bed frame.
“Peaches, corn, dried meat, and a bottle of milk.”

His mother was surprised. “Such a feast!”

“Yes, mother.”

“Come here.” Her voice was calm, placated. Her son stood in the doorway, watching her grope the air; he leaning on one foot and then the other. Slowly, he went to her, sat on the edge of their bed, held her hand. “Business good today?” She asked.

“Yes.”

There was a tone to his voice, an inflection that made the woman flinch. She rested a hand over his face, so his lips softly touched her palm; when he spoke her calloused skin felt like soft brushes of sandpaper.

“I played very well.”

“Tell me…” Was all the woman said.

A shuttering breath expanded the boy’s lungs. His expression changed, the once small triumph held between his shoulders slumped a little. “I stole them.”

“What?”

“I stole them from the grocer, the fruit and vegetables.”

Running her hands along his face, the woman’s lips creased into a frown. “Why do such a thing? Did those boys bother you again?”

The son ignored the accusation. “We’ll eat well tonight, you can become stronger.”

The boy pulled away from her and slid off the bed, slowly moving his way into the other room. The groceries had spilled onto the table. From the bed his mother’s voice floated out of the darkness.

“You play well… you do not need to break the law. You are above such things.”

But they ate well that night, and Nathan had already made plans to meet the other children the second day outside the bakery; his mind was made up. Before, they could hardly scrape up enough money to eat.

He wanted to be fed well. He liked the feeling of food in his stomach.

As they lay down to bed that night, the mother pulled her son close to her and whispered.

“I cannot stop you from doing anything shameful. But I will not support you if anything should go wrong. There are consequences for your actions.”

The next morning, instead of waking up early and shouldering his lute, Nathan left the instrument on the table to join his new found friends. Before he left the small loft, the boy looked back. He knew he would have to play again, but not right now. He would again soon enough.

“Are you ready?” One of the boys said to him as they opened the back door to the bakery.

Nathan nodded, once, stiffly, balling his hands into fists before stepping inside the yeasty atmosphere. The door closed softly behind him as the group waited there for him.

There was flour everywhere, and as he ducked behind huge shadowed barrels of grains, the boy pressed himself against the wall, afraid that the baker might walk by at any moment.

The exhilaration coursing through his veins made his head swim. He could feel the adrenaline pumping in his head; could hear his heartbeat thudding like a loud drum in his ears.

No one was around.

Cautiously, he crept to the racks of loaves and snatched a couple, stuffing the warm softness into his coat and shirt.

Breathing heavily, Nathan sprinted out the back door, the group following down the street where they stopped and panted, patting him on the back as they divided up his share.

“Tomorrow,” said the leader, putting an arm around Nathan’s shoulders. “You’ll be one of us, one of our gang.” The others nodded in agreement, biting into their own chunk of food. “Only you have to pass a test.”

“Oh- well…” Nathan faltered. At first, he hadn’t really wanted to be a part of this group; the only reason he had gone along with this boy’s ideas was because he wasn’t making enough money playing his lute and his mother was still sickly. Now, the invitation seemed a little too inviting.

The street rat stopped, looking at the boy up and down. “You do want to be in our club, don’t you?” Afraid of loosing the inside information concerning the best places to score a free meal, Nathan nodded, vigorously. “Good.” said the rat. “Tomorrow is your test then. You’ll have to steal from the butcher!” The other boys in the group whooped and smacked each other on the arms, as if this was a brilliant idea.

That night, as the boy fed his mother fresh bread and apples, Nathan thought that if he just didn’t go along with it, if he just backed out right there, he could go back to playing his instrument for good, honest money. But then, the boys would think him scared and unworthy. They would torment him and he would be unable to give his mother what she wanted.

Again, as they lay down to sleep, his mother whispered a warning in his ear.

“I cannot stop you, but there are always consequences for your actions.”

The next day they met outside the back door of the butchers shop, all in a circle, their eyes wide and greedy, and their fingers twitching. The leader of the street boys took Nathan by the hands.

“This is it, kid. All you have to do is go grab a link of sausage and you’ll be fine.”

Nathan took a sharp breath.

“Are you ready, kid?”

Nathan nodded, one of the other children swing open the wide creaking door to the darkness inside.

As Nathan stepped into the cold room beyond, the pungent smell of iron and blood reached his nose. The racks of meat lining the walls swung ominously in their cold coffin.

As silently as he could manage, the boy crept up the long row of meats, searching for that perfect link just hanging there, waiting for his hands.

There! On the far wall!

With a giant leap, Nathan bolted towards it, slipped, nearly went down, righted himself, and kept going, slamming into the wall- and he had the sausage in his hand. He reached for it; found it caught on the hook. He tugged, tugged again, and with a quiet rip it tore off.

“HEY!” A loud voice boomed, a hand wrapping itself around the boy’s small wrist. “What is DIS?” The heavy Russian accent, thick, was loud in his ears. “I am tired of te little boys around ‘ere stealing from me! All ze time I turn around an what do I get? Everying! Stolen from me!”

“No! No!” Nathan cried, not wanting to be mistaken for the hooligan boys waiting on the other side of the freezer door. “It’s not what you think!” The butcher, a large burly man, shoved him up against the wall, his hand pinning down his wrist. As the man moved, Nathan saw the gleam of a kitchen cleaver in his hands.

Nathan wriggled and writhed, terrified.

“Dis will teach the o’der boys to stop da stealing! I vil made an example of you!”

The cleaver came down against the wall with a loud, sickening, thud.

“Mamma?” Nathan whimpered as he lay against their bed. His mother felt her way from the kitchen to the bedroom door, peering in.

“Yes?”

“It hurts.”

“The doctor said that if you keep the bandage on it, the skin will heal over.”

“It’s been nearly three weeks.”

“I know.”

“But- sometimes, I still think it’s there.”

“He said it could feel like that.”

“The other boys mamma…”

“Yes dear?”

“They all ran away, when he tossed me into the ally, they all ran away, as if they didn’t even care what would happen to me. They never once stopped to help me”

“I know.”

“Aren’t you mad at all? Even a little bit?”

“I told you, every action has its consequence.”

She left then, to feel her way into the kitchen to try and find what food they had left in their cupboards to feed her helpless son.

Nathan picked up the lute on his bed with his left hand, turning it around in his lap so it faced the way it always had, where his right hand use to strum the cords.

He could be out there, now, sitting against the side of the Bank, playing for money and playing well. The women would pass by and see his rosy red cheeks, lean down to talk to him, to give him a shiny penny. The songs from him would rise up above the city street to warm those around him.

The boy moved his arm where his right hands use to be.

Now he couldn’t even play any longer.

How was he going to earn money for his mother?

Nathan bit his lip, pushing the lute away from him with his good hand, staring ruefully out the dirty window, fighting back the wave of sorrow flooding his heart.

fin