BOOK 1 - THE BLACK MONGREL

Prolog.
The Darkness

 

Darkness was his world. He knew it perfectly well. Its shapes, smells, patterns, the sounds it used to make - a soft scrape when the rats were feeding on the remnants of his dinner; a prolonged rustle as he turned on his musty bedding and curled into a ball, trying to keep the heat that was flying away from his chilled body. His deep breath was cutting time into slightly smaller pieces, separating them from each other with a warm haze of existence.

Yes, he still exists. He needs to remember that.

Even if they told him he shouldn't exist and that everyone had forgotten about him; that he's the meaningless mistake of Tenebrae; that he should die and relieve the world from his damned existence.

He heard the slow sound of dripping water - gentle blows vibrating in the matter of darkness. His eyes were made of darkness, his numb hands, his sore bones - everything in him was built of the darkness surrounding him. He was made of emptiness, of lack of hope, of loneliness. He was all of this... and nothing.

Yet... he still existed.

**********

"What have you done? What have you done, you lousy devil?"

His eyelids were burning and his lungs were rattling, filled with acrid smoke. Someone was shaking him, banging his head against the hard rocks. The air was filled with the sound of a crackling fire, devouring the wooden door, and licking the stone ceiling.

"Octavia, wake them up! Get these lazy scoundrels to draw water from the well! Fast! We need water! Everything's going to burn! Luciss, look after us!"

His body was on fire. It was consuming his soul and roaring with unbounded anger... but it wasn't touching the skin.

He lifted his eyelids, illuminating the darkness... and he fell into its arms again.

**********

"It's unbelievable!"

"He's almost burned us all. What are they going to do with him now?"

"They should've drowned him."

"Why didn't they do it back then?"

"I have no idea."

"I don't want him to live with us. I'm afraid of him."

"Don't be a fool."

Where were these voices coming from? Why were they in his darkness?

He opened his eyes. There was no stone ceiling above him, it has disappeared. Stars were flickering high above his head, glued to the inky black canopy of the sky. The cool fingers of the wind touched his cheeks, caressing them gently.

The smell of grass penetrated his smoke-clotted lungs. As fresh and clean as the dew on it. He blinked and slowly got up. The crowd of emaciated boyish bodies that were surrounding him lunged backward, jolting each other and emitting incomprehensible screams of fear.

Dazzled, he looked around the orphanage courtyard, which was hidden under the cloak of the night. No lights were coming from the windows. Rows of smoke were rising from them, obscuring the star-strewn sheet of the sky above him and extinguishing their trembling glow.

He could see figures standing in a distance. He heard their quiet frightened whispers. He raised his hands. They were black and covered with soot.

Who is he? What is his name?

The echo of his old life, the one from before the darkness, returned in gentle waves, hitting the shores of his shaky mind.

Darren! His name is Darren! And he should be... nine years old now? It seems so. He didn't remember. He didn't know how much time he had spent in the darkness.

He leaned back, plunging his hands into the cool, damp strands of grass, tilting his head back and taking a deep, shuddering breath. Breath of freedom.

 

Chapter 1
The Black Mongrel

He was running as fast as he could. Stones prickled his bare feet, shooting lightning bolts of pain through his body and slowing him down, but he couldn't stop. He looked over his shoulder. There were five or six of them.

"You won't escape us anyway, you demon!" he heard a shout and a fist-sized stone blew past his head.

He was almost there...! He could see the thickets of the Oak Forest in front of him.

"Come on!" he heard another shout from behind. "He can't get into the forest! Linn, get him from the left!"

Sweat was running down his forehead and his heart was fluttering in a painful rhythm in his chest. He looked back once more. The boys had separated and they were after him like a pack of wolves, trapping their lonely prey in the center.

He must get off the road and run into the forest. They can't catch him! Otherwise they will do to him the same what they did to him last time. They will be hitting him with the sticks, trying to prove him that there is nothing he can do to them. Nothing.

Grabbing the last of his breath, he passed a bramble bush just by the road and jumped into the tree lines. Behind him, he heard a scream of frustration and pain as one of the boys ran straight into the stinging bush of blackberries.

He jumped over the fallen tree, looking for low-lying branches. His breath was rattling in his lungs. He didn't have as much strength as they did. They were well-fed twelve-year-old boys working in a nearby mine. Even though they're most likely to be of the same age, he looks much younger and smaller.

Over there!

Hearing the approaching patter of booted feet behind him, he jumped into the lowest branch of the tree nearby. He quickly grabbed another branch, pulled himself up, and in a few strides climbed almost to the very top of the tree. Panting as if his lungs were about to explode from lack of oxygen, he looked down at the boys standing under the tree. They all had the same pitch-black hair, a weathered dark complexion, and coal-black eyes.

"Do you think this will save you? We're going to get you out of there anyway, and you'll regret your birth, you lousy misfit!"

One of the boys took a stone out of his pocket.

"I'll knock him out of there!" One of the boys took a stone out of his pocket.

"But try to hit him this time. Not like the last time, when you used up almost all the stones and you failed to hit him even once."

"I'll break your neck if you don't shut up."

Taking advantage of the commotion among the boys, he took a look around. The branches of the nearest tree were almost at his reach. He stood gingerly on the thin branch, gripping the trunk with one hand, and looked down.

"Quick, he's about to jump on the other tree!"

He held his breath, released the trunk, and jumped. Something hard hit him painfully on the back just as his hands wrapped around the rough wood. A branch slipped from his hand, but there was another branch just below it. He grabbed it with all his strength and hit the thick oak trunk with his bare feet. He gritted his teeth, taking a deep breath as all the air escaped from his lungs in a moment of panic and he pressed himself against the trunk, trying to calm himself.

His left side was throbbing with pain. They must've hit him. He looked down - the trunk was devoid of branches at the base. There was no way they'd follow him here. By the time they dug another stone out of their pockets, he was climbing higher and higher, hiding in the dense foliage.

"Just die there! No one will feel sorry for you! Just try to show up in our village again and we'll skin you!"

Trying to calm his breath, the painful throbbing of the muscles in his arms and legs, and the pain radiating from where they had hit him with the stone, he clung to the cool trunk, wrapping his arms around it, thanking the gods for creating this tree to save him.

He ceased listening to the angry shouts and threats that were soaring with the wind toward him. He was listening to the soft rustle of the leaves, the singing of the birds, and the life pulsating under the thick branch. He pressed his cheek against the rough, sticky resin bark and wondered why there couldn't be only trees in this world, instead of humans. They seemed to be much more humanly.

**********

Dark, storm clouds were rolling across the sky like foaming waves of a deep steel-gray ocean in the depths of which both life and soul could be lost. The thunders were like the roar of the beasts drowning in it, trying with all their strength to get out of the merciless waves of granite and black. Their roars filled the entire space soaked with steamy moisture interspersed with powerful flares, which were tearing the sky into thousands of pieces over and over again. The wind was pushing the clouds forward and bending the bushes and tall grasses which were standing in its way.

Darren was struggling through them. The wind was ruffling his black, disheveled hair and tugging at his oversized, perforated shirt, penetrating every nook of his body and making him tremble. He was walking carefully on his bare feet, black from the ground and mud, avoiding molehills, anthills, and stinging weeds. The grass was rustling in the strong gusts around him, muffling his footsteps. Finally, he stopped and crouched very slowly in the grass.

Swaying, tall stems made it difficult for him to see, but he could see them anyway and his crystal eyes lit up with excitement. They were so beautiful, just like in those pictures that emerged from the haze of his memories. Dignified, with emerald feathers and tails meandering on the ground, interspersed with colorful, and eye-like feathers.

Peacocks! Real peacocks!

They never ventured here, their habitats were much further south, and besides, the Brunnite hunters had killed them all to make fans out of their feathers for the Hyacinthe aristocracy.

Darren felt a fluid rapture flooding through his veins.

How could you kill something so perfect and beautiful?

He needs to come closer, just a little closer.

He moved forward at the same moment the sky was torn by blinding light and the space was filled with a rumble so loud that it could shatter all senses. The birds flew away with a wild squawk, and the boy fell backward, pressing his hands desperately against his ears and squeezing his eyes shut as if he was afraid that the sky would collapse on him.

After a while, a helpless, loss-full groan rose from among the wind-blown rustling grass, dancing among the stalks and letting be closed in the first drops of the oncoming rain.

**********

Darren snapped his eyes open as he felt a damp slap across his face. Torn from half-sleep, he didn't know for a moment where he was. Only when he saw the dark storm clouds above him, did he remember what he was doing here. He wanted to see these mystical birds, and he found them... and that wet punch was only rain. He doesn't have to be afraid, it's not his hand. Not yet. Though it could be his hand... as soon as Darren returns to the asylum and Father Theosius finds out that he's sneaked out again.

Darren took a deep breath and spread his arms, settling more comfortably among the tall grass. Another raindrop landed on his forehead, dripping slowly down, soaking into the dark fringe that was reaching his eyes.

What is he supposed to do now? He can't go back there. Father Theosius severely punishes the losers and parasites. Though Darren was punished for mere existence and he didn't want to go through that again. He wouldn't stand it.

He raised his black-gloved hand and pressed it to his side. He was still feeling pain there. The bruise was the size of a hand. It will take some time for it to disappear completely, but then a few others will appear in its place.

More raindrops hit his face and chest. They were pleasantly cool. Slowly, he lifted his smarting eyelids, staring at the navy-gray, foamy sky above him. His eyes looked as if they were made of glass. They were reflecting the sky like two shattered mirrors.

Mom, why does this boy have eyes like that?

Don't look at him. He's sick.

They were shining like crystals focusing light.

Have you seen his eyes?

They were glistening under the jet-black mane of always disheveled hair framing a face with a weathered, dark complexion.

Stay away from him. He's a demon.

They seemed to glow even in the darkest hours of the night.

Don't go near him. He's a Cursed One.

Darren hid his eyes under the curtain of his eyelids and let out a deep sigh. He couldn't bear another day without food. It felt as if his stomach had been sucked into a deep bottomless abyss from which a desperate grunt came from time to time; as if at the bottom of this abyss a starving beast lived, howling in discontent and devouring whatever fell into it, not letting Darren be full even for a moment.

In the past two days, he has only eaten a piece of dry bread that he had found on the dining room floor - such punishment happens to those who cannot earn their livelihood.

It was raining more heavily. Cold drops were hitting Darren's face and body, cooling him and extinguishing the burning sensation he'd been feeling under his skin for as long as he could remember.

He will stay here for the whole night. Nobody will find him here, not even Father Theosius. He lifted his hands and slowly remove his gloves, stretching his fingers and exposing them to the beneficial effects of the rain. He felt the cold drops hit the heated skin of his hands, covering them with a protective film of wonderful moisture. He wrapped his fingers around the hard stalks of the grass and pressed his hands around them. He opened his mouth, letting the water run into it and chill him inside.

He could stay like that. Let the rain soak into his body and melt it. Let his soul drain with the wet drops and penetrate the roots of the surrounding plants. He could live by drawing food from the ground and water from the heaven. So that he would never feel hungry or fear again, nor the pain. So that he would never hurt anyone again.

**********

It was the middle of the night when Darren - soaked and chilled - decided to return to the asylum and to sneak into his bed without being noticed, even if it was only a small, hard bunk covered with a rough blanket.

Sliding on the cold mud, he was trudging through the weary silence of the dirty streets of Nigron, passing lopsided clay houses and clapboard huts that looked like dog kennels. It's hard to believe that sometimes several generations of entire families lived there. The area looked like a multi-story anthill made of several layers of clay. Ropes with grayscale rags which probably served as clothing for the household members was hanging between the buildings which were leaning toward the ground.

Nobody had anything there, except if they made it with their hands, and since all the surrounding fields and forests didn't belong to the inhabitants of the Nigron, the people had almost nothing, because they had nothing to make of it, if nothing belonged to them, but no one questioned it. Everyone got used to this state. They rejoiced when they got their daily rations of food and didn't try to rebel for fear that this would also be taken from them. They were Black Mongrels, after all, they had no rights. They had to be satisfied with the right to live and work for the other castes.

Darren has been wondering for all his short fifteen-year life why the gods had turned out to be so mean to him that they'd created him as a Black Mongrel. Why did they take him from his mother when he was too young to even remember her and why they put him in the shelter of Father Theosius - out of all the places in whole Helion? If only they had given him the strength to work in the mine and earn food for himself. If they had given him the smartness and blunted morality enough that he could steal without remorse. The thieves were most appreciated by Father Theosius. They always got the most food and had a separate bedroom to themselves.

No. The gods decided to give him a small posture, empathy, and a constant sense of guilt... and those damn crystal eyes. These eyes weren't even the worst. He would've gotten used to being pointed with fingers, avoided with a wide berth, and being laughed at every turn for being different. All of this wouldn't be so bad, he could live with it, he could function quite normally. No, the gods decided to mock him even more. They decided that he was born as a Cursed One.

He stopped and looked around the dark dirty streets. He rarely visited this area. He spent most of his life locked up, hidden from other people's eyes, hidden from their gaze, because they could recognize him - as Mother Octavia explained to him when she was in a better mood.

He had his separate cubicle tucked in between the wall of the boys' bedroom and the laundry room. When he was younger, he used to sit on the bed and press his ear against the wall listening to the laughter and shouts coming from behind it. He never dared coming out to them, because each time he tried, he was immediately surrounded by them, he was mocked and chased away from their world with whatever the boys could grab.

Nobody wants to talk nor interact with him. He was a shadow that no one paid attention to. Father Theosius forbade him to go outside, but Darren had to sneak out. He was suffocating in confinement. He needed the rustle of grasses and the cool dampness of dew on his hands. He needed the scent of the wind and its sweet caresses on his skin, it was the only way for him to be touched... because his touch brings death... and the smell of burning hair... and the rustle of falling pages... and the scream of suffering...

He wrapped his arms around himself tighter, shivering as he tried to chase the painful echoes of the memories away from his head. He sighed and continued through the darkness.

**********

There was silence in the shelter. Darren climbed onto the barrel, pried the hook that held the two wings of dirty, multi-glued windows together with a piece of wood, and stepped cautiously inside. He tiptoed past the bedroom of Father Theosius and Mother Octavia and headed toward the older boys' bedroom and his tiny cubicle.

Only boys under the age of sixteen were allowed to stay in this shelter. Darren was three months away from that age. He tried not to think about what would happen to him next. Each of the boys living in the shelter had a future guaranteed. Some of them apprenticed at the courts as farm laborers, others had already been accepted into the mines and didn't have to worry about whether they would have anything to eat in the future. Others were helping with the harvest. The smartest ones have already secured a place in many of the gangs that rule Nigron. As for him, he couldn't do anything. Nobody wanted to take him because of his curse. Nobody wanted to teach him. He wasn't good for anything. What's left for him? What will he do with himself when Father Theosius throws him out of the asylum?

He didn't want to think about it right now. He still has some time. Maybe... maybe... fate will finally show him the way. It won't let him die in the street like a homeless dog.

Everyone was asleep. Darren heard the soft snorting sound in the air reeking of sweat and dirt. Blindfolded he found the entrance to his cubicle with a bunk pressed into its deepest corner and, without taking off his clothes, he slipped under the stiff rug. He closed his eyes, listening to the sounds accompanying him for as long as he could remember. In three months he'll be out of here and even if he manages to survive on the streets of Nigron for only a week... he will finally be free.