The Chronicles: Mark's Adventures

I

The clash of ironware was the only sound Mark had ever known at his Aunt's table. Gwyndolyn, Aunt Gwynie to Mark and Mother to Dwight, ensured the boys would grow up with whatever manners she had been taught as a child. No effort was spared on table manners too: no slurping, spitting or speaking.

Mark, in spite of this knowledge, knew that his only chance of paying the debt he owed the gymnasium was reminding her of their prearranged agreement to give him the money that morning. He could try after the meal, but that would be too late as Eralt, the old shopkeeper who took them to town every morning, was already outside waiting. The moment breakfast was over, she would surely send them away with promises of giving him the money later. If only such a story could save him from being singled out and disgraced in front of everyone at school.

Gazing at the whitewashed wall by the dining table and all the portraits, cracks and blemishes adorning it, he made his decision. Reminding her was the only option with an outcome that wasn't so horrifying.

'Why aren't you eating? Isn't it good?' Aunt Gwynie's voice interrupted his thoughts.

Mark turned to Aunt Gwynie only to turn away as fast as he could on meeting those green eyes of hers. He resorted to finding somewhere else to rest his eyes while he found a suitable excuse. Unfortunately, he locked eyes with Dwight who had stopped eating, and yes, he too was staring with eyes the same shade of green as his mother's.

'Oh it is Aunt Gwynie, but... there's something I want to tell you.' Mark tried focusing all his attention on the oatmeal in his bowl.

'Not at the table Mark.'

'Yes Aunt Gwynie,' he replied quickly, but with relief, and went back to his meal.

Dwight sneaked a look at Mark with raised eyebrows to which Mark replied with a nervous nod. The meal continued with the usual clacking and scraping and a certain air of good-riddance to the interruption. Mark wouldn't get the money after all. The fact that he could have paid the beastly fees last month further saddened him. Although Aunt Gwynie didn't have much at the time, she still had enough to pay for one of them. Mark was supposed to be that one, but he let Dwight have it instead.

When breakfast was done, Aunt Gwynie, just like Mark had foresaw, led the boys to the front porch to spare whatever was left of Eralt's time and patience. After pecking their cheeks, much to their disapproval, and depositing the usual lunch money in their pockets, she sent them off with a wave and a farewell then closed the door.

Mark stood at the doors of their grey cottage for some time before joining Dwight at the bottom of the verandah's steps. He could have said something. He could have said anything.

'Ye didn't get the money eh?' Dwight fumbled with his brown forelock.

'Well, you can see.' Mark tried, hard as he could, to bottle the anger and fear rising within him. The horrors of those terrifying teachers' tauntings and jeerings felt worse than any form of torture at the moment.

Dwight was about to say something but Eralt interrupted him. 'Let's get going you two. I'm late. Very much unlike a good salesman.'

Dwight's mouth hung open for a split second before he closed it and climbed into the cart. Immediately Dwight got in, he offered a hand to Mark which he took with a nod.

While climbing in, Mark felt a strange weight in his pocket. One he had never felt before. That was where his allowance was alright, but he only got five copper coins or kippies everyday on their way to the gymnasium.

'Does your pocket feel odd?' Mark sat down beside Dwight and dusted his breeches.

Dwight slapped his pocket then shook his head. 'No. Why'd you ask?'