Ashes to Ashes, Dust to Dust

Chapter 5: Trost District

“Get away from me, you damn brat!”

You retreat to the far edge of the brick wall, your head bowed. The gentleman makes a show of dusting off his trousers and strides away, sniffing, “Tramps these days, no respect, no manners, I’ve had enough of this nonsense…”

You hug the fraying cloak closer to your small, malnourished frame, watching him disappear down the road, kicking up a cloud of dust as he goes. It’s already late afternoon, and you have yet to find someone generous enough to spare a scrap of food, a nearly-empty water skin, a handful of precious coins. Your throat is parched and you haven’t had anything to eat since yesterday.

You always hear talk that the food shortages are getting worse. Barely a week ago, you’ve still been able to get by. Recently, however, no one pays heed to the homeless and the poor, not even to the street children. Now, the risk of starving to death is a very real possibility. Even the wealthy can’t seem to spare you a pitying glance.

But you have to keep trying. You’ve survived this far, haven’t you? You’re too proud to let yourself be killed like this, slowly, from the inside out. No, you aren’t going to die like this. You’ll rather die.

“Excuse me, sir,” you say hoarsely, reaching out a trembling, bony hand to grasp the hem of a man’s trench coat. He tries to shake you off, peering over his shoulder to inspect the filthy street urchin that has dared soil his clothes.

“What are you doing, kid?” he asks, twisting around to get a good look at your face. He doesn’t look cruel, you note in relief.

“Please, sir, do you have some food to spare?” You gaze at him imploringly, letting go of his coat and clasping your hands together in earnest.

Instead of pushing you away, he turns to face you fully and bends down so that his face is level to your own. To your dismay, he’s giving you a sad, apologetic smile. “Do you know about the food shortages, child?”

“I…yes, but —”

“I’m sorry, but my own children and wife come first,” he says softly, gesturing to a young woman with a swollen belly, a baby in her arms and a young girl tugging on her skirts. “Surely you can understand the responsibilities of a father? These shortages have hit us all hard, and I can barely provide us with enough food on the table working seven days a week.”

You nod, blinking hard. You have had to face disappointment hundreds of times before, but none so crushing as this. This man clearly has a kind heart. His garments say that he is of the upper class. If even a man like this can’t give a poor street child something to eat, what does that say about the rest of society?

“Thank you for your time,” you say dully, flattening yourself against the ground in despair. So this is it. Your last stand against all odds, and you’ve lost.

And then you hear it. The unmistakable sound of a fully-loaded cart, its wheels creaking under the weight of its cargo, rolling against the cobblestone road. The procession of cart and handlers makes its way slowly down the street. As it passes by, you see that the back is loaded with heaps of bread.

Bread.

One hand reaches out before you can stop yourself. They’re so far away. And you see the royal insignia stamped on the clothes of the cart driver. He won’t spare you a single crumb, you’re sure of it. And yet…

It never hurts to try. It will hurt if you don’t.

You can feel the ache in your stomach, acid eating its way through the tender walls of muscle. That’s what he told you will happen, at least. He found a sort of perverse, twisted pleasure in seeing people in pain and discomfort. You stare after the cart, and as the dust clears, you can’t see it anymore. It’s gone, and it takes your half-fearful hopes along with it.

But what is that lying in the middle of the road, lightly coated in a layer of fresh dust? A rock? A potato? A loaf of bread?

You scramble to your feet, hunger making you both light-headed and desperate, fills you with newfound strength yet your limbs are weak. It is bread, you can see it clearly now. The passers-by are ignoring it — it’s much too filthy to be considered food fit for humans, and even hungry humans at that. But what do you care? You’ve been living off meals even a raccoon would turn its nose from. You won’t be passing up this opportunity.

And then a hand grasps your shoulder and pulls you back before you can take a step. You turn in hopeful anticipation, half-expecting it to be that man in the trench coat, the man with the family to feed finally feeling sympathetic for the hungry girl who’s asked him for food. He’s decided to help you after all. But no…it’s a scruffy teenage boy with pale, blonde hair. You don’t recognize him. He doesn’t have the hollow look of one who’s lived on the streets, but his clothes are threadbare, his eyes sunken. You’ll hazard a guess that he’s experienced a life of poverty.

“Let go of me,” you hiss, your voice cracked and desperate. You’ve come so far to dig up this one scrap of food, and you manage to find competition. One look at his bulky build and athletic frame, and you knew you don’t stand a chance against this guy.

“Sheesh, calm down,” he says, but he releases his hold on your shoulder, much to your surprise. You put a good, several metres of distance between the two of you, your back to the bread to stall him at least a few more seconds and fold your arms over your chest.

“What is your problem?” you seethe, your eyes flashing dangerously. You take a step back to move into the main street, but the boy holds out one hand to stop you.

“Wait.”

Your glare intensifies. “I found it first. You’ll…have to fight me for it!”

He sighs and shakes his head. “I don’t want the bread. But don’t go out there and get it either.”

“What? Because it’s covered in dirt?” You give him a humourless smile. “I’ve had worse.”

He shakes his head again. “No. It’s because they’re scouring the area for refugees from Maria. They won’t stop to ask questions. They’ll think you’re one of ‘em, and haul you out of Rose and conscript you into the civilian army. You’ve never had military training. You’ll die out there.”

“Pfft, and what if you’re making this up?”

“I’m not.” He gazes at you earnestly. His eyes are hazel, almost gold. “You’ll have to trust me.”

“But I don’t even know you,” you protest in a small voice. He’s a stranger, yet he’s asking for your trust? That’s something you rarely place in other people. There’s no one in the world you can trust but yourself.

But the boy’s gaze is sincere. He doesn’t seem to want the bread for himself at all. What can he hope to gain out of lying to you?

“You look awfully hungry,” he comments. Ignoring your scowl, he reaches into the pockets of his trousers and comes up with a suspicious-looking, small, black lump. He holds it out for you to see, looking slightly embarrassed. “This is, erhm…food.”

You stare at it, not sure what to think. He continues, “It’s a sesame bun, well, part of a sesame bun.”

“F-for me? I don’t understand —”

“I figured you need it more than I do.” He doesn’t try to make you take it. He just holds it out patiently for you, letting you take your time to make up your mind.

Well, he is offering…and you are starving. He seems like a nice person, maybe you can get to know him. Go to Chapter 11.

Black bread? Conscripting for the army? You don’t trust him, and you go back for the bread the cart dropped before he can stop you. Go to Chapter 12.