The Demon Boy

Day Two - Night

     The boy ascends the slope's overgrown, corkscrewing track while light still dusts the sky. It's lovely and bright now, but the sun faded so quickly yesterday. Best not to loiter lest he's left to wander among the trees in the dark. He won't risk another shortcut while the night bears down on him, nipping at his heels. He can't see it yet, but he feels it a short half hour out of sight, eager to clutch him and never let go until the far-off dawn beats it back.

     The leaves rustle. The boy freezes. Are there wolves in this forest? He's never seen a wolf before. He doesn't know much about them either, save that they eat boys wandering in the woods. Alone. At night.

     He swallows around the knot in his throat and strains his ears harder than he ever did. Harder than the many times he hid from a bobby after being scapegoated. Harder than when he picked the lock to and pilfered the pantry of St. Andrew's (or was it St. Anthony's?). Harder than this morning with his pockets weighted down with guilty silver. He listens and he waits.

     He doesn't hear anything. Not a cricket. Not a breath of wind. He takes off running regardless. He runs from hot eyes on his back he's likely imagining, but real or not, he doesn't care. And he runs. And runs. And runs from the night, from swelling shadows hiding wolves and god knows what else. He runs the whole way to another home that isn't home.

     Sunset splatters the manor in scarlet strong enough to make the church's windows look pink in comparison. The boy wonders if he took a wrong bend somewhere and arrived in hell by mistake. The sun dips over the earth's edge a minute later and the house turns back to its decrepit, old self; caked in dust, veiled in its permanent shades. Home, sweet home.

     Just being here soaks him in the gloom that drips from the building's every window. He does what he can to lift his mood. At least it's not so drafty as the other homes were, he muses, reaching for the door. There's no curfew. He peers inside and sees no one and nothing but the dark hall yawning before him. The sconces aren't lit. His only lights are what edges around the closing door and the faltering glow emanating from the sitting room.

     Who could be there? His uncle? The foreigner? Whoever it is, he'll avoid them. There's just one little problem with that plan: 'whoever it is' is currently charging towards him. Weighty footfalls signify a heavy temper guaranteed to be made worse by antics like sneaking. Or having silverware stuffed in one's pockets. Hardly ideal circumstances for a meeting, but is there an alternative?

     No time to think. Steps come ever closer. Get rid of the evidence!

     The boy feels his way to a nearby pot of a mummified house plant. He empties out his trousers, dumps everything in his pockets amongst dead leaves and stems. Good god, the jingles better not carry. He scrapes up what little fossilized dirt he can to bury the shine. He sees the halo of a candle approach the corner. He stops dead and brushes his hands on his trousers. Done. Fingers crossed it'll do. He doesn't have enough time to do more with his uncle storming through the main hall toward him.

     Now that his pursuer has rounded the corner, the boy can see that this is, indeed, his uncle. The twisted expression on the man's face is thrown into chasmed relief by candlelight. He gets a look too close for comfort when Myr grabs him by the collar and screams in his face.

     "Wot the fook you doin' 'ere!" Myr spits. Literally. He sends spittle flying everywhere as he shouts.

     The boy is both choked and soaked. Whatever he was expecting from Myr, it wasn't this. He grabs at fingers, vainly attempting to pry them away. He wants to talk. He'll talk as much as Myr wants. And he tries, he really does, though all that comes out are gasps and sputters. No words. Nothing that can possibly be heard over Myr's yelling.