The Lost Boy

Chapter 1

Boats were nice from a distance. 

On the inside, not so much. 

Of course the chosen vessel was transporting fish. 

Noses were plugged, but it was no use. The rancid odor found its way in somehow, which led to the horrible sounds of gagging. 

Being in the hull of a wooden boat among rotting, dead fish and sick, little boys was pleasant. At least, more pleasant than the place they'd left behind. 

Fingers massaged the cloth bandages wrapped around a pair of thin, calloused hands, soothing the gentle pain that still stung from the day before. 

The master of the Home for Orphan Boys, Mr. Wilshire, used his belt to punish the misbehaving orphans under his care, if you could call it that. A massive man with tree trunks for legs and an unruly mane of dark hair that covered his head and his chin and tiny black eyes like a beetle's, he ran one of the only orphanages in the area of London the stowaways hailed from. 

Life had been miserable. With lashings to the hands almost every other day, enough food to keep the boys resembling skeletons, and less-than-comfortable cots that apparently passed for beds, the orphans had finally had enough of it, and had fled in the night to the docks and were now stowed away on a vessel full of fish. 

Life was great. 

Another gag made the boy with the bandaged hands wince. Life, or even just a short trip, on a boat was not for everyone. While he was unfazed, the boat was making a few of his companions seasick. 

The wooden planks that made up the hull were not exactly comfortable, either, and when leaned against, squirms of discomfort followed. It was a miracle they hadn't been caught yet. 

"You 'kay, Rooster?" 

The boy with the bandaged hands turned his head to glance at his friend. The orphans' ages ranged from six to fourteen, the oldest being the boy across from the orphan with bandaged hands. He had greasy black hair that hung in weak curls just above his shoulders and dark eyes set in a thin, narrow face, with a hooked nose and thin lips. He, like the rest of the orphans, was dressed in rags and had feet blackened from filth, his pale skin smeared with grime. 

The boy with bandaged hands, Rooster, shrugged. "Fine. How'boutchu, Codfish?" 

The older boy, Codfish, also shrugged and sat back against the hull, wincing as he fingered the bandages wrapped around his own hands. 

These two boys were the troublemakers of the orphans. They had been punished the most by Mr. Wilshire, their hands calloused and scarred by their many lashings. 

Rooster ran a hand through his thick, fiery red hair, his other hand fingering his only personal belonging and reminder of his parents; a wooden charm on a leather cord. It was a small pan flute, carved delicately by his father, that he wore at all times and kept to himself. 

The ship lurched, the smell of the fish growing stronger, yet seeming to disappear all at once. Another of the younger boys gagged, and Rooster sighed, closing his eyes as his mind wandered ahead to where they maybe going. 

Maybe a dock bursting with color and energy, or a port of people who spoke different tongues, or maybe a whole new continent. Part of Rooster didn't even care, as long as the destination came with an adventure. 

"Where you think we're goin'?" asked one of the younger boys, called Slightly. 

"Dunno. Just imagine," Rooster said, giving the necklace a squeeze before he concealed it from view.