Waiting for the Sunrise

Chapter Four

One year later...

Fynn observed the steady stream of everyday life from his perch on the wall outside the school house. His bright blue eyes followed the patched up dresses and stained trousers with disinterest as if he were watching ants between blades of grass. A boy darted between the moving bodies, clutching a loaf of bread, the local baker chased after him with red puffy cheeks from eating far too much pastries, cursing the boy with as many foul words he could think of. Fynn smiled lightly at the disturbance, his eyes sparkling with amusement, he hoped the boy would escape the grasp of the grubby baker. It crossed his mind why the boy wasn't inside the building behind him like the other children, surely he wasn't in a similar situation to his own. He was certain that there had never been a circumstance like his.

The hushed argument caught his attention again. He turned behind him to see Anna huffing with frustration with the stubborn schoolmaster. Strands of her golden hair had fallen out of her bun, making her appear even more unkempt than she already was. The schoolmaster shook his head, apologising for the hundredth time, telling her that there was no place for Fynn at his school. Of course, Anna wouldn't stand for that, she had only just graduated herself and was desperate for Fynn to have the same education as she had. He turned away with indifference. The attempt was pointless, he understood that to be fact, no one wanted him in the village but Anna so why would they let him attend the school? It was silly to even try.

He grew tired of the enraged voices, it was beginning to get on his nerves and he wanted to put an end to it, so he slipped off of the wall and walked over the pair. Oblivious to Fynn's presence, Anna looked ready to pounce on the balding man, she wanted to shake sense into him. In her mind, everyone deserved an education, even someone as extraordinary as Fynn. Why could no one else see that? When she felt the small hand entwine with her own, she sighed with defeat.

"Stop it." Fynn murmured, pulling at her hand. The schoolmaster blinked at the boy, he had never heard him speak before, very few villagers had. Surprisingly, his voice didn't seem to belong to him. He spoke like someone much older than him. "This is ridiculous. We should leave."

Anna's eyes set upon the schoolmaster once more. "So be it. I'll have to tutor him myself." The strange pair turned away and walked at a brisk pace across the square.

Fynn found himself watching the crowd as he walked, how people absentmindedly turned their back on them, how the path cleared so very quickly. He wondered if they feared him. Perhaps it wouldn't be such a bad thing, at least they'd be wary of him rather than ignoring his presence entirely, but he did not wish to be feared. What was it that set him apart from the other children? Fynn was patient and kind; he'd smile politely at the others his age but all he got in response was a rally of odd looks and awkward glances. He was a freak.

Somehow, Fynn's grasp on Anna's hand had faltered, for he found himself lost in a sea of bodies. He rotated on the spot, balanced on the tip of his toes, peering through the ever-moving spaces between the faceless figures. A small boy like him could very easily be trampled on in a crowd such as this one. Instinctively, he turned roughly in the direction of home and took a tentative step forward. It was within that small uneasy step, where one foot was suspended in the air, that he received a brisk push. The phantom hands disappeared as quickly as they had materialised leaving Fynn to scramble for something to grab to anchor his balance. His small fingers enclosed around the canvas material of a purse, however the momentum of the fall caused his body to continue its path to the cobbled paving, the purse now clutched in hand fell with him.

"Thief!" The high-pitched voice of a woman shrieked. "The bastard child is a thief!"

Lay in a crumpled heap on the ground, Fynn let out a low whimper, a trickle of blood seeped from a wound on his cheek. A plump hand pulled him up sharply, the rounded cheeks of the woman filled his peripheral vision, anger had stained the usually jolly face. Fynn held out the purse to her, his cheeks burning a violent shade of red.