Chapter 3 The Girl

He stopped in mid-flight.

A carriage was coming in the distance, bearing down on him.

He darted back to the wall where he had been hiding behind, where he had watched his father and mother beaten to death.

Had they seen him? Had the pack of salivating wolves seen their prey, cornered, shivering, bleeding, heart pounding, crouching like a wild animal, behind the cold, stony slab of wall, the only barrier between him and the bloodthirsty gaggle of good men and women, breathing hard, their faces twisted in rage, their hands stained with the blood of his parents?

It mattered not, he thought dully; for if they had not seen him, by some quirk of kindly divine intervention, almost without doubt, the persons bearing the carriage had.

It was all over.

He sagged against the wall, too tired to think anymore, a strange calm descending on him, rendering him almost drowsy, lethargic, indifferent.

The carriage ground to a halt creakily in front of him, between him and the mob. He looked up dully. He could not see the mob anymore; it was as if they had vanished into thin air; for all that filled his vision now was the carriage, majestic, gleaming in the sunlight, beautiful.

A window slid open slowly.

From within the shadows of the carriage, a face peeked out.

It was looking straight at him.

Almost all at once, there was a bustle of activity.

A plump woman scurried over to the window, and was conversing, in heated tones, voice rising, with the face in the shadows. He could not see the face anymore; it had been obscured by the generous proportions of the plump woman's ample behind. The footmen stood at attention, staring straight ahead, pretending not to notice the dirty, grimy boy slouched against the wall.

He waited.

The plump woman threw up her hands in exasperation, turned, and beckoned to him, a furtive gesture, and mouthed, "Come!"

He blinked.

Again, she gestured desperately, mouthing again, "Come!"

She moved, and finally, he could see her face.

The face in the shadows.

It was a girl, a young girl, about his age. She had an earnest face, brows puckered, eyes filled with concern.

She was looking straight at him.

He stared back at her.

The carriage door swung open. 

The girl gestured at him. Her hand was tiny, white, and so clean; he had never seen anyone with hands that clean before in his life.

The heavy lethargy left him, the indifference replaced by an urgency, an overwhelming rush, to live, to survive.

He struggled to his feet, overcome by a sudden wave of dizziness, but he fought against it, and gritted his teeth, and forced himself to stand up, to walk steadily, slowly, to the open door, to where she waited, the girl with the earnest face, his saviour, his hope, his future.

They sat opposite each other inside the narrow carriage, so close their knees touched.

They stared at each other, the dirty, grimy, bloodied boy, and the girl with her hair tied back in a long braid, pretty hair pins and sparkly hair clips, keeping every strand of hair in place on her pretty head. 

The mob had long gone, shuffling past the carriage, one by one, their heads bowed low. Gone was the mad rage from their faces; the masks of humility, schooled by long and painful years of humble subservience had slipped into place at the sight of the carriage. Sanity and reason had prevailed; for a commoner is but a mere slave, a lowly creature in the presence of the esteemed nobility.

"Why did you save me?" He asked.

"Because they were looking for you." 

"I am a lowly creature, I am the son of a butcher."

"Why would a lady like you save a lowly creature like me?"

"Because," she leaned forward, so that their knees were pressing against each other, her face almost, but not quite, touching his, "because everyone deserves the right to live his own life, everyone deserves the right to be free." She spoke passionately, her face animated, alive, her eyes shining with candour, with utter conviction in what she believed to be true. "Confucius says: All life is precious."  

"You fool," he said softly.

He looked at her, and she recoiled at the contempt in his eyes, the cutting scorn in the words he spoke.

"You silly, noble fool," he sneered. "What do you know of living? What do you know of what it means to be free?"

"You in your noble fool's paradise with your fine clothes, and your nice carriage, what do you know of life?"

He reached out and his blood-stained fingers curled around the soft, silky dress covering her knee. Clutching a handful of her skirt, he tugged, a hard, vicious tug.

She gasped. 

She tried in vain to free her skirt from his clenched fist, but he only tugged harder, until the fabric was stretched to the point of tearing; and still, he would not let go.

Very deliberately, keeping his eyes on hers, he lowered his head, lifted the fistful of skirt to his lips, and wiped the dark brown stains of dried blood on his lower lip with it.

Then he let go.

She was crying, but she did not say a word, her eyes, two huge pools of hurt.

He stared at her for an instant, the sheen of tears in his eyes.

Then with one swift movement, he was out the door.

And he was gone, leaving the girl sobbing, clutching at her crumpled skirt, stained with the remnants of his blood.