The Finders Keepers

by R.G. Strike

  Sunset was drawing nearer when Irvin stepped out of the house. He grabbed one coat from the hook beside the door and walked rather slowly under the rain, giving chance for Xhynia to chase after him had she changed her mind. But Xhynia never came as he was nearing the corner at the end of the road. He turned right into the silent street, head down and depressed.

  It was his first time in the history of his life to hurt his brother Peter, and he regretted it so much as he regretted his escape off the Turpin House. What he did to Peter was still playing in his mind. . . . Xhynia whimpering so hard . . . Peter falling on the glass table, probably a part of his skull has cracked, and yet he refused to help . . . he was running off his crime. . . .

  Irvin was not actually sure where he was heading for. The merchandises this day were all closed, and his mind was so much occupied for him to think for other reasons.

  What might be happening to Peter now? Xhynia should’ve brought him to the hospital, but the nearest hospital was a mile away . . . but Peter must not die. There are hundreds of reasons he should live, and Irvin had never missed any of it.

  And Xhynia. She was a great lady, a perfect choice for an ideal man, but the loan and every burden she had had turned her crazy. There were some times when she was just talking and singing by herself, telling things that had not actually happened, and remembering a past that was very painful and she cried and cried until she could. Irvin could not do anything to mend her. Nevertheless, he still loved her, though most of her life were wrecked and little were in order, because Xhynia had no family apart from him, her husband. . . .

  Irvin walked on the wet pavement, and his reflection shifted his thought. His chestnut hairs were completely doused, waters trickling from the tips onto the pale skin. The same blue pupils were staring at him. And for some minute he thought he deserved the blood on his face because he was the one who started the fight in the first place.

  “Irvin!” a voice had called out from his back.

  His nerves were surprised, hopes streaming down his spine. He knew was right. Xhynia must be running after him, probably to warn him it was dangerous lurking around, or maybe to inform him that Peter was dead now –

  “NO!” he shouted. Irvin’s pulse quickened at the very thought, then he fell into a whisper. “It’s my fault. He can’t die –”

  “Irvin!” the voice repeated.

  Then Irvin glanced at his back, but when he did, it was not Xhynia who was calling him. A fat man with a bald head and a bulging belly was standing under a big, fancy umbrella.

  “Irvin, come here!” the fat man shouted once again.

  Irvin obeyed. He ran towards the man, who suddenly patted his shoulder and said, “Wha’ the hell are ya doin’ under the rain?”

  He stared at him, apparently waiting for an answer from Irvin which never came. He just stood there, likewise gazing at the fat man.

  “Com’mon, seems yeh’ve been out fer a long time,” he said, and they stepped together before a closed window shop labeled: Scarlet Exhibits, Since 277 B.C. The fat man cupped his pocket and came out with a single chain bearing several keys, then he slipped one on the keyhole.

  There was a soft click and the door flicked open.

  “You enter,” said the man.

  Irvin moved forward. After the bald man finished fixing the big umbrella, he followed behind Irvin, who was nastily throwing glances at his back but still refused to talk.

  “. . . been closin’ fer the rest of the day, and I fergot somthin’ in here. . . . Good that I saw you, else yeh’ve been dead on the streets.”

  The bald man walked past Irvin and clicked something from the counter. When lights were turned on, the appearance of the shop somehow matched its smell. A tall glass-paned rack on the walls were containing several types of weigh scales; a set of chairs for waiting costumers were gathered on the left corner of the room facing wide newsstand with a single, outdated magazine edition with missing pages.

  Irvin stared around the room curiously. It appeared spacious than it looked on the outside. Then he returned his gaze back to the bald man behind the counter.

  He seized Irvin’s appearance for a minute or so as though he was thinking, then ducked beneath the counter so that he appeared to be taking something off the rack.

  It had taken less than a minute, then he reappeared holding a cream towel on one hand.

  “Yeh dry yerself. It’s bad if yeh soak with rainwater,” he said.

  “Oh, yes, thanks,” Irvin complemented, catching the towel. He dried his hairs first and then his face. Then he remembered to ask what he was doing here, and he was supposed to be going somewhere, not here.

  “Yeh finished?”

  Irvin glanced at him.

  “I think so,” he answered.

  The bald man went off the counter and stood before him, eyeing him from head to toe. Irvin tried to resist his stare but it was a close thing. He tried to look away into the rack of weigh scales but the bald man was following him still with his dark pupils.

  “Such lovely hairs,” the bald man began, suddenly changing tone. “How a girl so desperate would want to abandon yeh? Muscular body, perfect skin, and bluest pupils I have ever seen.”

  He looked at Irvin’s eyes, then to his neck. Irvin, however, was lost in thought of what the old man was telling.

  “I’m sure yeh have no place ter spen’ the nigh’?”

  Irvin looked at the opposite direction, still resisting the old man’s stare.

  “Look, I need to go now. My wife –”

  “Yeh sure have a wife?” asked the bald man.

  “Oh, of course, I do.” Irvin swallowed really hard and thought for a lie to escape. “I really needed to see my wife and my child now –”

  “A child, I see,” continued the bald man. “But I’m pretty sure yeh’re lyin’.”

  “No I’m not!” Irvin closed his fist, ready to fight in case the old man did something. “I’m going now.”

  Irvin hurriedly went past the bald man, but he suddenly grabbed his left hand and drew him back. With his right closed fist, Irvin attempted to smack the bald man’s face like he did to Peter, but the bald man caught his elbow just in time.

  “Nice attempt,” he said. “But why’re yeh hurtin’ me? I’m carin’ fer yeh. Yeh should love me.”

  “Yuck!” Irvin yelled. “Release me now or you’ll see how fatal I am!”

  The bald man laughed this time. Irvin, on the other hand, was not convinced at this and he tried to eschew his hand from him. The man, however, continued guffawing a sinisterly laugh that was not pleasant to the ears.

  “Here, see what you’re looking for!” shouted Irvin.

  He kicked the old man on the groin, and he was immediately released. The old man groaned in pain as he curled onto the stone floor, tears pouring from his eyes into his hairs.

  “Next time, you should know.”

  “Yup, I know!” the old man screamed, and he stood, easing the pain, and hit Irvin using a bronze vase he had grabbed from the nearby table.

  Although Irvin had ducked, the bronze vase hit his stomach and sent a belching pain into his lungs. He could hardly breathe for a moment as the pain lasted and expanded into his head. And Irvin ran for the door, the man closing at his heels.

  He ran quickly, the pain soaring above his head but he could not do anything at the moment. All he need to do was to escape. And there, he was running for the door that never came nearer, and the old man was nearing at his back. . . . There was no time. . . .

  Irvin quickly revolved to face him. Swiftly, he blasted his right foot high upon the face of the old man, and the impact was beyond anything that Irvin had expected. An explosive sound had evolved, and the old man was sent flying sideways until he hit the glass-paned rack of weigh scales, which shattered noisily as the items poured downwards one by one.

  “Never underestimate me next time,” said Irvin, as he ran to the door. He immediately turned the rusty handle and hurried into the darkness
of the night outside.

  The chills of the breeze splashed on his face as several droplets of rain rushed into his clothes, but he was escaping after all! He was running, but where would he go?

  He turned into a dimly lighted street, too far from Scarlet Exhibits, and there was no way that the bald man could trace his destination. As he looked for his surroundings, he spotted a hut in front of a restaurant called Ladvick’s. He immediately approached it.

  Irvin stepped his foot on the elevated part after he had glanced one more time at his back, assuring that no one had followed him. He tiptoed as the waters dripped from his body and turned to sit on the bench.

  But there was already someone sitting there.

  Irvin was shocked, but he did not talk. The figure sitting on the opposite bench was wearing a thick cloak extending to its feet like the dress of reaper. The face was partially concealed by the hood and the darkness of the night. Yet on the hand lies a baby wrapped with white linen cloth, sleeping soundlessly.

  But was it reaper, he does not know. Irvin was sitting there, facing the person, motionless.

  “The prophecy speaks nothing but the truth!” the person suddenly said, and Irvin was astonished to hear a lady’s voice which was so low-pitched. He inched closer on the post so that he could run away any moment now. “I heard, I saw, and now I witnessed. . . .”

  Irvin decided to listen just for another minute, in the hope of finding something interesting in the lady’s words, although he was quite fearful about her tone.

  “Many of those who had attempted to enter our empire had always ended in failure. FAILURE!” The baby she was holding did not cry nor was it disturbed. “I thought the time has come. I shall go – YOU!”

  She paused and tilted her head towards Irvin, who felt more fear surge into his heart.

  “Take this baby. . . . Take it. . . .” The lady stood and ushered the baby in front of Irvin, who was looking so much curious.

  Why would he take a baby?

  “Sorry, but I can’t –” he explained.

  “TAKE IT!” the lady bellowed, and Irvin’s trembling hand accepted the baby wrapped in white linen. He stared at her face, but he could not see it. “Take this also . . . as a reward for your valiance of defying that man in the shop. . . . I have never seen such a brave creature to battle a bald man. . . .”

  From beneath her dark cloak, he withdrew a rotting brown box (the size of a thick book), and offered it with both hands to Irvin.

  “O-Okay,” he said, and accepted the box with his baby-free hand. It was heavier than he had expected, but he was not thankful of accepting giveaways from a demented and unknown woman.

  “The time has come.”

  The next thing that Irvin had seen was that the hooded figure evaporated into lily-colored smoke, and had ultimately vanished into the exhaust of the hut.

  He glanced at the baby. Irvin was sure it had a tiny heart beating as he looked into its innocent face. And the box: He tore a portion at the edge, expecting some jewelry inside but when he looked closely, the content was not jewelry.

  “Thank you,” he said, smile had stretched into his face. “I’ve got the answer to save the Turpin House.”

  And so he tucked the box securely on his armpit and hugged the baby as he gently ran into the street, and back into the old Turpin House that was cursed by time.

  CHAPTER THREE:

  THE WORST LAID PLAN