by Todd Shryock
They were put there on purpose and the only purpose he could think of was to provide air to his tiny chamber. Maybe the boys hadn’t left him to die. Maybe this wasn’t a tomb afterall, but a prison. At first the boy was excited, but then realized that his stay in the chamber might now be for more than just a few days. It might be for years. Perhaps gruel and water would be poured down those holes to nourish him. He tried to convince himself that he wouldn’t eat it, but the growing pangs of his empty stomach told him otherwise. And he’d do just about anything for a sip of water right now. He decided to lay with his head close to the holes in case food or water came out of them. He wouldn’t want to miss his chance if it ever came.
Quinton waited in the timeless darkness of his prison. He tried to entertain himself by flicking a small piece of rock across the floor with his finger. He made up two team names and saw which one could flick it further or closest to the wall. He counted stones on the wall. He counted his heartbeats. He tried to sing a song, but his voice was raspy and his throat dry. He tapped on the rock with his fingers and saw how far away from his body he could move it before he could no longer hear it. He thought about the baker’s cart and the delicious soft bread, but that seemed to make his stomach angry so he thought about the albino rat he had seen several times near where he slept in his pile of leaves and rags on the street. It always looked at him funny as if it were trying to figure out what he was doing there. The boy wished he knew the answer to that question too. Why had he been turned out on the streets? Why did his mother and father have to die? Why did he have to be put in this place? All he did was take a little bread to eat and this is what he got as punishment? He closed his eyes to replace one darkness with another and tried to adjust his body as best he could to get comfortable. He drifted off to sleep once more.
His dreams were troubled. People were chasing him through the streets. Boys were beating him. Disease and starvation wracked his body. He ran to his sleeping spot on the street to escape, but the white rat was in it. It stood up on its hind legs and looked at him. You don’t belong here, it said without speaking, its whiskered nose twitching. In the strange realm of dreams, the boy understood that the white rat walked alone. Its own kind wouldn’t associate with it. The white rat wanted to run away, but there was no place to run to. You have choices to make it said in his mind. Choose carefully or you will be like me. The rat turned and disappeared into the pile of leaves and rags next to the building the boy once considered home. He didn’t understand what the rat was talking about, and before he could think about it any more, the scene changed to the old lady’s house where he had worked before being turned out on the streets. The man that told him to leave and never come back was there with her and he glared at the boy. He was angry he was in the house again. He turned to leave but there was no door. Have some tea the woman said. She had never given him tea before. Have some tea with me. The boy found himself moving towards the kitchen. The tea kettle was boiling over an open fire next to an open door. Through the doorway was a grassy plain that stretched forever. The boy had the tea pot in his hand and was pouring two cups as he looked out on the plain. Nothing was out there. Nothing moved. Come boy, she said. Let us have our tea now. The boy turned from the door with the tea in his hand. The dream faded and was gone.
He awoke with a start, but nothing in his tiny world had changed. He could still see nothing and the only sound was that of his heart in his ears. His stomach had become a constant gnawing pain in his gut and his arm and leg muscles were starting to cramp up on a regular basis, causing him great discomfort. His calf muscle would suddenly become so tense that he had to constantly massage it best he could to relieve the pain. That would go away only to be replaced by his bicep locking up so hard that he thought the muscle would burst itself. His body was turning into a symphony of agony with one pain trumping the next. The barrage of pain left him little time to think about his predicament for things were falling apart fast. He had no idea how long he had been in the prison but guessed it to be days. The entire front of his body was numb from laying in the same position for so much time. He had drifted into and out of sleep, most of it dark restless sleep devoid of dreams, every few hours or so, but couldn’t sleep for what seemed like any decent amount of time. The constant napping skewed his sense of time and he lost all track of it long ago.
But regardless of what time or day it was in the outside world, he knew his time was rapidly running out. The craving for water was starting to drive him mad. He began to have thoughts that at first seemed unreasonable, but then became plausible as time went on. He laughed to himself. Yes, it might work.
The boy began scraping at the mortar lines of the stones along the wall. He hoped to wear them down enough to knock a stone free and then use the opening and the loose stone to knock the next rocks out until there was an opening to escape out of. His hands dragged along the rough mortar, the jagged edges and coarse stone tearing back at his flesh. He kept scraping to no avail, his arm hurting from holding his hand out and his body straining under the effort. He had little energy left. He furiously began to tear at the mortar and rock, tearing at it in a mad effort to remove the object blocking his survival. His hand moved faster and faster until it was being torn and shredded by the rock. His nails were dragging on the stone, something had to work. He no longer felt pain in his hand as he continued the attack, scraping, scraping, scraping.
His frustration grew as he could feel no progress being made. He shouted out in a raspy cry of definance as his hand made one last mighty effort, but the rock wouldn’t budge and his body gave out. His arm collapsed from the exhaustive effort and he lie in the cool darkness trying to catch his breath. He moved his hand closer to his face. He could feel the pain from his wounded hand, but it was distant, as if it were in a dream. He felt moisture on his fingers and pushed them into his mouth. The rusty taste of blood was strong, but it was moisture for his parched mouth and he took it willingly.
After the last drop of blood was gone he lie there alone knowing the end was near. His anger built. He took deeper and deeper breaths as the rage started to take ahold of him. He moved both his hands up by his shoulders and place them palm down on the stone. He started to push up with his back pressed to the ceiling. If he couldn’t claw his way out, he would summon some inhuman strength from within and lift the rocks off of him. With a mighty yell he pushed with every bit of energy he had left. It was boy versus rock and he was determined to win. He visualized himself pushing off his rock coffin as if it were nothing more than a bulky winter cloak. His muscles strained under the effort and he felt his arms shaking. He started to blackout from the strain. He let out another yell.
He felt the ceiling starting to give way, joy flooded his body and gave him renewed strength, the rock lifted up and he felt it slide off his back, warm fresh air rushed into and sunlight spilled into his hole. He stood up and heard the rocks crumble behind him into a pile. He stood triumphant on a grassy plain, sunshine warming his face.
“I’m free,” he tried to shout, but his voice was raspy and hardly any sound came out. He looked at his hand and it was uninjured, with not a sign of blood. His face was numb and when he tried to massage it with his hand, he couldn’t feel anything. He took a deep breath and only could smell dank stone.
A startled breath brought him back. He had not moved the ceiling at all. He was still in his prison, the effort of trying to move the rock above him had pushed him beyond his limit and expended the last of his energy. He was too exhausted to move his arms and massage the calf muscle that was now cramping again. He was too tired to lick the blood from his hand that was seeping out again. He was too tired to try to reposition his head to get it off the small sharp pebble it was now lying on. He was too tired to go on.
He began to wonder if the dark reality he lived in was real and that everything else in his life was nothing but a dream. He couldn’t feel any of his body anymore and he was a detached consciousness floating in a never-ending sea of da
rkness. Perhaps this was who he was, a lost soul in the void. All else – parents, friends, enemies – were just things he dreamed of while sleeping. Maybe he had created that reality from his nothingness. There was no family. There was no home. There was no world. Only this emptiness that surrounded him. He wanted to go back to the dream world again. Please take me out of this, he pleaded with himself. Who else was there to plead to? There were no gods here. He was the only being and he seemed powerless to do anything about it.
He waited, but nothing happened. Even his mind started to fade, as if he were watching himself walk away. His thoughts became dimmer until they too faded away into the darkness. All that was left was the simple awareness of self-being. Time, or what seemed like time in the void, passed. Even the self-awareness began to fade. Only darkness remained.
Slowly, his thoughts returned to him. There was something bringing him back. A noise; a steady tapping of rock. He tried to reorient himself but his thoughts were jumbled in his head. He was in the void, darkness around him with no sense of reality except the tapping sound.
Tap, tap, tap. Then something broke and crumbled. Reality came back in another small dose. He began to smell the rock again. He knew he should be able to feel it too, but could feel nothing. His mind wanted to see, but the darkness prevailed and he couldn’t tell whether his eyes were open or shut.
Tap, tap, tap. Voices came to him. He felt a force tugging on him, but he couldn’t move and was afraid of what the source would be. An odd glow lit the void, but revealed nothing of detail, only a pinkish color that obscured the nothingness. The air changed. It became slightly warmer and fresher. There was another crumbling sound and the voices came again, but he couldn’t understand what they were saying, though he knew he should be able to. The tapping stopped. A force grabbed him and pulled him the way a river pulls a twig down its course. He wanted to resist but couldn’t. He felt himself floating up into the warm air, drifting off into nothingness as the voices chattered on around him. He bobbed and weaved in the currents of the void for a while, then the force set him down. Cast aside, he saw a bright light that began to warm his face. He felt a presence and something pressed up against his head. The boy imagined cool water soaking through his parched mouth and he thanked the presence for the gift, but then suddenly his breath was gone. The water was choking him and he began to cough.
His senses returned. He choked out the last of the water and opened his eyes. He was in a tiny room with a small window that cast sunlight onto his face. He was lying on a small cot and there were two men, one kneeling next to him with a ladle of water and the other standing near the small door.
“Thought you were gone there for a minute,” the man kneeling over him said. “Take another sip of water.” He tipped the ladle up to the boy’s lips.
The boy greedily gulped the water and tried to take the ladle, but the man pulled it away.
“You must take it slow or you’ll make it worse. Men have drowned on land drinking water after they’ve been dry for too long.”
The boy took as much water as the man would allow him to have then laid his head back on the cot. He looked at the man with the ladle. He was older, his face creased with deep wrinkles. His hair was thin and gray and combed straight back. He was a rough looking character, but not threatening in his manner. His deep brown eyes showed a toughness in the man, and his large strong hands belied physical strength as well. Quinton had heard the man’s voice before, but wasn’t sure where.
“So you’re a survivor afterall,” said the man near the door, his face familiar. The sandy brown hair gave him away as the man the boy had tried to escape from earlier. “My name is Sands and this here is Grubbs,” he said, motioning with his head to the man with the ladle. Grubbs nodded slightly in recognition before Sands continued. “You’ve been given another chance to live, but let me explain a few things. The boy you once were is dead now. We left him back in the crimper – that stone space you were sealed into. What’s left is the part of him that is too hard to kill and is a survivor. You are a maggot. You fed on the flesh and soul of the boy you once were in order to survive. By surviving in the crimper for three days, you have become worthy enough to become an apprentice to The Fly Guild.”
Quinton searched his memories but couldn’t remember any mention of any such organization. He started to ask a question, but his voice wouldn’t respond, which was well enough because the man started speaking again anyway.
“You are a maggot and have no name other than maggot. You belong to me the same way a dog belongs to its master. You are identified from the other maggots by your master’s name. You will be known as Sands’ maggot when necessary, otherwise simply as maggot. You are never to mention your old name, for that person is dead and it is improper to speak the names of the dead who died such a horrible death, lest they return to this world to haunt us. Do you understand so far?”
Quinton nodded and took another sip. As long as the water kept coming he’d agree to anything. Once he was back on his feet, he could escape if he needed to.
“And don’t think of escaping,” the man said as if reading his thoughts. The boy almost choked on the water he was sipping. “You do not go anywhere without my leave. We are a family here at the Fly Guild, and no one ever abandons family. To do so is to suffer the penalty of death. We’ve all experienced heartbreak in this world by our real families who left us; as members of the guild, we will guarantee ourselves that we always have someone we can rely on. To break that covenant is an insult to all members of the guild.
“So, if you decide to try to escape, you will be hunted down and killed. Is that clear.”
The boy nodded. He was in no condition to try much of anything right now. He desperately wanted some food.
“As your master, and that’s how you shall address me, as master or master Sands, I will make sure your basic requirements are met. There are many skills you will be taught so that you may contribute to the overall well-being of the family. You will help I and other family members complete jobs assigned to us by the father, Master Fist. When you are deemed worthy, you will one day be given a name and you will no longer be known as a maggot. Until then, you will live with the other maggots in the guild unless I have need of your services.”
The boy began to think this wasn’t such a bad deal. Just getting food and water would be a plus over his previous living situation. And how bad could these jobs actually be?
“For now, Master Grubbs will take care of you until you have your strength back. At that point you will be sent to live with the other maggots and your training will begin.” The man turned and opened the small door, ducking below the low threshold to exit. The boy noticed his fine cloak and boots and thought him to be the best dressed person he had ever seen in the city. He hoped that he would get clothes as nice as Sands had.
His eyes went back to Grubbs who had stood up with the bucket and ladle. “That’s enough for now, maggot,” said Grubbs, emphasizing the last word. “I’ll get some gruel brought up along with some bread, that will help put your stomach back in order. We have to get you up and going as soon as possible, ‘cause the father sure doesn’t like freeloaders.” Grubbs ducked and went through the door, closing it behind him. A dull thump told the boy he had also dropped a locking bar across it.
The boy really wanted to try to climb up and look out the small high window to see something other than the stone that surrounded him. He wanted to see colors other than gray again, but just simply trying to sit up proved to be to much of a strain and he quickly slumped back down. Fatigue started to overwhelm him. He looked at his hand. Someone had cleaned and bandaged it and the soreness on the tips of his fingers was beginning to return. He closed his eyes and let sleep overcome him, hoping that when he awoke he was still in the room and not back in the crimper.
He slept in fits as dreams came and went. Visions of rats overrunning him nipping at his body as they passed kept coming back to him. His dreams would fade into vague images of shi
ps and oceans, only to return to the rats running to him. There was no escape from them. They were relentless.
Quinton spent more than a week recovering with Grubb’s help. Some days he would only see him when he brought bread, gruel and water, while others he would apply salves made from awful-smelling plants to his wounds. The stench was nearly unbearable, but they did dull the ache and his wounds healed quickly. Most of the boy’s time was spent sleeping and he suspected Grubb’s was putting some sort of sleeping potion into his water, for he was resting far more than normal. It was all well enough anyway, for there was nothing to do in his small locked room. Whenever he woke up, Grubb’s would shortly thereafter enter the room with the next round of food, water and salves, leaving him little time to contemplate his predicament or escape.
When he was approaching what seemed like two weeks worth of treatments, Sands reappeared. Quinton had just woken up again and was feeling particularly better and was thinking about trying to walk around the room a bit when he heard the lock bar being withdrawn from his door. The small door swung open, but instead of Grubbs, it was Sands – Master Sands. He wore a cloak of light gray and fine boots made of what looked like deerskin, and there were wool trousers of gray tucked into them. The man’s eyes studied him for a moment. Quinton sat quietly, afraid to ask anything after the series of warnings he had been give the last time that he saw him.
