Making Up the Difference

It was never the child’s fault.

When the world died, the light dimmed. Not fully. Certainly not. But enough that lines of morality blurred. Enough that one couldn’t quite tell right from wrong, until the guilt of one’s mistakes tore into oneself.

The child’s father was a copper smith. He sold bowls, and pans, and jewelry, mostly. He used to sell clockwork toys, but there was no time for those anymore. What had once been symbols of human ingenuity now seemed tacky in comparison to the useful firefly fluid or greytack. Every day, he took the child with him to work.

The market was busy, of course. Something about the canyons had always invited commerce. The father’s stall, however, was relatively deserted. The child sat on the ground near his father’s stall, fiddling with a little clockwork bird. It was a poor imitation of a blue jay, but the child would never know that.

The child tugged a bit harshly on the bird’s wing.

The father leaned down, resting his hand on the bird, “Gentle, it’s not so sturdy as it seems.”

The child looked up at him, hood sliding off his head and behind his face. The father hurriedly pulled it up, over his horns, so that the child’s face was shadowed.

The father glanced toward the crowd. Hopefully, nobody had noticed. He met eyes with a young man. Or perhaps he was a boy. The boy strolled towards him, not even pretending to look at the father’s wares.

He stuck out his hand, “The name’s Elliot, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

The father eyed his friendly smile and outstretched hand, “The pleasure is mine.”

“And your name is?”

“Oxmith.”

The boy nodded, “A fine name, are you going to shake my hand?”

The father glanced at the boy’s hand, wrist covered by a long sleeve, then back at the boy, “No. And if you aren’t daft as a mud puddle you’ll stop offering your hand like you want someone to slit your wrist.”

The boy’s smile fell as he stuck his hand into his pocket, “Sorry, I just wanted to be polite.”

“It’s better to be alive, now, are you going to buy something?”

The boy shook his head, “I don’t plan on it, sorry.”

The father sighed, “Don’t apologize, just leave.”

The boy shook his head again, “No sir, not until you tell me why your child isn’t in school.”

The father’s eyes narrowed, “That’s not your business, but if you must know. He’s not old enough to be in school yet.”

“That’s not true. He looks old enough, and it’s the middle of the day, so why isn’t he in school?”

“Fine, he’s mute,” the father lied.

“That’s not true either, sir” the boy’s voice dropped to a whisper, “He’s Marked. I saw it. The school won’t let him in, will they?”

The father shook his head, “This isn’t your business, son.”

“But I want to make it my business.”

The father started stacking his pans, “No, you don’t, you’ll get yourself hurt. Stay out of it.”

“I don’t care if I get hurt, sir.”

The father picked up the pans, placing them in his cart, “That sentiment will change.”

The boy grabbed the father’s arm. The father looked down at him. Tears welled in the boy’s blue eyes.

The father shook him off, turning away, “People are dying. If you’re careful, it won’t be you.”

“That’s why I need to help. I need to make up the difference.”

The father looked back at him, “The difference?”

The boy took a shaky breath, “So many people are hurting, dying, turned away. Especially the Marked. I don’t have that problem, obviously. I c-can’t even begin to understand the prejudice you deal with, but I’m trying to help.”

The father raised an eyebrow, “How?”

The boy took another breath, his voice steadier, “There’s a school for Marked kids. As well as anyone else who doesn’t feel safe going to the local schools, deeper in the canyons, below the markets. I’m supposed to find the children who need it most. That’s what they told me to do.”

The father stiffened, “Is this true?”

The boy nodded, “I swear it is.”

The father glanced at the child, “I’ll have to talk to my wife.”

The boy smiled, “Thank you, for the consideration at least.”

“Who’s running the school?”

The boy’s eyes seemed to sparkle with pride, “Other Followers of Eleo, similar to myself.”

The father’s expression hardened, “Goodbye.”

He lifted the child into his cart and wheeled the thing away, leaving the boy stunned.

It didn’t take long for the zealot to find the father’s home. It never did so long as she asked the right questions. Asked the right people. The answers led her to a hole in the canyon wall. Smooth corners. No door, only a curtain. A wooden door was practically a sign screaming that you were rich and content with being robbed. The boy stood beside her, obviously nervous.

“This doesn’t feel right, Connie,” he whispered.

“It’s what Eleo demands. Education is important to Him.”

The boy looked from her to the curtain, “If you’re sure.”

“Certain.”

The child was taken quickly. Quietly. His parents left unconscious in their dwelling. The zealot smiled softly as she lifted the pale orange curtain, carrying the unconscious child. She descended into the canyon.

The boy hesitated for a moment, then followed her.

They traveled west for about an hour before they finally stopped. The winding canyon shaded them from the afternoon sun. The boy sat on a reddish rock. The zealot laid the child on his back and drew a hatchet. The boy didn’t notice, instead inspecting the canyon walls. Layers upon layers of red rock.

A loud thwack sounded behind the boy. He jumped to his feet, turning towards the zealot and the child. The zealot’s hatchet was buried into the child’s horn.

The boy ran forward, hands raised, “You’re hurting him!”

The zealot jerked the hatchet out of his horn, “He’s Marked.”

Thwack.

The boy flinched, “I didn’t agree to this.”

The zealot raised the hatchet again, “You vowed to serve Eleo, that means th–”

The boy stepped forward, “That I won’t let you kill some poor kid.”

Thwack.

The zealot picked up the detached horn, examining it, “I haven’t killed him yet.”

The boy stepped forward again, now a man, “Don’t touch him.”

The zealot tilted her head, ignoring the man as she peered at the child, “I think I’ll start with the face now. Then move onto the second horn.”

She set down her hatchet, drawing a long, thin knife from her sleeve. The man came closer. The zealot sliced into the child’s cheek. For a moment, it didn’t bleed. The man grabbed the hatchet.

The zealot addressed the man, “Heart, or throat?”

The man hid the hatchet behind his back, “What?”

The zealot didn’t notice the hatchet, as she was too preoccupied with the child,“Do you want me to cut out his heart, or slit his throat?”

“Throat,” the man answered.

“Good choice.”

Thwack.

The man carried the child back to the father’s dwelling. His steps felt heavy. Blood smeared his shirt, from the child’s face, as well as from the zealot. The child was still unconscious. Seemingly peaceful. The world was quiet.

The man lifted the pale orange curtain, entering the child’s dwelling. He laid the child on the floor.

The mother rushed to him, wild-eyed, “Who are you? Why do you have my son?”

“I’m sorry.”

The mother knelt beside her child, “He’s breathing. He’s alive.”

The man nodded. The mother didn’t see. She wasn’t watching him, after all. She was watching the child, as his chest rose and fell.