~ Jordan Tay
The rain fell harder and poured thick at every step. Her skin buzzed, numb and unfeeling, and mud-stained up to her thighs. She slowed through the street, her boots sloshing and squishing in the frosty rain. The child lay still beneath her shirt, warm against her torso, and unmoving.
Tavern lights shone with dim glow and cast no light out onto the street. She ducked back into the alleyway and dragged her fingers across the wall until she found the lip of the door frame, then rapped her knuckles across the coarse wood, and sighed as pain rose in her hand.
For some time she stood in the worst of the rain, head down, leaning against the door, knocking. When the door gave, she half fell into the room, caught in the thick arms of a blotchy, white-skinned man, whose dark eyes glanced back to be certain they were alone. He shut the door with his heel, then pushed the young women towards the hearth, frowning at the mud and water tracked in.
“Don't care to know,” he grunted, leaning close to her ear as he removed the heavy coat from her broad shoulders. “Not right now, anyway. It's rush hour. Plan more wisely, Tay, I shouldn't have need to warn you again, girl.”
“It's pouring,” she murmured, kneeling over the fire.
“Makes no difference to them.” He said, and he walked to the alley door and twisted the rusted brass lock.
“Get out, I have to change.”
He scoffed and crossed the room. “Come out here when you're ready.”
“What?”
He repeated the command and her eyes rolled.
“I want to sleep.”
“I want your help, mate, they won't leave soon due to that blasted rain. You have, eyy, near an hour.”
“Get out, Lanec.”
“Aye,” he chuckled, opening the feeble kitchen door. “Don't let those clothes sit wet in a scared corner for me, girl, you best ring and hang them on your own, now.”
“Okay,” she said, but again she did not hear him. Her eyes stared into the enticing fire. Lanec only teased because he couldn't often get away with such remarks on a usual day. Everyone knew him as Bartender, and she knew him as Lanec.
The kitchen door shut and she slumped against the wall, freeing the child from the grip of her wet clothing. It shivered, but remained quiet, too exhausted to cry.
“Good,” she said, setting the child down as she pulled off her wet overshirt. The toddler’s composition melted and it reached for her. “Oh, dear goodness.” She muttered, unobliging. “Dear goodness.”
She heard the kitchen door open, and she threw the shirt down over the child.
Lanec bustled in keeping his eyes low. “Sorry, sorry, just a minute,”
She didn't care. She stared at the fire and felt his footsteps vibrate through the worn wooden floor. The child stirred beneath her wet shirt and she reached a tentative hand toward the creature.
“Where's the money purse?”
“In my coat.”
“It's not.”
She took it from her pocket and threw it at him, still staring at the fire.
“Thank you,” he said in a soft tone, forcing her to strain her hearing in order to grasp the words. He began to cross the room. She stared at the fire. Her shirt stirred.
A wail sounded and she straightened, pulling the child across the ground and into her lap.
“What?”
“Get out, Lanec,” she said, but she heard him approach. She turned round and shook her soaked head. “Get out, get out, get out.”
He bent and pushed his stubby fingers against her sopping hair, then pulled her close so that his mouth touched her ear, “Children make sounds, Tay. Always make sounds. I heard it the moment you came in.”
“Oh.”
“Jah. You can't keep it, and don't give it a sacred name.”
“Go tend a bar or something.”
“Aye. Where did you find it?”
“You said you didn't care to know.”
“Aye. Where did you find it, girl?”
“I don't know. A few blocks west of the marina. I walked in on a scene out of Hell and I couldn't leave.”
Still holding her head, Lanec reached down and pulled away the shirt. The child was small, and its limbs were lean, but its belly was full. Thin blonde hair blended with its pale white skin, and the toddler's blue eyes had dulled with exhaustion. “We'll talk later,” he said, and his hand slid down her neck, then dropped to his side. “You did well. Keep it quiet.” He stood as she nodded, then wiped his hands across his thighs. “You don't have to come out tonight.”
“It's alright. I'll get it to sleep, then I'll come help you. It's my aunt Jane’s birthday and she's on a dinner date with her man, so I have the kid for a night.”
His brow arched and he dipped his head, walking back to the kitchen door. “Something like that. Though I expect no woman to trust you with their child, my girl.”
She turned to the fire. “Rightfully so, perhaps.”
“Aye.” He grunted, filling the doorway as he re-entered the kitchen.
She looked down at the toddler and answered his reaching arms. “Already moved on, have we?” The remark fell flat, and she sat the child on her thigh, body facing the warmth of the fire.
Tavern lights shone with dim glow and cast no light out onto the street. She ducked back into the alleyway and dragged her fingers across the wall until she found the lip of the door frame, then rapped her knuckles across the coarse wood, and sighed as pain rose in her hand.
For some time she stood in the worst of the rain, head down, leaning against the door, knocking. When the door gave, she half fell into the room, caught in the thick arms of a blotchy, white-skinned man, whose dark eyes glanced back to be certain they were alone. He shut the door with his heel, then pushed the young women towards the hearth, frowning at the mud and water tracked in.
“Don't care to know,” he grunted, leaning close to her ear as he removed the heavy coat from her broad shoulders. “Not right now, anyway. It's rush hour. Plan more wisely, Tay, I shouldn't have need to warn you again, girl.”
“It's pouring,” she murmured, kneeling over the fire.
“Makes no difference to them.” He said, and he walked to the alley door and twisted the rusted brass lock.
“Get out, I have to change.”
He scoffed and crossed the room. “Come out here when you're ready.”
“What?”
He repeated the command and her eyes rolled.
“I want to sleep.”
“I want your help, mate, they won't leave soon due to that blasted rain. You have, eyy, near an hour.”
“Get out, Lanec.”
“Aye,” he chuckled, opening the feeble kitchen door. “Don't let those clothes sit wet in a scared corner for me, girl, you best ring and hang them on your own, now.”
“Okay,” she said, but again she did not hear him. Her eyes stared into the enticing fire. Lanec only teased because he couldn't often get away with such remarks on a usual day. Everyone knew him as Bartender, and she knew him as Lanec.
The kitchen door shut and she slumped against the wall, freeing the child from the grip of her wet clothing. It shivered, but remained quiet, too exhausted to cry.
“Good,” she said, setting the child down as she pulled off her wet overshirt. The toddler’s composition melted and it reached for her. “Oh, dear goodness.” She muttered, unobliging. “Dear goodness.”
She heard the kitchen door open, and she threw the shirt down over the child.
Lanec bustled in keeping his eyes low. “Sorry, sorry, just a minute,”
She didn't care. She stared at the fire and felt his footsteps vibrate through the worn wooden floor. The child stirred beneath her wet shirt and she reached a tentative hand toward the creature.
“Where's the money purse?”
“In my coat.”
“It's not.”
She took it from her pocket and threw it at him, still staring at the fire.
“Thank you,” he said in a soft tone, forcing her to strain her hearing in order to grasp the words. He began to cross the room. She stared at the fire. Her shirt stirred.
A wail sounded and she straightened, pulling the child across the ground and into her lap.
“What?”
“Get out, Lanec,” she said, but she heard him approach. She turned round and shook her soaked head. “Get out, get out, get out.”
He bent and pushed his stubby fingers against her sopping hair, then pulled her close so that his mouth touched her ear, “Children make sounds, Tay. Always make sounds. I heard it the moment you came in.”
“Oh.”
“Jah. You can't keep it, and don't give it a sacred name.”
“Go tend a bar or something.”
“Aye. Where did you find it?”
“You said you didn't care to know.”
“Aye. Where did you find it, girl?”
“I don't know. A few blocks west of the marina. I walked in on a scene out of Hell and I couldn't leave.”
Still holding her head, Lanec reached down and pulled away the shirt. The child was small, and its limbs were lean, but its belly was full. Thin blonde hair blended with its pale white skin, and the toddler's blue eyes had dulled with exhaustion. “We'll talk later,” he said, and his hand slid down her neck, then dropped to his side. “You did well. Keep it quiet.” He stood as she nodded, then wiped his hands across his thighs. “You don't have to come out tonight.”
“It's alright. I'll get it to sleep, then I'll come help you. It's my aunt Jane’s birthday and she's on a dinner date with her man, so I have the kid for a night.”
His brow arched and he dipped his head, walking back to the kitchen door. “Something like that. Though I expect no woman to trust you with their child, my girl.”
She turned to the fire. “Rightfully so, perhaps.”
“Aye.” He grunted, filling the doorway as he re-entered the kitchen.
She looked down at the toddler and answered his reaching arms. “Already moved on, have we?” The remark fell flat, and she sat the child on her thigh, body facing the warmth of the fire.