David Grunwell - author

Ever have a series of days so bad that you cannot imagine a way to screw them up worse? I mean, you are trying really hard not to, but you are just sinking deeper into life’s chamber pot?

I was returning to the house, smelling like a burned sausage. Soot and grime covered my fingers and clothing. I was tired. Walking into the house like this would make everything worse, and I didn’t need that.

Stripping off my clothes in the back of the barn, I poured a bucketful of water into a washbasin. Scrubbing with a bar of lye soap helped remove some layers. If asked, I could blame the soap for the redness of my eyes.

Some rags dried me off to where I could put on some slightly less dirty work clothes I had left there days before. I dropped my smoky clothing into the basin and added more water and soap chips to soak them. That was their best chance for getting out the smoke and soot damage. There may even be burn holes; I don’t know.

My aunt’s house was one of the few two-story houses on the block. It possessed a certain grandeur yet hinted at a faded past. The house showed no obvious damage, and it had a better paint job than most houses in our village. Even without adding in today’s events, I dreaded going in.

Why? Because nothing slipped past my aunt’s notice.

Up the wooden backstairs, I hoped my aunt wasn’t there. If the fates were kind, she would be up front, wrapping up customers like a spider, sucking their money from their dry husks.

My aunt ran a gambling house. To label it gambling was unjust; the question wasn’t if, but when and how much they would lose.

Upon entering the kitchen, I heard her voice. “Did you burn down the leatherman’s shop?”

“No, Ma’am. That was Ferren. He left the stove’s fire door open with a basket of kindling nearby. I don’t know why.”

“Why? Because he is a stupid boy, as dumb as his father.”

I nodded. We didn’t tan the hides there. We just worked the leather, sometimes using heat to form it. The fire was avoidable. There were strict rules for most things in the shop. The leather man’s son ignored the rules when his father was out. He wasn’t seeking speed or efficiency; it was pure entitled foolish malice.

A hazy cloud of black smoke hung in the air outside the back windows. Leather had a distinct scent when it burned. She pointed to a stout wooden chair by the table, motioning for me to sit.

“Did he fire you?”

“Yes, Ma’am. He knows it was Ferren. He was there alone, covered in soot, when the leather man and I arrived. Regardless of the facts, the leatherman will claim it was me to get money out of you.”

“That fool boy could burn down a stone forge.” She stared at me. No glint of compassion or humor. “He can press his case, but your money is gone, and so is our arrangement.”

She was referring to the money that my late grandparents had put towards her raising me to adulthood. It had been a tidy sum, enough to get me to adulthood with room and board, and a decent education with some left over. They had crafted a tight contract, but they had never met anyone as wily as my “aunt.” She had created several companies to charge my education account, all feeding back to her.

She double-dipped on everything, paying herself as the director of my care, then as a teacher, then as the agent that hired the other staff.

Just last week, she informed me that my account was nearly empty, and with it, my contract with her would end. My apprenticeship at the leatherman’s shop was her last attempt to shove me into my self-funded adulthood.

She looked at me. Her dark eyes were still and predatory. “Here’s my last lesson for you. Free of charge.” I winced. This was going to hurt. Nothing good from her was free. “Pack up some clothes and go. Leave this town. Out of the kindness of my heart, I will even give you some food.”

What was the catch? When someone has to tell you of their kindness, it means it is a lie. Did some food go rotten, and she wants it gone from the larder?

“In return for this kindness, and me not having you arrested, you must swear not to tell anyone where you came from or that you know me. I don’t want none of them coming here demanding money from me ‘cause you screwed up again. If anyone asks about you, and they won’t, I am going to say you stole food and money and ran. I might say I heard you died on the road. No one is going to doubt it. I expect that to be true in a week’s time.”

And there it is.

She frowned, which was her normal state when not schmoozing with customers. “As I am in a giving mood, I think you should bury your name out behind where your drunken father sleeps. It will give him something to wiz on when he wakes. Then leave and never come back. Or you can choose to be pig-headed and stay with him, whittling yourself down to nothing. Your father can show you how to beg for day-old beer.”

She leaned back in her chair, seemingly finished discussing and unconcerned with my sad situation.

This stung, but it was difficult to argue against it.

A week ago, I had happened upon my father, who was out urinating on an old tree. As you may guess, he was drunk. Had I been a tad bit quicker, he wouldn’t have noticed me.

“Hey!” He waved me over. “Hey, how is your dear old mother?”

“Still dead,” I offered.

He floundered. I bet it was a common question he asked everyone he met. I wasn’t sure he knew it was me.

“Great. Yeah, good to know. Hey, you wouldn’t have a few spare coppers so I can get me a tasty breakfast, would you?”

This always meant beer. I looked at him. He smelled not much better than the poor tree he had soaked. There was no real connection between us for over twelve years. I could have claimed that I didn’t have it. To my amazement, like watching someone else do it, I pulled out three copper coins.

Our communal surprise didn’t stop him from grabbing the money. “You know, you are a good guy.” He staggered forward so close I could smell his stale beer breath. “Don’t listen none to what the others say. Someday, you are going to be just like me. You can count on that.” He pressed his thumb back into his chest, looking like he had said something profound.

Ouch! I could have cursed him, shouting for him to take that back. But he was right. And that was an emotional dagger to my head. That horrible thought lingered.

My aunt wasn’t joking; she was dour and humorless. She was many negative things, but she was shrewd, and she confirmed my worst fears.

It was time to leave this town. No one would miss me, nor I them.

My aunt dismissed me with a flick of her long bony fingers. A bully had once taunted me, saying that my aunt was the basis of all scarecrows in the area because she scared birds, children, and wild animals. He wasn’t wrong. Foolishly, he left out adults. She scared them too. I had laughed and told him to keep it quiet or my aunt would come collect fees for them using her likeness. He didn’t know how to respond, so he left.

Rising, I ascended the creaky wooden stairs and clumped down the short hallway to my room at the far end of the hall. Calling it a room was being gracious. It was a converted closet not much longer than I was tall, wedged in a space at the peak of the roof. The space was lit by a single eight-inch rectangular window set in the end wall to the right of the brick fireplace chimney. The scent of my bed’s hay and the old, dried wood of the walls greeted me. I was tired from fighting the fire, and the thought of lying down in my tiny, narrow bed for a few hours sounded wonderful.

That was fanciful thinking. If I were not down in ten minutes, my aunt would send one of her boys to come rouse me. These were not her boys by birth or even by affection. They were the thugs she used to persuade customers to take their losses and move on. Even though I spent the last ten years here, I was never one of her boys. She was only my aunt by contractual agreement, not out of love.

Hefting my backpack, I smirked with a sense of pride. Despite being sewn together from discarded leather bits from the shop’s scrap bin, it was decent enough that it displeased the leather man. I laid it out so the different shapes were symmetrical and flowing, as if it were a purposeful design, not a haphazard pile of discarded leather bits that were stitched together.

He had wanted to find it laughable. His grin had faded as he turned it over, inspecting the edges and stitchwork, running his fingers over it, tugging at the straps. He had set it down, jutted his lower jaw out, and declared the “valuable” leather scraps I had used were my week’s pay. That was a win. The leather man was almost as grumpy as my aunt, and that he had no complaints was an offhanded compliment.

It wasn’t a very large pack, as I didn’t build it to take an extended trip. Unless I paid her to stay, I knew my aunt would kick me out of the house, but I had not considered her having the ability to kick me out of the city and maybe the whole county. I filled it only with essential items and clothing. My aunt would scour my bag, looking for anything I hadn’t purchased with my own money.

From my hidden stashes about the room, I collected my money and deposited it in various hidden pockets in my clothing, backpack, and traveling coat. A proud sum, but without work, it would not last long.

Two steps off the stairs, she pointed for me to set my backpack on the table. She was like a border-crossing agent looking for contraband.

She stared at me, her hands still groping about in my pack. “You got money?”

“A few coppers.” I lied. Never tell her how much you have. That was one of her big rules. She found a tiny bag of coppers in a side pouch of my backpack. Hefting it, she nodded and put it back.

Searching in the main section, her eyes lit up. I panicked, not sure what illegal goods I had taken. She pulled out a small box from the bottom of the bag; I relaxed. Her face fell when she found it contained a needle and thread, a tinderbox and flint, my shaving kit, and soap. I don’t know what she expected, but she frowned and put it back.

She hefted my backpack. “Good. Not too heavy, but you are going to feel it in a few days.” She handed me a white cloth bag. “Some food. Make it last and don’t blow what little money you have on a donkey or horse. Walking will not kill you. In fact, I suggest you walk east for about four days.” Her eyes were menacing. “I am serious about you dropping your name and forgetting all about this town and me. I do not want any other butt-hurt merchants coming to me about you burning down their shops or other such nonsense. Got it?”

I nodded. “Yes, Ma’am.”

“Well, don’t just stand there, or I will charge you a month’s rent! Go!”

This is where I lost my name.

Not actually lost, but where I stopped using it, mentally burying it. People said that name with so many negative emotions it became more of a swear word or a curse.

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