Someone had graffitied the nameplate. Garish, pink scrawl so the sign now read NO HOPE HERE. Looking at it, thought Static, it was pretty accurate. She gave the wheel on the large, iron door an appraising, optimistic shove. Nope. Never straightforward. She stepped back to take a proper look. The door was set into a much bigger gateway that rose maybe a third of the way up the side of the biome. It didn’t look like it had been opened in some time. The biome itself was coated in a thick layer of sand and grime, at least as high up as she could see from this close. Rain and wind usually kept the tops clear. Cleaning the outsides wasn’t really an option. The door was just as grungy, with caked dirt baked on over the hinges. Sand piled against the foot of the door was easily kicked away in a large arc to allow for movement. Sliding her pack from her aching shoulders, she unclipped a crowbar from its straps and wedged it between the spokes of the wheel. Experience having taught her not to risk her hands, Static pulled a pair of gloves from the top pockets of her trousers, one from each side, and slipped them on, tugging them down over her palms until her fingertips poked through the frayed ends. Manual doors were always hard work, but at least they’d open. The auto-doors were about 75:25 these days. If you could jump the connection, you might get lucky, but they were notorious for jamming even under full power and almost impossible to move by hand if the mechanisms were locked.

Static took hold of the crowbar with one hand and, with the other, flicked open the cover of the little microphone clipped to her lapel. She ran her hand down the wire to a sliding switch and clicked it to the REC-CAST position.

“Welcome back, you’re listening to Static.” She grunted as she applied her full bodyweight to the lever. “It’s been a long week, adventure fans, but we have finally arrived at Hope, which I’m sure we can all agree should be a lot better than Faith. I mean, it couldn’t be much worse now, could it?” She gave a short laugh, which sounded oddly joyous in the bleak, empty surroundings. “So, I guess that can be today’s topic: Hope”. There was a faint grinding sound and the wheel gave a few millimetres. “First, I hope someone opens this door,” Static continued, taking her hands from the crowbar to reclaim her dark hair out of her eyes. None of it was the same length, so this took a minute as she rearranged the clips and scarf to create some structural integrity. She wiped a sleeve over her forehead and removed her shades to give them a quick polish on the hem of her shirt, squinting in the sunshine as she did. “Man, it is hot out here today.” Shades back on, Static took up her grip on the lever again and shoved. “The a/c in my car is done, just so you know,” she said, “so forgive me if I’m a little grumpy. Extreme heat will do that to a person.” She flicked her eyes up to where a security camera hung over the door. There was a thin film over the lens but no other hint as to whether it was working. “Wanna open up? No? Anybody paying attention?” She gave another, forceful shove. Another metallic grating sound, another few millimetres.

“Hope.” Shove. Grate. Move. “What is hope? Feels a little weak, doesn’t it? Hoping. Hoping things will get better, hoping they won’t get worse. We spend a lot of our energy hoping. Doesn’t account for much.” Shove. Grate. Move. “I don’t know about you, but I wish I didn’t hope so much. But it’s hard not to, right? You hope it’s not as bad as you think it is. You hope, hope, hope your way through your day some days, just stringing together that feeling that it could work out, cross your fingers, hope not to die.” Shove. Nothing. Shove. Grate. Move. “Where’s the line between hope and belief? What happens to tip you over from just hoping to believing? I have a personal rule now against believing in anything. Not even myself. I’m my own worst enemy.” Shove. The wheel gave a sudden quarter turn and Static jolted forwards, nearly smacking her face on it. She pulled out the crowbar and slid it back between the spokes at an angle to the ground. Shove. Slowly the lever gave under her and the wheel rotated a little more. “Man, it’s hot. Did I tell you guys that?” She sat in the sand, back against the smooth wall of the dome and rubbed some feeling back into her hands. “I guess at least the thing with hope,” she went on, holding the mic between two fingers and twiddling it, absently, as she spoke, “is that at least you’re prepared for hopes to be dashed. It’s harder when you believe. A little hope might keep you going. Don’t have faith. We all remember what happened with Faith.” Another wry chuckle escaped from between chapped lips. “Let’s get this door open, shall we?” Static climbed to her feet, brushing sand from her shirt. The check pattern was faded now, though it had once been a bold red and blue print. You could see through it in places. She patted her thighs to shake off the last of it. These were turning out to be decent trousers. Good number of pockets, bit long perhaps, but the belt held them up well enough and they were cool enough and thick enough at the same time. 

“If any of you happen to be listening from within Hope, you should feel free to pop down and save me the effort.” Shove. Move. Shove. Move. The wheel was loose enough now that Static could lean the crowbar against the dome and spin it by hand. It wasn’t easy, exactly, and it took more rotations than she’d have liked, but it was moving and that was the main thing.

“A little bit of hope in the morning to get you through the day.” The wheel clanged and the lock was fully retracted. “Do we know any good songs about hope?” she asked, as she adjusted her stance and took hold of the wheel at ten and two, as if about to steer the massive biome. “I’d play you something but my collection got smashed, if you remember. I’m sure you don’t mind though. I feel like we’ve been doing well with a talk cast, these past few days.” Static braced herself and yanked the door towards her. It moved, but only a slight movement. She dropped to her knees and began scooping the drifted sand away to the sides. The door was, apparently, buried deeper than she’d thought. “That sound, listeners, is the triumph of hope over experience. It’s also me, bailing sand from a doorway.” She continued in silence for a moment, shovelling the hot sand with her palms, ignoring the irritation as it crept inside her gloves and under her fingernails. Then, suddenly realising she had dead air, Static snapped her attention back to the microphone. “Sorry, my friends, I hope you’ll forgive me. My mind wandered. Man, it’s hot out here.” She’d cleared about half the space in front of the door now. “Time for a water break.”

Static pulled off the gloves and rubbed her hands on her legs to shift the sand that had worked its way in. She shook the gloves the right way out and stowed them back in her pockets as she crossed the few metres of sand to where her car sat, tyres gradually pooling yet more sand around the bottoms. The metal of the car body had a hazy, heat shimmer and Static knew better than to touch it. “Hot enough to fry an egg,” she said, breezily, as she rounded the vehicle and popped open the back. “In case you hadn’t fully understood how hot it is.” In the back there was a large, plastic vat with a tap. The gauge on the side showed seven litres remaining. “For those keeping count at home, we are on seven – that’s seven – litres of water.” She pulled a flask round from a bandoleer across her chest and unclipped the carabiner. It was a screw top. Flip tops were too unreliable; a wet leg and a lost litre were not worth risking for convenience. After pouring the last few drops over her face, Static re-filled the bottle, took a long drink and put the flask back in it’s proper place. “Six litres.”

“Where were we? Oh, yes, I remember. Hope. What do we think, listeners? Is hope a view point? A way of looking at the world? Or is it childish fantasy? I’d love to hear your thoughts. Myself, I’m inclined to think it’s a good way to crush your spirit, though I’ve heard people say it’s just optimistic realism. Which,” she paused, dropping back into the sand and recommencing the excavation of the door, “leads me to wonder if realism can be optimistic?” Dammit, gloves. Static brushed her palms together and pulled out the gloves again. “This sand is hot. You’d probably worked that out, but I thought I’d mention it.” The sand was cooler beneath the top layer, and firmer so it shifted in bigger clumps and didn’t drift back into the space it had vacated. “Nearly done, my white noise warriors,” she chirped. “Wow, if I didn’t know better I’d say I was starting to feel hopeful.” The lower edge of the door had revealed itself and Static worked quickly to clear what she figured would be enough of the barrier. Taking hold of the wheel again, she braced her shoulders and, with one foot on the wall of the biome, heaved backwards.

Nothing moved. Static sagged forward, head resting against the metal, eyes screwed shut. “Not sure this one’s going to open, guys. And if you’ll permit me – that’s a lesson in the pitfalls of hope. Please excuse me for one moment.” She gave the door an almighty kick, the exposed toe cap of her worn boot clanging hard against the iron, ringing like a gong through the silence. “Oh are you kidding me?” Static shook the reverberations out of her leg. The door had inched forward. “It’s a push door, listeners. Which just goes to show you that sometimes all you really need to do is pay attention.” She gave the door another kick, much more purposefully and smiled inwardly as the base of the door grated loudly over the floor inside. The smile vanished almost immediately as a waft of dull, stale air hit her. “Not feeling good about this one, I’m afraid,” she said, unable to keep the disappointment from her voice. “On the up side, it’s much cooler in here.” Static stepped through the doorway into the gloom. As she’d expected, light was streaming in from the centre of the dome but the sides grew increasingly impregnable as they approached ground level. The effect was a muted sort of half light around the edges with a brightly lit circle in the middle of the space. The biome wasn’t very big. Sections had been repurposed and the dome shrunk as the need grew less. You could still see where tunnels and chambers had led away from this central space, now haphazardly patched over. The plants were still alive. They usually were. Boxes and crates stood empty, looted a long time ago. Cages were stacked and toppled along one wall, occupants either gone or… gone.

Static pulled the scarf down from her head and used it to mop her brow as she looked about. Her hair had plastered itself to her scalp, so she absentmindedly tousled it. “Sorry to report, Hope is lost.” She spotted the water tank where she expected it to be. Three litres. There was algae floating on the surface. No use. “Bear with me, I’m going to scan the frequencies. I’ll be right back.” She rolled the dial on her receiver, skimming through the numbers steadily. Nothing but static. Pulling the scarf back over her hair and adjusting her shades, Static stepped back out into the scorching heat and slumped back into the car. “I guess it’s all down to Luck, now.”

Renegade Rising


Jutoro Outpost was a dingy sort of place. It was located in a particularly dingy sector, if space can be described as dingy, far enough from any planet to make it essential but not appealing enough that anyone stayed long. No-one was really sure of its origins; it had existed under various guises for as long as anyone could remember. At some point in the last fifty years it had transitioned from major hub to minor waypoint and shifting regional politics along with better, newer options elsewhere meant Jutoro had gradually morphed into a rather unglamorous feature of back sector space. There had been several systems that were generously referred to as ‘management’ during that time; from pirate lords to military cabals and back again, but currently it was considered ‘between owners’ or, by those who didn’t visit, ‘out of control’.

Despite it’s disreputable status, Jutoro managed to be relatively stable and secure. There was an unspoken agreement that, although in person fights were perfectly acceptable ways to solve a dispute, the outpost was off limits for anything on a grander scale. Remarkably, it was in a good state of repair, for the most part. Sure, there were zones you couldn’t enter without an oxygen suit, and one entire section didn’t have an outer wall, but that was more due to neglect by former inhabitants than anything else. Jutoro was popular amongst those unaffiliated with the Interplanetary Association as this made for more relaxed requirements – both in trade and in personal conduct. There was definitely a criminal element, but the outpost was largely a ‘live and let live’ environment. Safe, by independent outpost standards.

It was often said that if you couldn’t buy it at Jutoro, it was probably a legitimate purchase. That said, there wasn’t much you couldn’t find – in one form or another. Between the market concourse, the vessel hangars and the back alley deals there was a buzzing atmosphere. Goods, services and information; all available for the right price and, crucially, with few questions. Usually.


“Do you really need…”

An eyebrow crept up. “I don’t sell to strangers. Name?”

The trader was a dingy sort of person, smudgy and crumpled in a cheap outfit trying to look expensive; a common occurrence among the fixed stores as they tried to create an air of legitimacy. Her oily hair was scraped into a too-tight bun at the back of her head and she had somehow wedged a large pen behind her small ear. A faded name badge on her chest read ‘VERO I A’ and she drummed long fingernails on the desk, oversized rings glinting under the lights, studying the man before her. He seemed a little on edge.

“Orion Bennet.” He cast a quick glance at the monitor over the desk. It showed a wide angle of the main concourse of the small outpost; busy, as usual. Thronging crowds flowing between stalls, stores and sustenance. A fight had broken out beside an eatery. Nothing out of the ordinary so far.

Veronica looked up from her keyboard, two immaculate eyebrows raised this time. “Not the Orion Bennet?”

“Oh, you’ve heard of me?” Bennet tried to look nonchalant but it didn’t really translate. He switched his weight from foot to foot and ran a hand through his hair, brushing away the sweat that beaded on his forehead.

“Hmmm.” There was an unimpressed pause as Veronica tapped some information into the form. “Always thought it was an alias.”

“No, my mother just likes stars.” On the monitor he could make out a group of men, forcing its way through the crowd. They didn’t seem to mind that they were causing a scene. He wasn’t surprised.

“Terra Nobilis?”

“Yeah,” Bennet flicked his eyes back to the screen. The men had disappeared. Why didn’t this store have more than one camera?

“Earth-borns always have these romantic ideas.” Veronica slid a file from her console to a hand held pad and proffered it for Bennet’s inspection. “Price at the top.”

He gave it a quick scan and winced. The data pad showed a vessel that was definitely not new. The nameplate read RENEGADE RISING in a font that was, at best, dated but while the hull was no longer shiny it didn’t have any visible holes. Scuff marks crisscrossed the surface plating and the previous owners had attempted to hide this with various mismatched shades of paint. It had not been successful. There was a huge dent in one wing.

“That ship has got to be sixty years old!”

“Only on the outside.” Veronica did an excellent impression of someone earnest. “She’s had a lot of work done.”

“The outside is the only thing keeping me from dying in the cold vacuum of space, so it’s pretty important.”

To her credit, the woman managed to pull together an almost genuinely affronted expression. “Are you suggesting I might be selling a ship that isn’t space-worthy?”

Yes. “No, of course not. It’s just that I’d really prefer not to die out there.” Or in here.

“Judging by your face, it seems you’ve got more pressing concerns.” She eyed the data pad. “Have a scan through that and let me know. She’s not going to hang around forever, I’ve got several interested parties lined up.”

I’m sure you have. I’ll bet theres a never ending stream of people trekking out to this back belt trading post to buy junkyard ships.

Orion flicked through the images. “What happened to it?”

“She’s got character.”

“Yes, but what actually happened to give her that specific character?”

The trader gave a barely concealed eye roll. “She’s just a bit dinged up. Do you want her or not? You’ll need to fill this out.” A form slid across the desk.

“What? Are you kidding? Can’t I just transfer funds and get the keys?”

“It usually takes a few days to process the paperwork.”

“What?! I don’t supposed there’s any way I can make this go any faster?”

“In a rush, are we?” A hand reached out the pull the form back. “Not sure I’m keen on dealing with troubled sorts…”

You’re troubled sorts! Sorry, sorry, I didn’t mean that… I just… have somewhere to be.”

“And that is?”

“Not here. As soon as possible.” From the concourse beyond the doors came a crashing, violent sort of noise, followed by a lot of shouting. “Do you have a door camera?”

“That for you? You’ve gone very pale.”

“No? No. I’d lock the doors though, just to be safe.”

Veronica examined a nail, pointedly, in a manner that clearly suggested beggars could not be choosers. The commotion in the hallway grew louder and, worryingly, nearer. A gaggle of what passed for security on Jutoro was making its way across the screen above her, though with no real sense of urgency.

“They seem unhappy. What did you do?”

Orion looked around the room. “I shot someone. On Ishibara.”

Veronica made a face. “Oh, that was you? I heard about that. If it helps, people are saying it was self defence.”

“It was not. He was a complete bastard, he absolutely deserved it.” Though this predicament should be a good indicator that it was still a poor choice.

A shrug. “He shot at you, you shot at him. I suppose it doesn’t make much difference to the guy who ends up dead. Or his friends.”

“You’d be surprised. Some people get very hung up on the details.”

There was an uncomfortable pause.

“Veronica, look.”

“Don’t bring your charm in here, Mr Bennet, it’ll only get you a smack in the mouth.” You’d never have known she was smiling if you weren’t looking at her face.

Fair enough. “Look, I…”  Something shattered just beyond the door. “I’ll give you ten percent extra if we can do this now.”

“Fifteen.” Veronica dropped the key fob onto the desk, tantalisingly close.

They looked at each other for a minute, neither one blinking, sizing each other up. Bennet broke first.

“Ok, yes, look, I’ll take her, ok? Can you lock the door?” There was a faint hiss and click as the mechanism slid into place. “Ok, good, thank you.”

“Done.” There was a hammering on the door, accompanied by a lot of shouting which was, thankfully, muffled by the thick metal. “Fingerprint.” For a woman who’d just sold a spaceship for a frankly ridiculous price Veronica seemed remarkably unmoved.

“Can I give you a credit card?”

Veronica visibly brightened. “Sure, makes life easier for me.”

I’ll bet it does. Untraceable funds will do that. Bennet pulled a couple of small, black cards from one inside pocket and a card reader from another. He held each card to the reader in turn and checked the contents, then passed two across the desk into Veronica’s outstretched hand. In return, she held out the keycard. Bennet grabbed it like a drowning man reaching for a rope and clutched it to his chest. The hammering on the door had become a series of determined thuds. He could picture the shoulders hitting the panel.

“I don’t suppose there’s a back door to the hangar?”

Veronica was occupied with the credit cards but gestured over her shoulder to a well concealed exit that slid open with barely a sound. Bennet jogged round the desk and stopped in the doorway.

“She’s got fuel, right?”

“She has. You’ve got yourself a bargain there, Mr Bennet.”

“Sorry about those guys,” Bennet nodded at the front door. “I’m sure they’ll be ok with you – it’s me they want.”

“Not a problem.” From behind the desk, the rack of guns was visible. “Nice doing business with you.”

Bennet slid through the door as it swished shut and leant against it for a moment, eyes closed, breathing deeply. There was a faint hiss and click as it locked behind him. He opened his eyes and took in the junkyard dealership’s hangar. There was an array of shuttles and small ships from a variety of origins and classes. If he’d had more time, the appreciator in him would have loved to look around but as it was he focussed on locating the Renegade Rising. He spotted her quickly, some distance away but thankfully near the space side doors and not blocked in. She wasn’t the biggest in the hangar, but she stood out by style alone. Everything else in there was much, much newer. Still, Veronica was right, she did have character. An unfamiliar sensation bloomed in Orion’s chest. What was that? Optimism? Feeling like this could easily be a triumph of hope over experience, he crossed the hangar at a pace that tried to convey, should anyone be watching, that he wasn’t in a rush – while still rushing – and held the keycard to the hull. The entry port slid open several metres above his head and a ladder descended, which he skipped up with practised speed. Outposts were fine, being on a ship was better. Pausing on the top rung, Orion gave the small docking port nameplate a gentle polish with his sleeve. “Nice to meet you, I’m Orion. If you can get me out of here alive, we stand every chance of becoming good friends.”

Back in the office, Veronica unlocked and opened the dealership door; coincidentally in time with the thudding. Two men collapsed in a heap on the floor with a shout. Another, smaller man, with angry eyes and a lot of facial scars stepped over their prone bodies and approached the desk.

“I’m looking for a man I suspect you just had in here. Orion Bennet.”

Veronica looked up from her keyboard, eyeing the men picking themselves off the floor and the cold face in front of her. The credit card in her hand beeped as the transfer to her console completed.

“Never heard of him.”

The Fox & The Boy


Ok,  here it is.  This is the result of the previous post where I decided to write a short story. I managed to knock this out in about half a day in the end. All things considered, I don’t think it’s too bad, but I still had an internal freakout about posting.  Let me know what you think.



The Fox & The Boy

It was dark in the forest. The trees loomed overhead, knitting their branches together so it was impossible to tell what was sky.  Not that it would have mattered. The day had been damp and rainy, clouds still sat low adding to the depth of the blackness.  Where there was enough light to reach the ground, shadows danced and flowed through the tangled undergrowth as the wind rocked the boughs above, creating faces, bodies, creatures lurking just beyond sight.  An unnamed beast screeched, its voice magnified and mirrored by the creaking trees and rustling brambles.  Against the trunk of a gnarled old oak, down between the roots, almost entirely submerged under swirling, dead leaves, with her arms around her head and her tear streaked face buried in her knees, there huddled a girl, no more than six years old. The creature shrieked again and she whimpered, shrinking into an even smaller ball, desperately wishing she could be anywhere but here. Alone in the mud and detritus, in the dark, bitter weather, she sobbed into her sodden skirt, wedged in the nook at the foot of the tree; and that is where, hours later after the dawn had finally broken and the wind had died down and the rain was only a drizzle, the boy found her.

He was tall for his age, only nine years old but already broad at the shoulder and strong in the arm.  Both were down to his father; that he should be tall was no surprise but his strength could only have come from rigorous practice under a watchful eye with a sword, shield, club, and lance.  It was not the burly brawn of a farm hand or labourer, but the honed physique of a soldier in training. He was in a foul mood, as he often was lately, so he kicked his way through the twigs and leaves, stomping heavy-booted, swinging a broken branch into the bushes and muttering to himself.  At first he did not see her there, tucked away under the debris of the storm. He would have walked by, but she sighed in her sleep and stirred a little.  He jumped back, expecting a fox but raising his stick in case it was something bigger.  Gradually, the form resolved itself as leaves fell away and she sat up, slowly, stretching her aching limbs and looking about with bleak confusion.  For a few moments they looked at each other.  Then, she screamed.

“Stop that!” he commanded, using a tone borrowed from his father.  To his surprise and relief she did, but her eyes were wide and her tiny body trembled. He dropped to his knees on the damp ground and placed the stick beside him.  “You can come out now.”

She did not move, just stared at him with round, dark eyes.

“Come on,” he said, matter-of-factly, as if he spent every day coaxing small children from hollowed trees. “It’s no good you sitting in there.  There might be snakes. Or spiders.”

In a second she was up, frantically swiping at her clothes with her hands and whimpering.  In her haste to be far from the threatened spiders she caught her boot in a loop of root and tumbled over with a cry, landing heavily on her face and hand. Slowly, she clambered up enough to sit facing him, clutching her bruised wrist to her chest and crying quietly.  He studied her.  She looked awful; her dark red hair was matted and tangled with leaves and twigs and plastered across her head in all directions. Her face was coated with mud and grime and laced with scratches and her hands the same, with black fingernails. Her dress was torn and filthy and the sole was coming away from one of her boots.  She was a pitiful sight.  He shuffled over to her.

“Show me your arm.”  Obligingly, she held it out for his inspection, flinching as he prodded the swelling and gave a gentle turn.  “It’s just a sprain,” he declared, confidently.  He’d had enough to recognise one.  She pulled the injured limb back as soon as he released it. “Where are you from?”

She looked about her and her little forehead creased in worry. She didn’t know. “Where do you live?” he continued, “What’s your name? Where are your parents?”  The forehead crease became a lip wobble which became a low wail. He huffed. “Don’t start crying again!” Girls were difficult enough, without crying.  He offered a silent thanks for the fact he was an only child. “Well, you can’t stay here.” He stood up and offered her a hand, which she took, a little reluctantly.  He pulled her to her feet. She was so light, he almost stumbled backwards. Skinnier than any six year-old had any right being. The sense of duty he’d been acting from faded, replaced with concern; an emotion he was not familiar with. He studied her again. Her face, under the mud and scrapes was pale and gaunt, her eyes red-rimmed, dark circled and sunken, with little light behind them.  The hand in his was slight and bony.  She had not eaten in a long time.

“How long have you been out here?” he asked, more to himself than to her. She simply met his eyes with that same worried confusion.  “You can come with me. I’ll find your family.”  He gave her a gentle tug to encourage her to walk and, picking up his stick, turned back the way he had come.  She trailed along behind him as they went and he made sure to crush down the tougher brambles and nettles for her.  As they walked, he talked.  He had never been very good with silence.

“My name is Sebastian. Sebastian Penhaligon. My father is the Captain of the Watch in Kelvar. That’s the Capital City.” He said this with a great deal of pride; although he and his father did not often see eye to eye, the prestige and fortune of his situation did not escape his notice, young as he was. “We’re here because of the war. You probably don’t know much about it.” He had that condescending tone of children who are aware of their own importance. “There’s a war because there was a murder. My father is here with the King.” He could not help the swelling of pride in his chest as he went on. “My father is an advisor to the Guard and he fights with their army.” Sebastian’s knowledge of this area was not firm, but he was more than willing to piece together things he knew with things he believed to create a likely truth.  “I came with him because it’s good for me to see war.”  His face set into a grimace as he remembered what he had seen of war. It was hard to understand what was good about it.  “My father says the more I know about the world the better equipped I shall be to master it.  That’s how men become great.”  He fell silent for a while as he thought over the conversation he’d had with the Captain that morning.  It was probably less of a conversation and more of an argument.  They were happening with increasing frequency these days.  Sebastian was not inclined to follow his father’s serious instruction; he preferred a free-spirited existence where he did not have to be in the training yard soon after dawn, before breakfast, mimicking the training of the Watchmen. Learning discipline.  His heart longed for his own space, the chance to discover for himself what the world could offer him and where he wanted to go.  He did not fully comprehend the whys and wherefores, but he was beginning to feel the pull of rebellion and the more he saw of this war, the more he knew he did not want to be his father.

The girl was limping. Sebastian had not noticed at first because the ground was uneven anyway, but the rhythm of her uneven gait attracted his attention and he stopped her.  “Do your feet hurt?”  She was resting her right foot — the foot with the broken boot — on its toes.  “Show me.”  As with his father, it never occurred to him to ask permission.  She hobbled backwards a half step.  “Sit down,” he glared.  She sank to the ground and sheepishly stretched her leg out in front.  The sole of the boot was half gone and she had no sock.  There was a deep gash in the heel of her foot.  It was red and angry, swollen and seeping.  It looked like there was something imbedded in there.  She gasped when he touched it.  “That’s no good,” he said. “It’s still really far to where we’re staying.”  He turned and crouched. “Get on then.”  She didn’t move.  He looked back over his shoulder. “Climb on, come on! You can’t walk all the way and if I’m not back by breakfast father will know I wandered away.” The Captain thought Sebastian was in his room, thinking about his attitude. “I won’t drop you, if that’s what you’re worried about.”  Reluctantly, and with some difficulty, the girl clambered onto his back.  She barely weighed anything, no more than the pack his father had him wear for morning runs at least.  With a few adjustments she was secure and comfortable, though she clung to him for dear life as he began to walk again.  For over an hour they continued like this, with Sebastian telling her about his home in Kelvar; his friends and teachers, his room, the things he owned, the horse he’d been riding here who he didn’t like so much as his own horse in the city because it wouldn’t keep his head out of the grass.  He told her how he’d learned to do a backflip and climb the stable building so he could get into the tree beside it and climb up high enough to see right out to the plains and how a lady in the hamlet made bread with plums in that was almost like cake but you could put butter on it.  The whole time she listened, nestled against his back with her head on his shoulder until they finally emerged from the cover of the trees to the edge of the battlefield and she slid down to the grass.

This battle was long over.  Broken weapons remained and some corpses too, but they were mostly being picked over by carrion and scavengers. There was nothing for the living here. The wind ruffled the long grass and carried the scent of the fires smouldering in the distance, out towards the mountains.  Faint plumes of smoke made the horizon hazy.  The girl sniffed back her tears.  Sebastian did not know it but somewhere in this field lay the girl’s father and beyond, in the burnt out remains of a village, her mother.  She had fled before the soldiers to follow her father, but had not found him and, through the horrors of the fray, had somehow survived to the forest at this edge of the plain where she had remained since.

Pulling his eyes from the scene, Sebastian found the girl a stout branch blown down from a tree in the night, as tall as her shoulder, and instructed her to use it as a walking stick for a way as the going was easier here and he would carry her again soon.  Their progress was slow but steady.  He wished he’d had the forethought to bring a water pouch with him, but then he’d stormed away so quickly he had not considered it.  Skirting the space between grass and trees they rounded the forest and could see, nestled by a narrow stream at the bottom of the hill they’d been on top of, a small cluster of buildings, surrounded by fruit gardens, fenced paddocks of pigs and goats and small plots of land given over to farming.

“That’s where we live for now,” Sebastian told her. “Some of the people left when the army came but because it was our army some people stayed. My father is in charge of this position. There are positions all along here,” he gestured out into the countryside as he recalled a map the Captain had shown him, “but most of the soldiers have gone that way as the enemy retreated.  There’s still a few left, just in case.” He pointed a short way beyond the hamlet’s fields to a collection of tents, starkly grey and ordered against the greenery, where banners fluttered in the breeze.  The smell of flowers and food, warmth and welcome wafted up, mingling with the grim scents behind them and drawing them on.  The girl climbed back into her place on Sebastian’s back and he followed a worn track that wove it’s way gradually down to the houses. Some were wooden, some were stone, most were thatched.  There were flowers and berry bushes, trees that yielded apples and plums.  If she did not know her own village was gone forever the girl would have sworn she was home.  Sebastian made his way directly to a large stone house.  It was long and low and had a stable and trees, carts and wagons. The King’s banner flew from a pole beside the door.

“This is my house,” Sebastian said as he lowered the girl to the ground.  “I suppose it’s not really my house. Our real house is in the city but we were allowed to live here while father is working.  “It’s a full week to my real house from here, if you have to walk.”  He pointed to the stable block.  “Go in there and I’ll be back.” He trotted away through the door. The girl’s heart pounded in her chest as she hobbled to the stable. Inside there were three separate compartments, two of which contained horses.  The warm air smelled of hay and animals; sweet and comforting.  She flopped into the straw of the empty stall and waited.  After a short while, Sebastian returned with mugs of water and some bread.  It did not have plums in, but it did have a thick smear of butter.  The girl nibbled it gingerly, as if afraid of what food would do to her empty stomach.  While she was occupied with the bread, Sebastian gently pulled off her boot and examined her foot.  It looked bad and as he touched it she cried out in pain and began to cry again.

“Wait here,” he said, somewhat unnecessarily as she had nowhere else to go.  This time he was gone longer, but when he came back he had a small parcel and a pot of steaming water.  Settling himself on a low bundle of straw, with her foot up on his lap, he proceeded to unwrap the package. “This is chickweed,” he began, holding out a handful of small, white flowers on thin, green stems.  She took one. “We use this on the horses when they cut their feet.  You crush it in your hand,” he did so “and then let it steep a while,” he dropped it into the hot water “and then we’ll strap it to your foot and it pulls out the poisons.”  He swirled the pot.  It smelt odd, but not unpleasant.  While he waited for the herb to brew, Sebastian dipped a piece of cloth into the liquid and began to dab it delicately on the girl’s tiny foot.  She winced.  “It’ll be better soon,” he said, “I promise.” He didn’t know why, but he suddenly felt incredibly protective of this scrawny creature with those huge, dark eyes as if, if he could only keep her safe, everything in the world would be better.  He continued to clean her foot until the herbs were ready, then bundled them into a poultice inside a clean piece of cloth and pressed it to the sore. “It’ll feel better soon.  You should go to sleep, you look tired.”  She lay back into the straw and closed her eyes.  “Please don’t die,” he whispered.

She drifted in and out of sleep for the rest of the day, sometimes woken by the throbbing in her foot, sometimes by noises in the yard, so she pulled more straw over herself in hopes she would not be discovered. Sebastian came to the stall several times to check on her and bring food but could not stay as he had errands for his father.  By the time the light outside was dimming she felt much better than she had for a long while.  Sebastian brought left over soup from dinner, still lukewarm, and some of the bread with plums in.  It was as delicious as he had described and she ate it greedily.  A movement at the door made them both jump.

“Sebastian!” It was the Captain.  The boy jumped to his feet and faced his father. The Captain looked beyond him to the small girl huddled in the straw, clutching the bread, then back to his son. “Don’t feed the vermin, Sebastian. It only encourages them. Get rid of it.”  He turned and left.  The girl was shaking as Sebastian knelt beside her.

“Don’t worry, you can stay. I’ll hide you. Then we can find where you live.” He brushed her matted hair out of her eyes and gave her a strong hug.  “I wish I knew what to call you.”


He drew back and met her eyes.  It seemed a little light danced in them now, faint, but there. “Imogen. That’s nice. I’m going to call you Fox, because that’s what I thought you were when I first saw you. Imogen Fox.”  He stood up. “I have to go in, now, Fox, but I’ll be back. We’re friends now.”  He tossed her an old horse blanket.  “Goodnight.”

Imogen Fox watched him go with a smile, then lay back in the straw, snuggling under the mouldering cover and closed her eyes against the last of the light, determined to forget everything except this boy; the boy who saved her.