Hand to Mouth
An Iron Age Media prompt - The Protege.
The pallid sun only just manages to break through the looming clouds that threaten rain. In the squalor that is New Haven, and I, Edgar Bagwell, can feel a void where my insides are; the growl of my stomach confirming that indeed I haven’t yet consumed myself. Little Gordy Montgomery’s stomach grizzles as if in answer, and as I tutor him in the art of counterfeit, I do my best to concentrate on the business at hand.
Out situation is thus. Bad crops have yielded little harvest; it is as though there is a sickness in the land. The people of New Haven are starving and look to the mayor, who hides in his manor estate on his farm, only sending his goons, the Mc Neilly boys, to hand out what little food that is scrounged from who knows where. What is given is never enough, and so we seek more than our lot with counterfeit food stamps.
As I hand them out to the desperate, I can already tell that there are more mouths than I have stamps, and so some are left out. Mr Holwell, and unfortunate who has been passed over before, kicks up a fuss. It’s never easy denying someone a simple request such as food, but these are the time we find ourselves in; families with children take priority.
Mrs Griffith, who has more children than is sensible in these desperate times, asks Gordy for news of one of her lot, Oliver, who it seems has done a runner and up and disappeared/ She doesn’t seem too broken up about it, one less mouth I suppose.
The bell tolls thrice in the town square, and people head outdoors, where the Mc Neilly’s have started handing out what pittance they have from the back of their cart.
“You rabble form a line. Present your stamps, then move on.”
The people do as they are told. One by one they are seen to, and when they walk away, what little hope they had is wiped from their face.
The crowd start to murmur, and a mob forms.
“So little. Every time it’s less.”
“She got more than me, I have three kids.”
The Mc Neilly’s recognise the turn in attitudes. “Ungrateful swine, move on. Next.”
With our attention on the mob, Gordy points to the cart. It seems Mrs Griffith has been found out; My counterfeits have been exposed.
“Hey you, this ain’t real. What’s the game here?” The Mc Neilly’s aren’t gentle, and escort Mrs Griffith away.
More people join the mob and a riot ensues.
“Hoarders!”
“You’re holding out on us!”
“No one can live off this!”
One Mc Neilly fires a rifle, trying to disperse the rabble. But the rioters are incessant, many force their way onto the cart in desperation. Another rifle shot is fired, killing a man.
“You lot are ingrates. The mayor gives what little he has to you people and gets this in return.”
“You’ve done it now, there will be no more food.”
Gloom washes over the desperate crowd and they pick themselves up and trudge home. Gordy and I watch the Mc Neilly’s pack up and trot off, leaving behind them a corpse and many empty stomachs.
“That mayor, I bet he’s living like a hog in the fat house in his mansion. Someone needs to relieve him of his hoard.” Gordy says.
Looking into Gordy’s eyes I see contempt, but mostly I see what’s on most people’s faces, fatigue.
“What are ya saying, boy?”
“I’m saying we should go to him. No more handouts. Take the situation in our hands and feed the people.”
I think for a moment in silence. “We’d need a professional. One who has knowledge in stealth.”
“I know of such a person. Once he learns of today, he’ll be glad to help.” Gordy says.
Before I can say anything else, the impetuous boy has run off down the street and disappeared.
I wait at the tavern until night comes, my nerves no less settled as I nurse my fourth ale. From the corner of my eye, the candle light flickers and from the darkness walks in a man whom I have never seen before. His footsteps are silent as he moves through the crowded tavern inconspicuously, as though veiled from the sight of others, and I know this is my man.
He approaches my table and introduces himself.
“Ho’ Mr Bagwell. I am Chestermann, a friend of yer boy, Gordy. He tells me you have use for someone such as me.”
I sit up in my seat and inspect Chestermann’s face. Can I trust this man?
“People starve Chestermann. Word is, the mayor hordes food on the Mc Neilly farm, so this night, we are to sneak into the manor and lighten their load some.”
“Then I am your man.” Chestermann says.
“No man works for free. What is your price?”
“Half.” Chestermann says, stone faced.
“Half? You realise we’re doing this for the people? This is no petty burglary we’re undertaking.”
“I have mouths to feed as well, Bagwell. You have need of my skills, the price is half.”
My hands are tied, but if he can get us into the hoard, it’ll be worth it. “If Gordy has your confidence, then so do I. Half it is.”
“Where is yer boy anyway? Strange he ain’t here.”
“Strange indeed.”
We wait a couple of hours for Gordy to show, and in that time, we discuss the Mc Neilly’s farm, trying to separate truth from tall tale, of the whereabouts of the hoarded food. It is about midnight when something spooks Chestermann. We venture outside the tavern and he assails a cloaked figure, which to my surprise, is Holwell, doing a piss poor job of shadowing us. Chetermann holds him down while we question him.
“Being a sneak isn’t you calling, Holwell. What are you doing spying on us, SPEAK.”
Holwell is exasperated and fights to find the right words. “I didn’t… I wasn’t… You see…”
Chestermann brandishes a sknife and holds it to Holwell’s Pinky finger. “Perhaps if I take one of his fingers, eh Bagwell? Then maybe he’ll talk.”
“NO, no. Please that isn’t necessary. You see, when you stiffed me earlier, Bagwell, I went to the Mc Neilly boys and tipped them off.” Holwell says, sweating.
“Then what are you doing following us? Where’s Gordy?”
“The Mc Neilly’s suspected the counterfeit stamps were just the start, and promised me food if I gathered more information. Please, not my fingers.” Holwell pleads.
“So, you sold us out to fill your stomach. What did you find out?”
“Nothing, I know nothing. Please, I know nothing of Gordy.” Says Holwell, in tears.
“I think he’s telling the truth. We should tie him up. Give us time to do our business before he informs anybody.” Chestermann says.
“Aye. We’ll tie him up and leave him behind the tavern.”
As it passes Midnight, we can no longer wait for Gordy. So Chestermann and I acquire a horse and cart, and I lead us to the Mc Neilly farm.
-
On the borders of the farm, we leave the cart and venture further on foot. It is pitch black and the only light is of the moon. As we walk out eyes get used to the dark, as we stride a hill just yonder of two buildings. We stop and wait, surveying.
Chestermann points to one of the buildings. “That barn must be where they’re hoarding the food.”
We wait and watch for any sign of the Mc Neilly’s.
When it seems that no life can be seen, Chestermann volunteers to venture further in.
“I will penetrate the barn, and when I have unlocked the hoard, I will signal you to come with the horse and cart.”
Chestermann disappears into the night. I watch him creep to the barn, and in a moment, he is through the doors. I wait for his signal.
Time passes with no signal from Chestermann. Waiting, I get nervous and wonder if I should see what is taking him? Have I been double crossed?
Before I make up my mind, I see what looks to be a child, walking from the manor to the barn. Was that Gordy? What about Cherstermann? I can be sure of nothing in the darkness. Before my imagination can get the better of me, I sneak, nervously toward the barn.
Inside, I find rows or crates, and upon inspection, I find the precious food. I should be happy, but where is Chestermann and the child? Searching further I find cellar doors, leading to a makeshift basement.
I venture down cautiously, and find a tunnel dug in the very earth.
Stealing along the oil lamp lit corridor, it isn’t long before I hear moans and screams. Good sense tells me to turn back, but I creep forth, hugging the wall.
I regret this decision. As when I finally get sight of the source of the noise, A tall woman with long black hair, and a white dress stained red, is drinking the blood of a child, who in moments, she lets fall to the floor, lifeless.
It’s Mrs Griffith’s boy, Oliver.
While the townspeople starve, these foul creatures are gorging themselves on the blood of children.
I am frozen with fear, and pray to God to spare Gordy and myself of poor Oliver’s fate.
Suddenly from behind I am hit hard with something and lose consciousness.
Coming to, I am kneeling before the tall woman with the red stained dress. Gordy is by her side. Surveying the room, I see the Mc Neilly’s with rifles, entertained by the horrific scene unfolding. I see a cage of children. In it two are alive, one dead. They can’t all be from New Haven, can they?
Then one of the Mc Neilly’s bring in Chestermann, who is kicking and cursing. They kneel him before their mistress and without missing a beat, she slits his throat with a silver dagger, and watches with amusement as he bleeds out.
“Please, please spare me this unholy fate. Spare Gordy.” I beg.
Silently, the bloodstained woman lifts the silver dagger and slits her arm making poor Gordy drink her blood.
Gordy, my Protégé. The closest I have to kin. I pray for you.
When Gordy drinks his fill, the woman places the silver dagger in his hands, and approaching without pause or regret, slashes mercilessly at my throat.
I fall to the ground, fighting to breathe, with the last thing I hear on this earth is my whistling throat, and that woman’s soulless laughter.
The fate of the people of New Haven can be found in another piece of flash fiction called ‘Silent Night’.
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