Ranthos scurried back through the dense wood, crawling over the moss-covered rocks, and ducking under the long limbs of the sprawling trees.
He found the Southroad again, and hurried along it back to the Tatzelgate, which was a huge wooden gate carved to look like two enormous, hissing monsters. A watchman in a heavy cowl and a long, pointy weapon leant lazily against it.
Ranthos didn’t know his name, but could recognize his smell.
The watchman cast an eye down at him as he passed. Ranthos hurried along faster, not wanting to provoke him in any way.
Thwack.
Ranthos stumbled forward a few steps with a whimper.
The watchman chuckled.
He usually hit Ranthos whenever he wanted to enter or leave the gate. Called it a tax once. Ranthos didn’t question it, didn’t reply, and ran off back through the busy town square.
He bumped into a woman on accident, and she hit him with a stick.
Eventually he came into view of the tall steeple of the Church. It wasn’t busy—it rarely was, except for Sundays. A real sore spot for Father Gerald.
Ranthos wondered how those kittens Father Gerald was keeping had fared since he left. He ducked into an alleyway, led by his nose, and--
Thwack.
Squeak.
Ranthos peeled the dead mouse off his rock, and picked it up carefully by the tail, dropping it into his bag. The mother cat would like this.
He snuck a glance into Father Gerald’s window. His room was empty, and Ranthos was inside instantly.
The kittens had grown since he’d last been there. Their mother seemed to recognize Ranthos and didn’t hiss at him when she saw him. Ranthos patted her head and dropped the mouse into the box.
He never had a problem with killing little animals—if there was a reason. He didn’t do it for fun.
Well.
It was fun to feed the mother cat.
But it was different. Killing a mouse to feed a nursing mother just seemed right; he didn’t think the One would be mad at him for that. It was different from how the watchman hit him; he didn’t have the words for it, but knew it was.
Ranthos touched each kitten softly with his finger. The black and white one, the different kitten, sneezed when he did.
Excellent. What wonderful creatures.
Ranthos’ ears twitched, and he heard someone approaching. He meowed a quiet goodbye and hurried out into the street, bouncing off the bed and diving through the window madly, landing on a stack of roof tiles.
“Ouch—”
Crash.
“Ow—”
Thump.
Ranthos crawled to his feet again, out of the rubble, and bolted away.
Inside the friar’s room, Ranthos heard, “Where did you get that mouse—oh… Right.” Father Gerald might have suspected that Ranthos had returned, but didn’t seem to care enough to chase him.
Ranthos crawled back into the orphanage through the bedroom window.
Sigrid screamed as he emerged suddenly, “Ew,” she said, brushing her hair and sidestepping away from him.
Ranthos bared his teeth at her and made a snarling sound, “You know that’s my window, Sigrid.”
She sneered at him while her friends, Minna and Herta, giggled behind her, calling him dirty and smelly in quiet voices.
“I’m not smelly,” said Ranthos. He didn’t like being smelly, he had taken a bath not two days ago.
“Didn’t say you were,” snipped Herta.
“I heard you,” said Ranthos.
“No, you didn’t.”
“I did.”
“You didn’t.”
Ranthos stormed off. He hated girls. He preferred a punch to the face than that nonsense. He didn’t hate Bell though, and Bell said she hated the girls too.
But she didn’t use the word hate—she would never.
“Ranthos!” beamed Bell, twirling into the room with a new dress, bright yellow with a matching headband which secured her unruly auburn hair in a haphazard bun. Little loops of hair she couldn’t contain framed her dimpled face.
“Look at my new rocks!” he said, meeting her in the doorway.
“Notice anything different?”
“The dead tree finally fell down. I’m glad there were no baby birds—”
“About me!” she twirled again, “Not the forest, silly.”
“You have a new dress. Look at these rocks.”
Bell rolled her eyes, “They’re just the same.”
“They’re all different! I found them all at different places. This one is from under a tree root—can you believe that?”
“I can,” said Bell, “Don’t trees grow on rocks?”
“On dirt.”
“That’s the same.”
“No.”
“Hodgey hodgey hodgey podgey!”
Ranthos turned around to see Nosgrim’s round, red face looming over him. A wide smile across his thick cheeks. He flicked Ranthos’ ear.
Ranthos growled.
“Hodgey podgey.”
“It’s not very clever,” said Ranthos, turning back around to Bell.
Nosgrim shoved him and chuckled a deep, stupid laugh.
Ranthos crashed into Bell, and they both toppled over each other and fell onto the floor face first. Ranthos heard a rip of fabric.
Nosgrim held his belly as he laughed.
Ranthos scrambled to his feet, but tripped on Bell’s kicking legs, and dropped all his rocks, which rolled to Nosgrim’s feet.
Nosgrim laughed even harder.
Bell gasped, and she inhaled a quaking breath as the hallway filled with her devastated scent. Ranthos spun around to help her to her feet.
Bell’s little face was flushed bright, and her eyes were already dripping with tears as she tried her hardest to keep herself from sobbing. She held the skirts of her new dress in her hands—torn.
Ranthos turned to Nosgrim, “You—”
Nosgrim shoved him, “What’s wrong, scut?”
“Scut?!” said Ranthos. “That’s not a word, you fatsy!”
Nosgrim scowled and shoved Ranthos again with his meaty hands.
Ranthos banged against the rickety wall. He turned to Bell and frowned as she tried her hardest to control her breathing and contain her sadness as she crumpled to the floor opposite the doorway.
Nosgrim picked up that green, yellowish, and red rock that Ranthos had found in the wood. “What’s this? Rocks?”
“That’s just a rock.”
“I know!” said Nosgrim, shoving Ranthos backward. “I meant the all of them.”
Bell shot a teary glare up at Nosgrim, “Be nice to Ranthos!”
Nosgrim chuckled, “I am being nice! He likes it!” He shoved him again and chucked the rock in his direction.
Ranthos hit the wall again, and so did the rock—good thing Nosgrim had such poor aim. Ranthos knew he didn’t stand a chance against Nosgrim, but he also couldn’t just let him get away with pushing him and his sister around like this.
Every animal in the entire forest would strike back if someone hit it. It was only right. Ranthos snatched up the rock, knowing he had better aim than Nosgrim.
But Bell wouldn’t.
And Ranthos promised to keep Bell out of trouble. He knew that if he and Nosgrim started fighting, that Bell would get in trouble again—and Ranthos would not let that happen.
Ranthos forced his eyes shut so he wouldn’t have to look at Nosgrim’s leering face. He clenched his teeth and balled his fists. “Nosgrim…” he said.
“What is it hodgey scutty podgey?” Nosgrim’s scent made Ranthos sick. He was enjoying himself too much. He was a cruel monster, a dark shadow in Ranthos’ mind.
Ranthos’ grip tightened on the rock. He imagined Nosgrim’s forehead. Father Gerald said that someone killed a giant with a rock. Ranthos could do that. He could stop Nosgrim from ever bullying him or Bell again.
But Bell wouldn’t do that. Bell would rather be bullied than to bully anyone. Sh
e wouldn’t be the same if she watched him do something as horrible as what he thought.
Ranthos had to keep her safe, keep her whole.
He uncurled his fingers from the rock, and held it out in front of him in his palm, not looking at Nosgrim. He spoke past a painful lump in his throat as he forced the words, “I found this by the river. It’s got more colors than I’ve seen on one rock before. You can have it, Nosgrim… if you want.”
Nosgrim snatched up the rock and inspected it. He curled his lip and rolled his eyes.
There was a pause. Ranthos didn’t move, trying to not cry.
Nosgrim smelled suddenly conflicted, and dropped the rock on the floor with a dull thud. “Go away,” he mumbled.
Ranthos scooped all his rocks into his bag, and took Bell’s arm with him and fled far away, wiping tears from his eyes, forcing himself not to cry, to show any weakness.
They found the darkest, most unused corner of the orphanage hallways, and sat against the wall quietly. Neither of them knew what to say. There wasn’t much. What could they say?
Ranthos smelled deathly afraid that Nosgrim would round up his altar boy friends to come after him, but Bell smelled different. She smelled happy, though she was still crying—and she smelled joyful and brave, which was an odd scent. Bravery smelled almost like fear, but didn’t smell quite that bad at all; it wasn’t stinky; it was filling, freeing even. But more than anything, she smelled happy and proud.
She wrapped her arms around Ranthos and bawled her eyes out.
“Do you understand?” said Father Gerald.
Ranthos nodded sullenly.
Father Gerald took a deep breath and rubbed his wrinkled face in his hands. Ranthos, now in the Spring of his twelfth Winter, had finally grown to look him in the eye; Father Gerald was short, but apparently hodgepodges grew faster than Eisenlanders—the human folk who lived in Eisenland.
There were only a few differences, really. Hodgepodges like Ranthos and his sister Bellelar had red hair, which contrasted against the plain browns of Eisenland. Their skin was similar, though Ranthos and Bell’s looked more like snow than those of the honest, hardworking human folk of Tatzelton.
Also, it seemed that Eisenlanders were able to comb and brush their hair nicely. Neither Ranthos, Bell, or any of the nuns at the orphanage could tame his thick briar of ginger curls.
Bell had it worse though, because girls had long hair. She couldn’t just cut it short, and had to tie it up every morning, and try to make it look pretty. Ranthos never had to look pretty, which was a relief. It seemed bothersome.
A final note on the differences between hodgepodges and Eisenlander humans was that hodgepodges had dimples, a trait Ranthos didn’t see in anyone else.
“You have until Sunday,” said Father Gerald.
Ranthos turned to walk out the door. He didn’t know how he would explain this to Bell. He had avoided the subject for so long now, that the day of its coming had crept up on him, and he wasn’t quite prepared to face it himself.
Father Gerald had approached him a few times already to try and help him how he could, but Ranthos always was always able to escape the conversation. That is, until today.
“I…” the friar smelled worried, and sorry, “I don’t mean to…”
Ranthos looked over his shoulder expectantly.
Sister Edmona eyed him sternly. Ranthos was surprised she was even alive.
Father Gerald cleared his throat, “By Sunday.”
Ranthos would’ve slammed the door on his way out, but knew that it wouldn’t change anything.
The same thing had happened to most of the boys. They had gotten too old. Two of the four brothers had already left the orphanage, so did Sigrid, Engelbert, and Nosgrim. Ranthos finally had some time without any black eyes with Nosgrim gone.
This meant that Ranthos had to leave Bell. Or that she couldn't stay in the orphanage anymore. The clergy made it clear that older orphans could only return if they were working for the Church, and that they were to take nothing and leave nothing. Most of those that aged out did return, especially the older brothers. They cleaned the hallways for three farthings, and Sigrid helped mend the smaller orphans’ torn clothes. Though they didn’t pay her.
Ranthos had no way of making any money outside of the orphanage, but they treated the orphans who came back to work worse than the ones who lived there, working all hours of the day, and spending the rest in prayerful silence in the chapel.
It wasn’t much, but it was work. Ranthos had slowly resigned himself to his fate, but still longed for something more. For something outside of this creaky, dark, cold orphanage. He wanted to be in the forest—he wanted to throw stones all day.
Perhaps that was all part of growing up, he assumed. He was twelve now, he should act like it.
“Bell,” Ranthos said hoarsely as he entered the empty bedroom.
She heard his quiet voice from all the way across the room, “Oh, Ranthos…” she whispered, her voice carrying to Ranthos ears silently. She ran to him and almost knocked him off balance with a tight hug.
Ranthos bit his lip, his eyes stinging.
She looked up at him and pulled a leaf out of his hair, “You were out in the woods?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper.
Ranthos nodded, “Didn’t want to be here today. They sent one of the hunters after me.”
“Are you… did he?”
“I’m not hurt,” said Ranthos. “He just told me that Father Gerald needed to talk to me.” Though there was no need to even have the conversation, Ranthos knew what was to happen.
Bell buried her face in his shirt. “When do you have to go?” asked Bell.
“Sunday.”
“But today is Saturday!”
“It’s only Friday,” said Ranthos.
Bell shook her head, “I’m sure I would know.”
Ranthos smiled. She was wrong, but didn’t fight it any longer.
She released him and sat down on the straw mats around them, “I’ll visit you out there whenever I can. Every day. Are you going to come back and work—”
“I think I have to,” said Ranthos.
“You don’t,” said Bell, “Nosgrim started working as a butcher’s boy. I don’t think he makes much, but he’s allowed to sleep in the back alley behind the house. He even has a mattress! You could—”
“I don’t want to work with Nosgrim,” said Ranthos, “Or be a butcher.”
“You could become a baker!” said Bell.
“How?” he laughed, “I’ve never baked a thing in my—”
“I could show you!” said Bell. She had learned to bake from helping the nuns feed the orphans.
“You wouldn’t be allowed out long enough to really show me. And besides, where would I work from? I don’t have an oven that I can use, and I don’t have a building to sell from either.”
Bell shrugged, “I’m only trying to help.”
Ranthos sighed, “I know, Bell. I’m sorry.”
“What about that thing with the worms?”
“What thing with the worms?”
Bell scrunched up her face trying to remember, “I heard some folk in town talking,” Bell was always listening to the folk in town talking. It was one of her favorite pastimes. “They were saying that they can never find enough worms when they go fishing. You can find worms for them!”
“Worms?” asked Ranthos, “You want me to sell worms?”
“You want to sell worms,” said Bell with a smirk and a sniffle, her changing emotions clouding the air, “I know you do, just a little bit.”
“No, I don’t,” lied Ranthos.
“Yes,” said Bell, hearing his heart skip a beat, “You really do.”
“Maybe a little.”
Bell twirled around victoriously.
Ranthos shook his head and rolled his eyes. “How would I get enough worms to sell?”
Bell shrugged, “Better go figure it out,” she said, “You have until Sunday.”
“Ri
ght,” said Ranthos earnestly, “This is a good plan. I’ll figure it out.”
The Tatzelwood was only ever wormless when Ranthos was looking for worms. He had found none, and was forced to sneak back into town as it got dark, with no worms at all.
Maybe this wasn’t a good plan. It was such a strange idea—no one had ever set up shop selling worms in Tatzelton before. It was pointless—
But Ranthos had quickly fallen in love with the idea of working in the forest and felt that he’d have a tremendous deal of trouble trying to settle onto anything else.
“Have you decided what you’ll do once you leave?” asked Father Gerald as Ranthos passed him in the hall. He was speaking quietly—Sister Edmona didn’t like him fraternizing with the older children, didn’t want them to think they were welcome back for handouts.
Ranthos shook his head.
“You’re a resourceful one,” said Father Gerald, his standard word of encouragement to the orphans he sent out of the Church. Ranthos understood that Father Gerald had no choice in the matter, but nonetheless resented him for it.
“Thank you,” said Ranthos respectfully, kissing the feet of the saints.
Father Gerald turned to leave, “You know… Ranthos.”
Ranthos turned to him angrily, hardly able to stand his stupid face. His cruel face that demanded he leave his sister alone in this wretched place—that demanded he live alone in that wretched place outside, where he was beaten about by anyone who thought themselves bigger than he, or thought he was in the wrong place, or cast them a wrong eye.
“I know little about alfar…”
“Alfar?” asked Ranthos.
The friar smiled, “Your other half. Your father was an alfar. One of the barbarians from the North. They attacked Tatzelton. Have you heard of the Hacking?”
Ranthos nodded, “Vaguely.”
“The alfar barbarians came through the town—all of Eisenland, really, and hurt many people. That’s how your father…” Father Gerald searched for a delicate word, “Met your dear mother.”
“Dear?” asked Ranthos scornfully.
“Don’t get angry,” scolded Father Gerald, “That’s one thing about alfar. Their tempers. Much too fiery for civilized company.”
“Right,” said Ranthos, “I’m off to bed now.”
Enter the Lamb's Head (The Adventures of Ranthos Book 1) Page 2