He rounded the bend of an alley and made his way back to the docks. There was a fruit stand there, and he saddled up to it. "Morn," he said, and his smile glinted gold. The owner was a middle aged woman, and she smiled weakly, nodded, then hurriedly looked away. Valgur found a ripe peach, passed her a copper piece for it and took a bite. "Delicious” The shopkeeper busied herself cleaning something and didn't reply.
Then something caught his eye. It looked as if one of the mangoes was levitating. He turned to see a flash of color attached to a small hand disappear around the corner of the fruit cart. Valgur wheeled and grabbed the wrist of a small boy, only nine or ten years old as he made to dash past him, fruit still in hand.
"At it again are ye," said the shopkeep, shaking her first angrily. Valgur glanced back at her, a wry grin on his face.
"You know this boy? Not a worry ma’rm, I got him for you." The boy wriggled in his grasp. Valgur applied pressure, but the boy kept squirming. He peered down to inspect him. He was a dirty and disheveled lad with worn clothes that were torn in places. He had dark hair, a hooked nose, and dark brown eyes. His shoes weren’t too bad, though, Valgur noticed. He looked to the fruit in the boy’s left hand. Part of the ring finger was missing. "What's this? A guilty little thief you are, indeed. Tell me, do you cut off fingers here for thieving?"
"No, and not that I’d ever have them remove a finger for taking a mango. Seems a bit harsh,” said the shopkeep as dignified as she could. “Still, he's a bit notorious in these parts, young as he is. It was a cruel thing, but someone had a mind to."
"I see," said Valgur, peering down at the boy. There was a challenging look on his face, a sort of stubborn self-reliance that made him seem older than he was. Valgur could see how that could make a weak man angry.
"I'll tell you what, ma'rm," said Valgur. "Here's another piece for the mango." He flicked her another coin. "I'll pay for whatever else he grabs. You want another, boy?" The boy frowned and furrowed his brow. He didn't move nor reply. "What's your name," said Valgur. Again, no reply. "If I unhand you, will y'run away?" No reply.
Ahead of them, a crewman approached. "Metron. Look who I found here. See that? Missing a finger,” said Valgur.
“Yeah? Well that’s the most interesting thing I’ve heard today. This whole island’s full of a whole lot of nothing. Nothing even worth looting. No wonder it wasn’t on the map, all that comes through here is the squalls. At least they got some booze.”
“Booze ye say? That can be mighty interesting,” said Valgur, twinkling.
“Ye don’t say,” said Metron, and he parted his coat to reveal an amber bottle tucked at his side.
Valgur grinned. “A good haul then. Round the men. We’ll cast off immediately.”
“Alright then," said Metron, turning to make way back to the ship. Yet Valgur hesitated. "Whatcha waiting for, captain?"
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“Something tells me this young scallywag could be of interest. Listen, I just want to talk to you, savvy? I’ll let ye go, but you choose to run and Metron here will be forced to chase you. He's an able hunter and a keen shot, so I wouldn’t risk it. So are you gonna get frisky, or no?"
The boy glanced at Metron then back at Valgur, and shook his head, still scowling. Valgur bent down to eye level. "Excellent. Now I have a proposition for ye, laddy, so listen close. You've been on the streets long enough to look it, and your reputation here is already sour. How you choose to grow up is your business, but let me tell you the truth of it. Y’can stay here and rot like the fruit you stole. Or, y’can come with me ‘n sail the seas a free man, buy a life that all yer own. The choice is yours. Answer me truthfully, and I'll let you go whichever way you choose." Valgur smiled as gently as he could, which made him look rather demented.
"Wait a minute, taking on a child like this? What are we, an orphanage? Even my auntie would have-"
"Blast your auntie and your whole ilk, mate. This kid has ‘n art for thieving and the scars to prove it. And who knows what else. I see great potential here. I'd like to give him his start. Whadd’ye say, kid? Listen, I know where they cut fingers off for thieving, and it ain’t here. But I know where. I can find the man that did that to ye. Just give me a name."
The boy pondered for a long moment. He looked at Valgur and Metron with an even mixture of hope and doubt. He glanced down at his hand and the orange in it, his gaze lingering on the nub of a ring finger on his left hand. Mister Goffrey's face, especially his bulbous nose, flashed across his mind making him shudder. He glanced around the pier, and then back behind him at the town of Squall Parlor. He remembered all the quiet days down by the docks, staring out at the waves. Then an old fisherman popped into his mind. He thought he could even see Oyster’s kindly face remarking him from out on the waters of the bay.
He went back further in his mind to remember the night in the tavern, recalling the pale blue eyes of captain Coldblue and his crew of merry men. It seemed like a lifetime ago, or maybe it had always just been a dream. Those were Free Men, too, illustrious, glistening in their finery, adorned with the vigor of life, the thrill of adventure coursing through them.
These two men were not the same picture of grandeur. Captain Valgur looked more like a gruff, shaggy barrel of a man than the captain of a ship. His hair was beginning to thin atop his head, but his beard was thick and broad in fanning curls that arced away from the edges of his mouth, which seemed permanently drawn in a sneer. Everything about the man was broad, from his forehead and forearms, chest and belly. Broad and strong. His eyes were as wily as a wolf’s, keen and dangerous. He wore a large overcoat that swept down past his knees atop worn leather boots. There was no jewelry about him, no glint of metal save the hilt of his sword at his waist.
Beside him stood Metron, a tall, slender oak of a man with a quiet strength. The stubble on his face grew close, which was beginning to grey, and he had short, cropped hair the color of mud. His eyes were intense, observant, and they bore holes into the boy’s head. He, too, wore an overcoat that came down only to his waist with long breeches and tall boots. A rifle was slung about his back, which had kept the boy from running in the first place.
These men were dangerous. It was that same sense of danger that had urged Picaro to follow Captain Coldblue and his men into town that time ago. The boy looked out to sea. A sigh escaped him. He thought he could still see the small image of Oyster out there on the bay, a lone fisherman in his skipper. It seemed for a moment the man was beckoning to him. All around the sea and gulls called. It still looked like freedom, the same as it always had. The blue marble, twinkling like a sheet of glass. The way to nowhere, and everywhere. It all fell upon him like a wave. The opportunity was before him. He bit his lip and nodded.
"What's that mean lad, will ye come and be a Free Man?" The boy nodded again. Valgur barked a laugh. "Well, I'll be. This wasn’t a waste after all. Ye ‘Ol Marigold's crew grew by one this day. Have at it, kid, take another mango."
Valgur passed a whole silver piece to the shopkeep, who stood with her mouth ajar. A part of her wanted to warn the child against the decision. But he was still a nuisance among the merchants, and his life would likely fair none too better if he stayed. She averted her eyes away when the boy looked at her again.
"So, what's yer name?" Valgur asked him.
The boy took the second mango, staring at them as if they were gold. "Picaro," he said, looking up at his new captain.
How it started:
- Samuel O. Ludescher