3. The Boy

Chapter 3

Thousands of miles away, smoke and dust passed through a rural village. A dirt-ridden sign, Rembaka, dangled from a wooden pole that held it up several metres high, tied with several pieces of rope. It looked worn and damaged, unmaintained. Rows of huts and mud houses, held together by pieces of wood and string and mud, swayed against the storms of dust, behind the sign. Sand dunes and valleys of nothingness surrounded the village and seemed to stretch on for miles.

Villagers roamed the dirt-ridden streets of the town. Most were covered in makeshift worn clothing, some were not as fortunate. A few, like an older couple that appeared from the corner of a small shoe shop, had the fortune to splurge on new threads. The couple passed by a group of young children, all boys, who wore only old, ripped clothing, and soot on their faces. Their mouths opened wide in awe, as they stared at the shiny new shoes that were displayed inside the shop, which were separated by a clear window.

An old man, sporting a great white beard that reached down to his chest, stepped out of the shop, heavily leaning on a worn cane, withered by many years of use. His arm shielded his face from the blaring sun, as he squinted up to the sky. The apparent sudden change in light seemed to burn through the eyes of the old man, and he wiped a tear of sweat across his forehead with a handkerchief. It had been a very humid day; many of the roaming villagers opted to wear nothing above the waist.

“Someone stop that boy!” cried out a shopkeeper, as he pointed towards the direction of a runner. A child, no younger than 6, was chased throughout the narrow streets, carrying a bag of goods slung over his shoulder. Everyone in the area stopped to stare at the encounter. “Anbu, stop”, called out a nearby villager, calmly. The boy stopped dead in his tracks, wracked with guilt, peering over to the older man. The villager sternly marched over to the boy, and crouched down, at an eye-level with the boy, whispering gently to him.

The villager produced a warm smile, with a twinkle in his eyes. The boy stared at the woven soles of his own sandals, unable to look him in the eye. As soon as he did, Anbu began to bawl. Streams of tears were wiped away from his face, by a comforting graze of the villager’s hand. After a silent exchange of goods, the older man slowly stood up and handed the bag of goods to the shopkeeper, who delivered a grateful nod. The man smiled apologetically, and then walked away. Moving on with his day. Gradually, the gathering small crowd of villagers began to disperse. Anbu began to walk away when the shopkeeper called out to him. Anbu turned around and stared at the shopkeeper. He tossed him several pieces of the goods the boy had stolen, in which Anbu produced another tear, this one of relief.

The winds seemed to change direction, spewing miniature clouds of dust into the street. A child, inhaling some of the dust, coughed loudly and he gasped for air. His eyes squinted and teared up. His mother, standing next to him, quickly untangled her top and covered the child’s face loosely, her breasts exposed. Nobody seemed to bat an eye, as the mother, holding her child closely, hurried towards a set of crowded huts several metres away.

The dust storm seemed to have cleared. As quickly as it came by, the sooner it disappeared, into thin air. The clouds in the sky began to thin out, revealing a shining ball of light in the horizon. Humidity began to pick up, children and adults alike suffering. Sweat and heavy breathing, evidence of the scorching heat of the unwithering sun, passed throughout the narrow streets of the village. A child, holding hands with a parent, stopped to wipe off accumulated sweat dripping from his unibrow.

All of this was perceived by a distinct individual. A boy, a little older than 15. This boy was seated at a local tea shop, sipping a warm drink under the shade of the roof of the shop. His back was supported by a wall, his arm leaning on his raised knee, as he raised the edge of the metal cup to his mouth. The coolness of the metal cup was pleasantly matched with the pleasurable warmth of the tea, as he enjoyed his drink. He seemed to be waiting for something. Someone. The boy scanned his surroundings, alert and keeping a focused expression. A glimmer of darkness in his eyes.

The clothing worn by this boy was distinct from the villagers. He wore a pair of shiny-clean, black boots that sported neatly woven laces tied together. The boy, though under unimaginable heat, was wearing a thin overcoat, unbuttoned, as it flapped against the dust winds. His shades, crisp and black, reflected the blaring light of the sun, which happened to pass right over the boy, as he sipped a cup of the brewed tea. Courtesy of a young man, who oversaw the teashop the boy was in. “S-seconds, Amal sir?” The man whispered, trembling. His eyes were full of terror, as he handed this mysterious boy a refill of the tea.

Amal smiled nonchalantly, his eyes twinkling behind his shades. Everyone walking near him seemed to move faster. He gazed over a few metres away, a child picking up a toy of some kind, off the ground. It was riddled in dirt and sand, in which the child, focused, wiped off on his worn clothing. Amal tilted his head slightly to the left, following the child’s movement. The child spotted Amal, and she locked eyes with him, grinning almost instantaneously. Amal stuck out his tongue at the kid, who mimicked his movements. The sun continued to shine down onto the town. A glimmer of hope, maybe. A family passing by; a woman, her husband, and two teen-aged boys wandered into the small booth of the teashop. Amal peered over at them.

The mother of the group gasped as she pointed her finger at Amal, fearful. The rest of the group stood there, paralyzed. “Amal,” quietly whispered one of the boys, attempting to swallow down his terror. “Well?” Amal barked, slightly annoyed, “It’s rude to point”. The woman shuddered, and the husband ushered her and the two kids out of the booth quickly. Amal stared coldly as they left, and then turned back to the little girl, who watched him, curious.

She walked over to him, suddenly interested in his shades. He took them off, and offered it to the child, who softly grasped it with her small but chubby fingers. Amal peered over to the girl, his soft brown eyes casting a nostalgic gaze towards the girl. She put them on, flashing a wicked grin, as she gazed around her surroundings. She stumbled on a nearby chair, crashing into the ground. Amal grinned, a dimple appearing on his left cheek. On the ground, the child giggled, removing the shades. She handed back the shades, which seemed unscathed except for a slight blemish on the corner of the lens, which Amal subtly wiped across his sleeve. “Hao, cha-nem sequa!” shrieked a young mother, dashing towards her child. She cradled the child in front of him. “Je, Qu-nem!” said the mother, tearfully, raising her hands, praising, as she hugged her child. “Ja-seh nem” Amal muttered, uninterested, as the woman and her kid raced out of the booth. Now, it was just him and the young man, who was brewing another cup of tea behind a makeshift counter. Amal continued to sip his drink, content.

The sky suddenly turned dimmer. A mere cloud covered the brightness of the sun, outlining the curvature of the bright ball of fire in the sky.

An older man pulled up to a seat adjacent to where Amal was seated. “Ah, beautiful day, ain’t it?” the man exclaimed, peacefully. Amal lowered his cup to the table, stopping to stare at the old man in curiosity and contempt. The boy, unnoticed by the old man, subtly slipped out a blade from his sleeve, ready to wield. “Yes, Amal, I know who you are,” the man acknowledged, solemnly. Amal opened his mouth to speak, but stopped abruptly, to drain the last of his cup. He crumpled the cup in his hand, and tossed it on the ground, several metres away, eyeing a target to the unprotected side of the old man’s temple, tapping his blade; content but cautious. “I didn’t ask if you did,” Amal retorted.

The old man smiled at him, his tiring eyes twinkling at the troubled boy. “It must be hard, no? Carrying all that weight on your shoulders”. Amal rolled his eyes, rubbing his temple with his index finger. “Wouldn’t you know, old man, after all that you’ve been through.” The old man cackled, a hint of senility in his voice. “My boy, I have had my share of troubles in my life. Yet with a fair balance of happiness and love,” the old man continued, calmly, “It might be time to look at yourself in the mirror, boy, what are you searching for?” Amal turned to stare at the old man, puzzled. For a moment, the boy was at a loss for words. He stared at the sky, following the shape of a manifesting cloud. Amal sheathed his blade back into the cover of his sleeve, tentatively. “Perhaps it’s not too late for you,” claimed the old man, as he rose up from his chair, locking eyes with a woman eyeing him warily. She was as old as the man. “My woman has found me, cheers”. The man said, waving farewell. Amal gazed at them, confused, before turning his head back towards the view of the village, tapping the blade.

Out of a corner of his eye, Amal spotted a distinct man walking along the streets of the village. Amal suddenly turned alert, his senses flaring, focusing on the unusual man. That man seemed restless; he was distressed. The distinct man had curly brown hair, clothing clean and unworn, unlike the other villagers in the area. White skin and dark, heavy bags under his blue eyes. This was all perceived from the dark brown eyes of Amal's, countless meters away. With populous villagers roaming in the streets of the impoverished village. The man was targeted.

Amal cracked a sly grin, as he produced a very high-pitched whistle out of his mouth, a noise that pierced through the chaos of the afternoon traffic. The sound alerted the young man behind the counter, who quickly grasped a handle above him and pulled it down to reveal a sturdy, metal wall that blocked entry behind the counter. Ker-chunk, the sound of a key locking. Wide-eyed, the young man rushed out of the tiny booth, running away from Amal in terror. The whistle emanated throughout the streets, attracting the ears of the many villagers in the vicinity. Seemingly in unison, they hurriedly darted away from the area, the street turned to chaos quickly.

Glistened was the sound of an unsheathed blade, an old-fashioned kunai-resembling throwing knife that seemed to suddenly appear in his hand. On the handle of the blade, depicted a symbol. The side profile of an attacking raven, surrounded by leaves. Dozens of villagers scrambled through the nearby street, a few children calling out in tears, the atmosphere surrounding the village seemed to change in the fraction of a second. The startling whip metallic sound of a blade slicing through the air, made its way through the crowd; narrowly avoiding some stragglers who managed to get away with just a nick on their skin. The streets weren't bustling and chaotic anymore; many of them had managed to escape the area.

The force of the sharp knife collided with the back of a head. An audible sound of breaking bone. The thickness of the blade warranted the partial shattering of the skull, an instant kill. Almost immediately, red liquid oozed out of the point of impact, the man frozen in place for a short moment. He uttered no words, as life was abruptly ripped away from his body. The man dropped with a THUD, in the middle of a semi-empty street, already spilling pools of blood. The blade of the kunai was still lodged in his head, just under the occipital lobe. The body laid still, face down, motionless. The last breath spilled out of the cracked lips of the dead man.

A child, several metres away, stared wide-eyed in terror, as they pointed at the body, the life inside slowly slipping away. The body made a sudden jerking movement, with the heart pumping blood, unrelenting until the end. The child screamed in terror, before bolting away into the distance.

A small red mark appeared on the tip of Amal’s index finger. Amal emitted another series of high-pitched whistles, which led to some burly-looking men rushing towards the dropped body. They were carrying a large bag and some specialized tools and supplies, speedily cleaning up the murder scene, where the pool of blood only seemed to get larger with every passing second.

Amal’s grin slowly faded, his expression fixed, as he lowered his gaze. His breathing suddenly grew uneven, a sudden rush of guilt followed, flickering behind his eyes. His hands formed into fists, as he gritted his teeth. Waiting for the darkness to envelop him. Consume him. His tone forearms trembled, his palms turning white. His eyes glistened.

Save him, a voice said.

Continued on: Changes

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