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His life meant little, he thought, to everyone around him. Just the son of a barmaid who had one too many with a salty sailor the night he came to port. All he had was the name his mother had given him. Picaro, she called him. But she never told him his father's name. She wasn't sure she could even remember it. Whether his father was a free man or no, staking out his fame on the high seas, his mother wouldn’t say. She was lost at sea one fateful night when the vessel bearing them passage capsized in a storm. Picaro washed up in Squal Parlor.

A paltry port, unmarked on many maps. Squal Parlor sat alone, as though accursed, just below the Tormented Channel, which was a perilous portion of sea where the current reversed abruptly, storms brought ship to the depths. Many a squal frequented the island, and as such it got its name. Yet it was something of a refuge to those wayward few who were blown off course by storm or by fate, right into port at Squal Parlor. The joke among the townspeople was that no one who went looking for Squal Parlor ever found it, but only those who the seas chose. It was a home to last chance individuals and humble sea-fearing folk.

Picaro could never forget the kind eyes of his mother. They were one of his first memories. She would be one of the few to look at him with such kindness throughout his life. Yet those that did had no small part to play in the boy’s safety, and the shaping of his character. Still, Picaro was afraid, even as a boy, that the shimmering image of his mother would begin to fade, and when it did, he had to let it. For he realized early on, when he was only eight, that thoughts of her made him want to curl up into a ball and cry until the tears welled up like the sea around him and drowned him. He had to push her from his mind as much as he could. He had to act like he forgot so he could be strong.

He was good at thieving, though. A grubby, crummy little thief that could fit into all kinds of nooks and crannies. He squeezed between food carts as cooks bent over their stoves. He ducked into bakeries and stole fresh bread from the stand when the baker’s back was turned. He went unnoticed and often stole what food he needed this way. He quickly realized, though, not to hit the same stall or area twice when he was caught one morning by a stall owner who stood wary. The man thwacked Picaro with a soup ladle so severely, the boy had a dark bruise on his arm for nearly a tenday. But Picaro didn’t mind, so long as it meant his belly was fed.

As the boy got smarter, he grew bolder, venturing down by the docks where he knew sailors came to port and fishermen cast out their lines. Even with the memory of the storm that washed him ashore, he did not fear the sea. In fact, it seemed to comfort him. It sat as a brilliant cerulean blue marble, twinkling against an ever bluer sky. Clouds swathed the horizon. Picaro wondered what it would be like all the way out there, in the endless vastness. It felt to him like freedom.

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It was not beyond Picaro to case out a poor, unlikely fisherman as the man came ashore. The boy would steal the man’s catch, take it out into the woods and roast it over an open fire. He ate well that way. But the fishermen caught on soon enough, and when he was caught he was hauled by the arm to face the consequences.

“The boy needs to be disciplined. Someone ought to teach him,” said one of the fisherman as they all gathered round. Picaro wriggled like a fish in his grip.

“Just use ‘im as bait instead,” joked another, watching Picaro squirm and glare at them all. “But yer right. He’s fiesty. Gonna be trouble if he doesn’t learn. How many y’say he’s gotten so far?”

“That would’ve been four,” said a younger fisherman with brown hair.

A middle-aged man whistled. “Listen ‘ere, boy. We can’t have ye round here. We got mouths to feed, and you’re not one of ‘em. We catch you here again, there’s gonna be consequences, understand?” Picaro kept fighting, barely acknowledging the implication.

“Talking ain’t gonna work. I know this one. He’s been harassing the food vendors for a long time now. He’s not gonna learn unless it’s a tough lesson. Someone get me a paddle. A what for is what he’s bound for,” said one of the older fisherman. Picaro thought he looked a bit like a crab, for he had a sour look on his face.

“Or he can work for it,” said another of the older fisherman. Picaro thought he looked a bit like an old boot. There was disgruntled murmuring among the men.

“How can we trust him?”

“He can barely hold a line or pull an oar,” said another.

“It’s fine, I’ll teach him. If he wants to eat, it’s his choice. Ain’t that right, boy?” Picaro looked up at the man. His face was drawn and his hands were weathered from many years battling the sea. But there was a kindness in his gaze Picaro couldn’t mistake, something that reminded him of his mother. Slowly, Picaro nodded in acknowledgment.

“So thats it then?” someone asked.

“I guess so,” said another.

“I swear, Oyster, if this boy keeps robbing us, he’s gonna get his what for,” said the crabby old fisherman.

“Don’t worry, Blue, if he robs you again, I’ll pay what he owes. Besides, we all know you’re just upset ‘cause that was the biggest bite of yer life.” The old fisherman let a rasped chuckle. Some of the others cracked a smile. “Be here tomorrow at dawn and I’ll teach ya to fish. What was your name?”

“Picaro.”

“Call me Oyster.”