Motley Boy

"And I'll tell you another."

On a rock-strewn hillside overlooking a sparkling sea, a boy leaned against a sun-warmed rock and watched the drowning barge inch slowly out into the harbour.

The boy's face was painted in motley. Black and white squares beneath a shock of tangled black hair. His clothes were faded, tags and ties and sequins and lace. His eyes were pale and every colour, kind and sad at the same time. A hint of cruelty at the corners.

He stretched out a hand down into the grass, one finger slightly extended, and whispered.

"Come here, little mouse."

A small grey mouse crouching in the grass studied the boy's outstretched hand. The boy waited patiently. After a minute, the mouse finished its grain and scurried up the boy's sleeve, in amongst the raggedy tassels and braids, up onto his shoulder next to the painted face.

"All story is true, little mouse," whispered the boy. "The world is a weave, and a story is like a golden thread running through it. But all the threads can be golden if you want them to be. Do you see? It all depends on which thread you touch."

The mouse said nothing. Its nose quivered.

"Oh, very well," sighed the boy, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a crust of cake. The mouse took it in his forepaws and began to nibble.

"You're not the best conversationalist, you know," chided the boy. "Are you even interested? I can't tell."

Below them, the hillside was spread out like the boy's patchwork cloak, grey rocks; purple heather; scrubby pasture dotted with goats, here and there a small whitewashed shepherd's cottage, looking like just another chunk of stone. Far below, a little town encrusted the shore like coral, houses square and white as salt crystals. The smoke from a dozen chimneys rose straight up in the clear air.

The boy pulled an apple from his pocket, polished it on his thigh and took a bite. His eyes narrowed. The colours in them brightened. His lips moved silently as though he were counting. The mouse shuffled a little closer, watching.

Beyond the little town, the harbour was crowded with ships of every kind. There were galleys from the far south, sails painted ochre and gold, decorated with images from popular stories. A pair of fat cargo hulks lay at anchor, their sails sprawled out to the side like a pair of old women weighed down beneath bundles of washing. Pilot ships crowded around them, vying for trade. Children paddled makeshift rafts, hawking snacks, ferrying cargo and passengers between the pontoons and customs houses. The sounds of men calling to one another rose like songbirds on the clear morning air.

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The drowning barge, dwarfed by the larger ships, was a small, squarish affair. A rope was tethered to a post in the middle of the harbour, and two burly men hauled on it, pulling it out of the water and allowing it to splash back down behind them. From up here, it looked like a child's toy. A gang of kingsmen sat in the stern playing cards. In the middle of the deck, a prisoner crouched hopelessly in a weighted cage that swung over a rectangular opening in the deck, suspended on a block and tackle.

The boy took another bite from his apple and studied the core hopefully, looking back and forth between the core and the barge. He frowned a little as though disappointed and resumed counting.

"Nothing is right today, little mouse. Nothing. Still, we can but try."

Further out at the edge of the bay, a Darkling blackship lay chained to a buoy, distaining the crowd. It was a suggestion of a shadow of a boat, more like a boat-shaped hole on the water. Only the sails and the king's flag that flew high on the mast were solid. The rest was an empty space where a boat might have been.

"Magic is simple, you see, little mouse? You pick a thread, and you give it a tug, and then you wait to see if you got it right..."

He took another bite, chewed and studied the core, pale green with seeds. His mouth moved again silently. He shook his head.

"No matter. We do what we can."

He drew back his arm and lofted the core out and down over the crags. It fell, end over end, towards the water.

"Are you paying attention, little mouse? You might want to watch this."

The apple fell. Time slowed. The mouse pricked up its ears, and its quivering whiskers tickled the boy's cheek.

"I want you to imagine something for me, little mouse," said the boy. The world grew still. His voice was the only sound for a thousand miles. The sky began to darken. "Imagine, a young man, brown hair, brown eyes, nothing special. He has a horse, which he loves more than anything in the world, a sweet-tempered old mare that his father gave him when he was a boy. He has a knife at his hip and enough food in his saddlebags to see him fed for a night or two. He has decided to ride out and seek his fortune. He is a fool. There is no fortune in the world for one such as him.”

The boy's coloured eyes clouded. His mouth turned down at the corners, just a fraction.

“Can you picture him? His name is not important. Maybe it is Kel, or Maddock. Let's call him Jack. I like the name Jack. It is a good, strong name, and he will need strength, for the world is bleak. A kindly lad, but kindly men may do evil things if they are not wise. I almost feel sorry for him." The motley boy's eyes narrowed. "Almost."

Far, far below, the tumbling apple core flickered, dark as the blackship. The world gathered in around it until it seemed as though the core might contain the skies and all the stars within them. The clean day faded, and strange constellations wheeled over a midnight ocean. Then, with a snap, the world was restored just as it was, except where the apple core had tumbled, a pure white dove now skimmed above the sparkling blue waves towards the barge, one foot trailing in the foam.

"Yes, Jack is as good a name as any for a foolish lad abroad in the world."