Black Eyes #2

(overlapping from first chapter/part/installment/whatever) :

He walks to the edge of the the building he had slept on, where there is a low balcony that gives a safe, clear contrast with the white sky, and puts his hand on the cement, pressing there hard, concentrating.

A map in his head spreads out before him, one he can’t see, but feel, like a woodcarving under his fingers, unfurling and pulsing with the energy of the city. It ripples outward in waves, as if his hand is a pebble thrown into a pond.

It used to be so disorienting for him, he remembers. All the people and birds and stray animals everywhere, that it was hard for him to feel in front of him without being distracted by the sheer amount of movement and life, of chaos, the chaos that felt as if his brain were being pulled apart to all four corners of the world. For a long time, It felt as if he really were truly and utterly blind.

He climbs down the building, slowly picking out a pathway through the network of pipes that cling to the wall like vines. He lands clumsily on the cobblestone ground, and thinks, fleetingly, that his ankle may have twisted from the fall, but he doesn’t inspect it for further injury.

The paving of the street is a nuisance, riddled with large rocks and set in mud so that there’s a noticeable gap between each one. It is easy to trip and fall, if one isn’t cautious.

The boy looks around (a bit futilely) to make sure of his solitude, listening carefully. When he is satisfied, he squats down, sitting on the adjoining heels of his feet, and touches a hand to the ground, lightly this time.

Some market stands are close by, a couple dozen yards away, a few streets to the left and forward. A couple of good-sized four-legged animals, most likely dogs, in the way, snuffing through old trash for anything edible. Most people, besides shop owners, are inside their dwellings, sleeping.

He takes a deep, smoke-filled breath, and focuses on holding the map in his mind’s eye as clearly as possible before he stands and brushes his hand of dirt.

Now all he is left with is his memory, and his sight. And now...

He closes his eyes. Screws them tight, and feels the skin between them furrow. And sighs.

All he can cling to, for the time being, is his memory guiding him to his destination.

The market is many stalls long on the street, but not very busy. There is a saying, here, that the city sleeps till noon, and it comforts the boy, the lack of attention he will bring to this scene.

He can tell that the first stall does not carry food because he can hear wind chimes ringing softly above the table, and when he touches a hand to one of the stakes holding the makeshift tin roof up, he figures that whatever the vendor is selling, it’s too expensive for him in any case. A large quantity of metal.

“What’s a kid like you interested in cooking supplies?” The vendor’s voice is rough and deep, a little accusing.

The boy follows his voice and tries to face him, as best he can. “I’m not. Sorry to bother you, sir, but do you know which stalls here sell food? Preferably dried?”

There’s a pressure on the table, like the man has placed his large hands on the surface and pressed down irritably.

“I dunno, kid. Only here for a day, then I’m off. Look around, why don’t you, ‘stead of bothering me.”

The boy directs his shut eyes downward as if in shyness, or perhaps embarrassment. “Can’t, sir,” he says. “Sorry, you must be blind.” He lifts his face again to the source of the vendor’s voice. More accurately, a few inches to the right of it. “Because I’m blind.”

There’s a sharp intake of breath from the other side of the table. “Damn,” the man says. “Sorry, man. Apologies. I’m tired, is all...”

“It’s ok,” says the boy. “You were just tired, is all.”

“Yeh,” the vendor agrees. “Damn right, kid.”

There’s another pause, and then, “Say, it’s the middle of the rainy season. Frost mornings. What’re you doin’ dressed like that? It’s not the summer, y’probably freezing.”

“No,” the boy responds. “I don’t get cold easily.”

“You don’t, eh…” The vendor says with a low chuckle. “Hell y’don’t.”

The boy laughs softly, nervously. “I stay inside most of the time, anyway." He pauses." Being blind, and all.”

A stray suspicion pulls itself forward, into the open air.“If you can’t see squat, kid, how the hell’d you get all the way to here?”

“I live near this street,” The boy says, thinking fast. The man mentioned he wasn’t a regular at this market. “All my life. I know the area well enough to navigate. It’s just that the market down this street’s always changing, see… I never know what I’m going to get.”

“If you’re blind, than open your eyes and prove it,” the man declares, suddenly. The boy’s heart plummets.

“Can’t,” he says, and regrets this excuse at once. Pathetic of him. He should have thought this through.

He can hear and feel the vendor stand abruptly, rattling the metal wares on his table and, loud enough for the other vendors to hear he calls, “Hey! Alla you! This little rat says he’s blind! Can’t even prove it!”

Desperately, and attempting to be subtle, the boy pushes the heel of his shoe off his ankle with the opposite foot, and rests the heel on the ground.

His breathing slows with relief, and his thoughts are once again clear.

The vendor is a terrifyingly huge man. Big hands and a thick torso, and a wickedly long knife at his side. Why this one? Why is HE the guy at the beginning of the street?

Two other customers, seven other vendors, a total of five that are looking at him and the source of the noise, but none seem to be bothered as much as mildly interested.

“I’m not a thief,” The boy says, calmly now. “Or a rat. All I need from you are directions to which stall here sells good food for travel. Just tell me how many stalls to the right it is, and I’ll find it on my own, sir. Please.”

The man draws himself up, crossing his arms over his chest, and chuckles, cruelly this time. “Not givin’ you anything, kid.” Then in a sudden, remarkably fast movement for one inhabiting such a large body, he flicks a windchime in the boy’s face. “And I’m no ‘sir’ to you.”

Before the second copper pipe in the musical scale crashes against his nose, the boy opens his eyes wide, wide, and ducks.

Against his conscious will, reflexively. 

And the man lets out a scream.

I hope you liked #2!

Seriously, if anyone has a suggestion for a name for the MC, I'm gonna need one in the next installment. Comment below, or on my wall.