The Tinker's Nook

The Tinker's Nook

         
         They danced in the streets like open daisies held upside down,  rainbow daisies they were.

         Their petticoats opened as they began to twirl, faster, faster. Petticoats of many colors they wore.

         We watched from a distance, in the dark stony night. Rain drizzled lightly as the dancers continued to work, as the beautiful people stood under parasols and lacy umbrellas. There were men and women, all mesmerized by the dancer's bare feet and the gypsy's musical spells of the flute.

         We were not welcome. Being the Alleyway Rats and children of the lower city, we could only hope the festivities meant lost change and half eaten sandwiches. Maybe a little oil for those of us who had circuits and bolts.
         
         We watched with hungry eyes, wet clothes and shaking bodies as the adults – the noble adults – pleasured themselves with food and things that belched black air. We longed for a life like theirs, but alleyway rats would never rise in power – only lower.

         “What to do now Charla?” A girl with abnormal grass-like hair flexed her slender fingers, “I could use a few of m' own spells.” She wore a soaked gentlemens top coat, the tails trailing behind her. She smiled in the most innocent of ways.

         The girl had freckles piercing the skin in her face, a small flat nose, wide grassy eyes and pink lips finished her portrait. She had an unusual style, the style of a girl with no money; the style of a girl wearing a black top coat, knee-length frilly pink blouse and high worker's boots could do. Everything on her was dirty -filthy. But she kept the girl-ish charm – an elfish charm, even.
         
         “They'll know if''n it's green, silly Goose!” Lightly slapping her once on the head, we went back to our positions – hunched under a concrete bench. Waiting, waiting – waiting.

         “I'm hungry now!” A tiny boy cried.

         “Shuush! Charla knows best!” Replied an older boy, his face covered in the muck and dirt of the years. He could never hold back a grin towards his younger brother, or a blowing of horrendous breath to Goose and I.

         This boy's name was Muck, of course. Rhymed with yuck. He dressed himself in dirty over-alls with sole-less worker's boots filled with the worst of cardboard. He was half Human half Bot, and his clothing choice showed it – those over-alls couldn't keep everything hidden; and at this, I cringed. His round face showed no hint of mockery as he flexed, flicked the bottom of his pointed nose towards me and puckered his lips.

         Charla was my own name, and together – we were the Alleyway Rats. A notorious group known for the best pick-pocketry around. Also known for hedgewitchery, unshapely girls and dirty little boys (like Muck). We may have been only three, but three was all we needed to give the public a little strike of fear.
         
         Why would anyone want this life, I have no idea. We Rats were forced into it. Goose being a greenery Elf and having no family whatsoever; Muck and his little brother – having a family, but one that wants nothing to do with cyborgs, and I; my mother dying a few years ago from the pox (which I must be immune to, as the doctors say) and my father from the murrain on his innerds. We weren't happy children – alone, but together we find family and love.
         
         Even a little money on the side.

         “Charla! It's lettin' up!” Goose pointed towards the festival, she was right. The colorful daisy women were in less numbers now. The nobles, tired of this 'boring' rain, left in sad haste.

         “How fortunate.” Pushing myself up from the hard, cold concrete, I crouched behind the bench, “Lets get to it, then.”

         “Unless you can steal us an umbrella Charla, we're stayin' put.” Muck said, with a moan from his brother, “It'll be alright Clops,” He cooed.

         I began to make a plan, glancing once at the festival while holding my forefinger and index finger on my forehead – a way of thinking for me.

         “I've got it!” Goose jumped as my thoughts erupted into a scream, “Goose, do an illusion spell for rain. If they see it's rainin' even harder – they might leave.”
         
         “And for you?”

         “I'll trust my instincts. Just give me a signal...” Buildings were lined up and down the wide cobblestone street. One brick building, weighted with clothes lines, held a perfect hideaway for any thief to shift in and out of the crowd without ever being noticed!

         “Try not to do a spell in the open.” Goose shook her head to agree as a minty light began to flow from her hands and eyes. This was her trance state – nothing could interrupt her now.

         I made way to my hideaway.

         When the rain began to turn into a down pour, I had a clear route to the festival and the pockets of the few nobles who were left behind.

         My first pocket was a woman of late years – very late years. Her ruby red pockets housed – coins. Next was a youth, a man about in his twenties wearing a topcoat similar to Goose's; a few coins as well. I continued this cycle as I confidently got closer and closer to the stage, the gypsies and the dancers.

         Alas – too confident.

         A dry ragged voice screamed in a language unknown to me, as sagging hands caught my neck. Of course – I felt like slapping my own self – gypsies are greedy folk, these people had to be paying them something for their dances!

         “Off! Get off lady!” I was the picture of a bratty child; midnight hair matted, a soiled brown dress with over-sized riding boots covered in brown mud, muddy face with brown eyes screaming what I haven't the vocabulary to say.

         The gypsy chanted and screamed as I struggled with her old – but powerful – hands. Managing to pull the side of a gentleman's topcoat and propel myself over top the woman – I had the upper hand now.

         She didn't stop to chant or speak, she kept her hands tightly enclosed around my throat – choking the air from my small body. I eagerly searched for the only nerve I knew on the human body – in the neck – found it, and held it. The lady took one hand from my neck to save herself – that one mistake was all I needed. I bit her finger, causing her to double over and me to roll off her shoulders and towards...

         ...the stage.
         
         It must have been every gypsy in town wringing their old and crusted fingers at me. They started to look the same after a while, white, dingy peasant blouses cut at the neck in a V. Their orange skirts long and trailing, embroidered with either the sign of the Phoenix or the sign of the Dancer. Each one was some type of Hedgewitch, and each one wanted to kill me at this very moment.

         What to do?

         The falling rain turned to fire around us – I took this opportunity to fly, yes – fly ; back to Goose, Muck and Clops. But not before politely snagging a ladies pink umbrella.

         “Goose! Goose – snap out of it! You wanna end up in the dog pens again?” One slap and she awoke from her trance state.

         I handed Muck the pretty umbrella, “Gypsies are like dogs – I tell you!”

         “Did they put a tracking spell on you?”

         “How should I know?”
         
         We looked back towards the crowd – turned riotous.

         “We runnin' out of time -”
         
         “More like ran out of time.” Muck snapped.

         “Does it matter? Lets just go!”

         We ran as far as our little feet would take us. Down an alleyway, over a fence, through some noble lady's backyard. But we kept to the lower city, as we always have. From the Owl District to the Roseland District we ran. I'd say that would be a few miles, but what does an Alleyway Rat know?

         Coming to a run down cabin, we stopped and let ourselves in. The cabin reeked of flame and wet wood. There was no light, but from the windows and the little cracks that came from the dilapidated shack came cracks of grey light.

         This was our home.

         Goose came to an abrupt halt and sat on the dirt floor, “Now we check for tracking spells.”

         I sighed, “How about, 'Now we see how much Charla pick pocketed' and I say, 'Politely pick pocketed'?”

         “Well how much?” Goose eagerly asked.

         “I reached into the pockets of my ruddy dress, and counted the coins, “Ten bronze and two silver.”

         “Thats enough for day old pastries!” Goose squealed.

         “And used oil!” Muck and Clops beamed.

         “And you can thank ol' Charla for the cents.” Confidence gave me an ego-boost, what can I say other than, I held my head up high and grinned – it had been a good day for thievery.

         I threw the silver to Muck and bronze to Goose, “We should call you coin, 'cause you're so good at gettin' it.” Muck said with a chuckle.

         Charla I was called, after my mother, Charlamane. Goose and Muck had no true names, so I called them as such. But me? Having a street name? I grinned at the thought.

         “Coin,” I whispered while settling myself to the dirt floor, “I like it.”

         We set off to sleep amongst the dirt, ruin and rain. This cabin wouldn't hold out for long, I worried. My friends and I wouldn't be safe without this shack, it was our hideaway from the big, bad world. No one would ever think people, much less children, would be living in this old thing.

         It used to be a tinker's nook, till the poor man went mad and tried to burn the place against a light rain; a light rain such as this.

         Thanks to that man, three – four, plus Clops – vagabonds may find peace, home and relaxation from the day's journeys.

         I thank the gods for this place, and for them too.

         Without the street experience of Muck and Goose – I don't know where I would've ended up. Without their friendship, I might have been long gone by now.

         Long gone.

         My eyes closed, and I slept.