S K I N    H U N G E R

by
kathleen duey

CHAPTER 1
    
   

Micah’s breath scraped in and out of his lungs; his feet were clodded with road-mud.  He labored past the agate-eyed cows in the apple orchards along River Road, then, at the edge of town, he climbed Mattie Han’s rail fence. Running heavy-legged, he cut between her thatch-roofed house and her market garden. Going down the long hill toward the square, his chest aching, the downward slope shoved him along and he let it, barely managing to stay upright. Every step was a jerking effort not to fall face first into the dirt. On High Street, he finally stumbled to a stop.

Hands on his knees to ease his gasps, Micah scanned the close-packed crowds below him. There had to be a magician here this market day.  There nearly always was, sometimes two or three.  Micah’s eyes blurred with tears and sweat.  He wiped them clear with a balled fist.

There? 

He straightened up, staring.  Beyond the tangle of wagons and carts in the pasture below the stock pens, he caught a second glimpse of swinging black robes and went on, down the steep bank that separated High Street from Market Row, sliding the last few feet into the road.  A cart horse shied and a Gypsy in indigo shouted and raised his tattooed fist.  Micah found his feet and ran again, going straight into the maze of tents and farmers’ booths, pushing past fruit carts and women selling bolts of bright cloth.

 The magician had drawn a little crowd.  Micah lurched toward her, the sound of his own rushing breath muting her voice as she spoke to the people gathered around her.  She was holding up a deep blue vial for all to see.  Micah wriggled through the crowd and stood before her, staring up at the drawing of a slender-stemmed herb on the paper label.

“My mother…” he managed, then had to stop, his chest heaving.“My moth—”

The old magician glared at him. “Hush!”

 “You…you have to…”  Micah stopped again. He had meant to shout.   It came out a whisper. He tipped his face upward, aiming the words. “Please. Come.  Please.”

The old woman smiled. “Once I am finished here. These good people want to buy my tonics.”

“No, you have to come now,”  Micah said, finding his voice. 

The magician didn’t even glance at him.  She had raised the blue bottle and was talking over his head.  He grabbed at her sleeve.  Annoyed, she jerked it free, stepping back, and dropped the bottle. It  shattered on the cobblestones. 
Micah stared at the shards of blue glass. Only the stopper was whole, spinning in a slow circle. He looked up. The magician loomed over him, her hand lifted high, her eyes hard and angry.  Micah flinched and raised one arm to protect his face.

“What’s wrong with you? That boy needs help!” a woman shouted. “Can't you see that?”  Micah heard more voices—they sounded angry.  The magician’s face softened abruptly and she reached to pat Micah’s cheek, then grasped his hand, hard.  She leaned close. “Make one more sound and I won’t come. Do you hear?”  He nodded, staring at her hand on his. He would remember, all of his life, her yellowed fingernails, rimmed in black—little half moons of filth.

 

 
CHAPTER 2
 

When I was eleven years old, my father decided to get rid of me. I don’t think he gave a crap if I lived or died—he just wanted to stop looking at me.  Waiting for the carriage that morning,  I stared westward through the steam rising off the river mouth.  Beyond it, across the delta and the still-water marshes on the other side, the night-torches in the South End slums of Limori were being snuffed out.

Once the eye-burning stench of the greasewood was gone, the beggars would swarm back to the boardwalk. But by then the shopkeepers’ dogs would be off their leashes. Most were half-wolf. All were underfed.  Some nights, when I knew my father was angry enough to hurt me, I crawled up the tree outside my window to get to the roof.  I could usually hear them barking from up there.  Once in a while, I heard someone scream. It always gave me shivers—how could people live there?  Aben went up to the roof with me once.  Not to hide from our father, but for the adventure.  My brother never had to hide.

“Hahp?”  I turned. My mother was wearing one of her dim little smiles. She was holding herself straight, moving with exaggerated, fluid grace, looking vapid, which meant she was frantic with worry over me.  And fear of my father.   

“Are you all right?” she asked in a near whisper, as though the sound of her voice would be enough to ignite my father.  He was faced away, but I knew by the set of his shoulders that she was right to be careful.  He was not far from one of his rages. I nodded, then looked past her at the house. If the stories were true, I might not ever see it again.

The expansive slate roof angled in every direction, covering the three wings of the old house, all its eaves dripping in the mist.  It was a whole world, that roof, and I knew every inch of it, every broken slate, every patch of slick moss.  I would miss the brittle smell of the wet stone when it rained.  The salt pines on the far side of the grounds were gray-green in the early light.  I would miss them, too. I had often played there. My father rarely walked that way.

There was a cold-fire lantern shining from a window in the servants’ wing.  I counted.  Fifth from the tower—Celia was awake. She was always up early.  She sang softly, almost constantly, as she fed fires, kneaded dough, ground herbs, made pies. No one ever made better griddle-cakes.  No one ever made me feel as safe.  All my life, she had let me hide in the kitchen beneath the stone pastry table.  My mother was cold to her, always finding fault with her work, but I loved her.

I caught a glimpse of movement behind the sheer window drape. Celia was dressing.  I blushed and turned away. The sea-gravel that paved the carriage path grated beneath my boots and my father glanced at me.  I stared out at the water like I hadn’t noticed.  I was used to missing Celia and her cooking. I was used to being hauled off to schools. I usually liked it.  I liked living away from my father. But this time was different.

“The carriage is ready, sir!”

The stableman’s call made me look; it was the white stallion this morning, of course, harnessed in black leather. He was pulling a carriage I had never seen before. There were silver vines curling over the dark wood, the leaves and thorns wrought in great detail, polished bright.  I glanced at my father.  Had the carriage been made for this occasion?  How long had he known?

I watched the driver pat the horse’s  neck—Gabardino handled horses gently, and I was glad. I had loved the white colt, had often watched him racing around the pasture with the rest of the spring foals. He was a Malek-Cross—a careful braiding of three ancient breeds.  They trained well and had no fear of height. Malek Farms had a stablemaster of great skill—my father. He sold the Malek-Cross colts for what he called a filthy profit, all but the rare white ones. He was keeping those for himself—he had this stud, one mare, and a barely weaned filly now. In ten years, he would have a herd of them.  

The pony was immaculate, of course, his dark hooves rubbed with beeswax.  He never got dirty anymore. Rainwater hadn’t touched his skin in three years. His neck was arched and he tossed his mane. But his eyes were opaque—dead.  It always happened with the training.

Pulling the stallion to a halt, Gabardino leapt down to help my mother. Her beaded slippers barely touched the mount-step.  Her silk dress shushed against the polished wood.  My father climbed up after her and made an impatient sound as she took a  moment to arrange the billowing fabric of her skirts.  I sat on the rear bench, across from my parents, fighting the fear crawling inside me. My father had made it very clear; I had no choice.  I looked north toward the bay.  It was silver gray this morning, the flat color of a parlor mirror before the lamps are lit.

I shivered and glanced at Gabardino. He was unwinding the reins from the silver cleat, holding them loosely, giving the pony his head. The carriage began to roll forward. The stallion trotted, then cantered, his milky tail streaming out behind. Then, at a command from Gabardino, the pony leapt upward, pulling the carriage into the air.

“Hahp,” my father said. “Sit up straight.”

I stiffened my spine and bit at my lower lip, feeling the pain anchor me to reality.  I did not want to go to the Academy.  But what I wished, what I feared, didn’t matter a crap to my father and it never had.  

“Sit up straight,” he repeated.  My mother made a little gesture of protest and started to say something to him.  He lifted one hand and she lowered her head.

In that instant, I hated him more than I ever had.