There was no doubt about it – he was glad she was dead. Years of anguish from neglect mixed with a constant fear of rejection led to an adulthood full of indifference to his own life. As a child his only dream was the day he saw her lowered into the ground.
It was a mutual feeling, he was sure, too. Between the two of them, he showed his love more than she ever did. They had been dismally poor, yet he found a means to gift her on her birthday every year – something she never did for him. Nothing could change his feelings and thoughts of her now that she was gone, but her death lifted the heavy weight of trepidation that she might live a single day longer than him.
Four people attended his mother's funeral: the priest, himself, and two men he paid in silvers to drop the gray, wooden coffin into the hole. Few words were spoken in the eulogy from the priest, which had been insisted by her son. Just a brief speech of what Simon already knew although the man in cloth heavily glazed it for what he had hoped for.
After it was all over, however, Simon stood at his mother's grave longer than he thought he would. He had a moment of recollection during a time when she seemed most distant. Gone for hours, sometimes days at a time, Simon was left to fend for himself. From rat folk to the Assassin's Guild, he was in constant mortal danger. His self-reliance was hard as forged steel, and his tolerance from pain and fear was limitless. His mother had taught him more than he would give her credit: entirely indirect.
His mind was focused too much on the fresh grave to notice the stranger who stood beside him, reaching to place a piece of paper into the palm of Simon's hand and disappearing before he turned to see the messenger. The startled reaction was only for a second, but the confusion lasted for considerably longer. Only knee-high gravestones surrounded him; there were no suitable hiding places. The priest and impromptu pallbearers had long since departed. He stood there alone with his dead mother and no one else.
The piece of paper had a rectangle and three eyes draw within its boundaries along with the words “See beyond the pain.” The eyes were not painted in color, only ink scratched against the surface with such haste the words were barely legible. Each eye, generic and human, were arranged in the shape of a triangle. The handwriting was educated despite the harshness. Each stroke was thin and crisp like a razor against flesh.
He couldn't make sense of any of it until several days later as he made his way to the hovel that was once called home. It was a dilapidated pile of planks from an old ship at the bottom of a twisting and broken cobblestone lane. The surrounding buildings, long since outlived their original inhabitants, were filled with empty tales of misery and sorrow. No prosperity had ever come out of Squabble Lane. Especially Simon.
As a child, he knew every inch of the neighborhood: each little nook gave him a secret spot to hide from whomever was hunting him that day. Some holes had been so small he had found himself stuck for hours before he could wiggle free, but each spot earned him another day of being alive.
Rain began to softly drizzle coldly against the obtuse shaped stones below his feet as Simon paused within sight of his old home. Sharp eyes from a lifetime of playing a deadly game of hide and seek saw a slit of a gap between old crates and barrels just off the side of the lane against a few shanties that stacked on top of each other. There were no memories of this hole. While age and time could cause objects to shift and settle, this part of Keldia had long past its prime, turning into stone-like mountains of long forgotten lives. A hellish storm from the depths of the demonic abyss couldn't shift this dead end lane an inch.
Gazing through the separation of old wood, decomposed goods, and rotten feces, Simon could see what looked like three eyes in a triangle drawn on the ground just inside. He also thought he heard the notes of an organ grinder softly playing somewhere at the other end of this hole. It was difficult to follow the melody over the sharp, pinprick sound of raindrops on the cobblestones, but his mind teased him with a vague notion that he recognized it. A rapidly growing desire to pursue the sound set him forward as if Sirens were whispering.
He had initially doubted the older version of his childhood could find its way through the narrow gap, but his instincts guided him head first into the opening. He knew when to shift his body, when to exhale nearly completely, and when to pause to calm himself if anxiety crept in from the surrounding tightness. His vision was removed from him the moment his head slipped between the planks. Each inch was grueling, and he didn't make it through unhindered.
When he felt his feet had followed him into the hole, there was a commotion somewhere above him. A pigeon, or wild falcon perhaps, had landed with force onto the roof of the stacked shanties high overhead. The sound had startled Simon, and his body caused a collapse of debris that echoed high off the very pinnacle buildings. The chain reaction shot up for several seconds, and he could hear more than just a few pieces of planks and dust fall outside. Safely inside his well guarded hole, he was able to move once again and exit out into a private courtyard, sealed off by the pile of trash he had just crawled through.
The music's origin was now visible to Simon along with an unlikely sight. He stood before a whisper of a woman, tragically frail, whose back was so curved she most likely had not seen the sky for decades. Next to her was a dirty, threadbare blanket haphazardly used for shelter though against the rain it was useless. A small, smoky campfire sizzled against the wet weather.
In her hands was a small organ grinder that she rhythmically turned. In its youth, it had been candy striped, painted in orange and purple with two tassels of similar color, now nothing more than a few threads. Some of the pipes were missing while others improperly shorter resulting in kaleidoscopic notes, none of which were harmonic.
Simon watched her intently for a moment, feeling a seeping hypnotism befall him before snapping out of the trance. The nagging notion of familiarity earlier once again gently caressed his memory. Perhaps it came from somewhere long ago while in a drunken tavern played by a desperate minstrel.
A searing crackle sparked nearby as if a practicing wizard was first learning the art of electrical magic. It sounded low, crispy and sharp like the throat from a water deprived person.
It was the woman's voice as she spoke out to him even though her eyes permanently cast down to the ground. “See beyond the pain,” was all she spoke. The music continued to play its haunting, off tune notes in an endless broken loop.
“See the...the pain?” he said, pulling out the paper with the mysterious etching. He stared at it in hopes his mind would become enlightened by the conundrum. “Did you put this in my hand at the funeral?” looking up as he asked the curved woman.
Music continued to ring in his ears, echoing in his brain and burning itself into his memory. No other sound came about the small courtyard near Squabble Lane. The flames of the pitiful campfire dwindled to smoldering ashes as the drizzle picked up to a steady downpour. Yet the old woman played on.
From notes against the rain came a beat that sounded like lyrics. Simon paused for several minutes, subconsciously holding his breath to hear more intensely while he stared up into the rain. The words sounded like a poem on the wind, and soon he made it out clearly enough to understand.
To Tilsdale Square of morning eve
Did we do go tho disbelieve
Brought forth a treasure of olden yore
And wealth beyond the pain did soar
Wink from eye and face of mask
Fur hold all doubt and our past
It was only for a moment before the rain retook the dominance of sound in the night. He had been listening so closely to the words, making sure he remembered each one, it took some time for him to notice the music had gone silent. There was no sign of the old woman or her musical box, just the tiny fire and tattered rag flapping in the rain.
Tilsdale Square was Keldia's shiftiest block of merchants and dealers. Its reputation wasn't famous for acquiring illegal goods and services, however. Folks journeyed into the darker corners of the city seeking relics of the past, forgotten gems of conquered kings, and forbidden stories of deep secrets. Lost souls sought redemption or illumination within themselves here.
To Simon, it was a cruel joke – a team of con artists seeking to exploit pathetic and sad individuals who had lost everything. It was shameful of him to think of how he once ventured there when he was a child, hoping to find his mother after she disappeared for the hundredth time. He found it ironic of his return so many years later, and by the looks of things, nothing had changed in all that time.
Despite its name, Tilsdale Square was nothing more than a narrow alley with just enough room to walk through if the tents were staggered on either side. Trinkets and brick-a-brac scattered across the tables under each canopy or packed into loose crates wedged tightly between the stalls. Beyond this, the small street market compared very little to the larger market squares in the city. Business was conducted in hushed tones, sometimes behind heavily draped curtains, to prevent secrets from escaping. Deals were done by sleight of hand gestures, exchanging money and hidden treasures by means of subtle palming maneuvers.
Simon trudged into the alley, his cloak pulled over himself in the continuing cold rain. Few if any would recognize him in all of Keldia as his street lessons taught him to blend in well. His face was forgettable, and he bore no recognizable markings or scars. Although his poverty and lack of education had led him down a dark path of crime, his wits had been properly procured thanks to the fear of being hunted by men and beasts. Staying ahead of the enemy meant staying alive for one more day.
A whisper gently touched his right ear, which caused his hair to stand on end. It was soothing like a cool brook over sore feet, yet when it entered his head, his teeth gritted and eyes narrowed in controlled rage. The sound resonated with amplification of a tribal drum, but no one nearby took notice. He felt fiery within his blood from the whisper, and he turned knowing already whose voice it was.
His mother. A woman, now elderly, was selling her baubles and jewelry and trinkets, but her eyes, young and waggish, stared straight at him, piercing into his head and squeezing his focus until he was oblivious of his surroundings. He stood within a void filled with wisps of gray ash and black vapor. He saw his mother before him under a tent of blue although she had just laid her head in a coffin a few days ago.
“It dwells so deep within you, there is no pain,” came her voice, much like ice upon dry skin. It was cold and heartless with a lack of humanity behind her words – at least Simon heard it that way. His blood boiled as he felt his temper flair up. A flood of memories came back of a time when he was alone for so many years of his childhood, desperately afraid and fearful she might not return again.
Something was pulling at his subconsciousness as he wrestled with the desire to speak to her. The audacity of violating his mind with tricks and magic to exploit his vulnerability! The anger was fueled by reliving the thought of his mother.
The pulling continued to grow, and he found himself speaking as if his mother was before him. “You know nothing of pain.” He clenched his teeth and spat as if consuming poison with each word spoken.
His mother showed the look of regret and sorrow. “Do I not? Your life has been riddled with fear at every turn, yet I carried that burden given to you.”
Simon approached the table that separated the two, gripping its edge tightly as his knuckles quickly turned white. Leaning in, he felt bolder and said, “You abandoned your son! You left me for the wolves to fight over! I had to scramble to survive while you ran off to have your pleasures of life. I alone feel pain for your rejection of me. I became a god's sacrifice for your happiness.”
Large, bulbous tears began to fall from her eyes as she watched Simon explode into a tyrant of angry words and hateful ideas towards her. He, too, shook with sorrow from the unleashing of his deepest emotions that had been locked away for so many years. His vision quickly became blurry from moisture that clouded his eyes.
Gasping for breath after his eruption slowed down, he bowed his head and closed his eyes as a wave of fatigue settled in his lungs. He had been a kept man for so many years, having no one to release his emotions of the woman he so deeply loved and hated at the same time. Countless times had he tried to kindle their bond as mother and son during the few flickering moments they were together, but each time was led astray by a sense of urgency from her as if her thoughts had already left again.
There was something hidden on the table among the knickknacks piled across it. His eyes opened to it, seeing past the necklaces and the scarves and the pocket watches. Past the glass eyes and the pouches and tiny wooden carvings. Beyond the crystal balls and the black seashells and the bottles of mystery liquid was something for a child.
It was picked up by Simon before he even realized it, knowing it was his. The small, stuffed furry figure never resembled any animal as his mother was not a skilled seamstress, but his mind had made it a rabbit, a raccoon, a dog, a cat, and numerous other woodland critters. It had been his companion in all his adventurers of imagination as he crept along the nooks and crannies of Squabble Lane as a small boy.
He had named it Benny. Something of a lost memory came to light within him as the name returned to his mind. It had been a long time since he had the toy as a child. Holding it as tightly as he could whenever he had been most frightened, he couldn't hold it tight enough to keep it from slipping away one night and down a street drain, leaving him alone again. Long since forgotten, Simon now cradled it in his arms as he did as a child. He spoke not a word; he only stood there holding his long lost friend as tightly as he could.
Within his grasp, something could be felt inside the toy that poked against his arms. His eyebrows furrowed while his hands moved across the loose stitching, seeing pieces of stuffing try to escape. He gingerly dared to feel in between the stitches, and his fingertips found the edge of a folded piece of paper. Carefully it was removed and delicately opened like an ancient, brittle scroll filled with writing from a mother's touch.
“Simon,” it began,“ my only child, I give this to you in remembrance of me. You may one day resent me, but I leave so that you can live. Our food, our home, our well being, although sparse, is what I can make of it. You are the fuel to my life, and although I am not always with you, I live for you. My separation is my pain, and I hope one day you forgive me. I work only for you. I love you. - Mother.”
His hands trembled as he read the note for the fourth time, then the fifth time, then sixth. He thought of his anger that he had grown and nurtured from a lack of understanding, too young to see the truth. The hours and days he had thought had past were exaggerations from the young imagination of a small boy. The dangerous moments of escaping monstrous creatures, drawn up by the paintbrush of a child's mind.
He began to hum without reason, a melody that had been forgotten so long ago from the darkness of his pain. The sound was a kaleidoscope of notes, played in rhythm to a song he began to recall being sung to him. At first, his tune matched the broken organ grinder. Then familiarity grew to the song his mother had sung to him as a child when he was scared. Before long, he was singing the notes with his mother harmonizing softly in the distance. He carried the song with him as the blackness of his heart slowly crackled apart, scattering away like ash to the wind. It overwhelmed him, forcing him to his knees and sob as he clutched Benny to his chest.
All these years, he had taken the fear and sorrow that swelled within his heart from being alone and allowed them to cloud the vision of her joy. “See beyond the pain,” he repeated the words of the old woman, realizing now what she had meant.
With tears on the verge of cascading down his cheeks again, he realized his former surroundings had returned. His mother no more, the merchant, removed from his face a porcelain mask and winked at Simon. “No charge.”
The seekers of Tilsdale Square wandered on in search of lost relics of forgotten days. Simon held tight to his and headed home.
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