A Change in Fortune



  A Change in Fortune

  By Mark Finnemore

  Copyright 2011 Mark Finnemore

  *******

  The child's pleading eyes and outstretched hand dug at painful memories John had worked hard to bury. When he turned away, stern eyes and hands on hips awaited him.

  "You can't even spare a smile for that boy, John?"

  John shook his head and blew out a tired sigh. "To what end, Mary? That boy's fate is as meat for the predators out there. Or meat for the Magistrate's axe – just like what happened to Jimmy."

  Mary straightened her apron and blew a strand of hair from her face. Even with a frown twisting her lips, John still found her beautiful.

  "Why do you use Jimmy's memory against me like that, John? He was my son too!"

  John opened his mouth to apologize, but he didn't know what to say. Instead, he pushed silently past Mary and headed for the comforts of the bar. He paused when he spotted the stranger.

  The stranger touched the pouch on his belt often, as if reassuring himself that it was still there, that its contents were still secure. Studded with gems that just might be real, the pouch itself was worth a grab, regardless of what treasure might hide inside.

  John bit his lip and tried not to stare across the room at the stranger. He had promised Mary he'd get an honest job, and he'd been trying for weeks now – really, honestly trying this time – but it was just no use. For some reason employers seemed reluctant to hire a broken-down, out-of-luck, middle-aged ex-thief. And with rent due next week, one last dishonest job couldn't hurt too much, could it? Just something to hold them over until his fortunes finally changed. And the stranger was obviously rich – he could afford the loss. He and Mary, on the other hand, couldn't.

  John nodded to himself, pulled his graying hair back into a ponytail, and sidled up to the bar.

  "I hope you're here to pay your bill, Johnny. We'll have to dock Mary's pay if you don't settle up real soon."

  John dropped his last three dollars onto the bar. "You leave Mary out of this, Glen. Just get me a beer."

  The stranger offered his right hand while his left went back to the pouch. "Name's Wilcox," he said with a vague accent. "Buy you an ale?"

  John smiled. Maybe his luck was finally changing. He shook Wilcox's hand, conscious of the missing finger on his own right hand – a forfeit to the Magistrate's axe.

  *******

  "Well, I must be off," Wilcox announced several drinks later. He stifled a sour-faced burp, slapped John's shoulder, and staggered off toward the door.

  John followed, waving away Mary's disapproving scowl. She'd forgive him for this after he paid the rent.

  Wilcox pushed through the door, weaved his way across the street, and stumbled into an alley. John stood on the porch, chewing his lip, considering. But there really wasn't much to consider – he couldn't just let this chance pass him by.

  "Be careful, sir."

  John studiously ignored the boy, ignored his warning, ignored as best he could the memories the boy evoked. He walked away and followed the sound of retching into the alleyway, where he found Wilcox leaning against the wall, head hanging, body heaving.

  John pulled a knife from his pocket and approached. The handle felt slick against his sweaty palm.

  "Looks like you drank too much," John said. "Here, let me give you a hand."

  John took a deep breath, forced his hand to stop shaking, and sliced the jeweled pouch from Wilcox's belt. Drunk as Wilcox was, John probably could've taken the pouch, his belt, even his damn pants without too much trouble.

  But now what? He couldn't just leave the poor guy drunk and alone in an alley – he wouldn't last the night. And it'd be almost like John had killed him personally.

  John grabbed Wilcox to carry him to the nearest patrol house, but Wilcox's elbow swung around and smashed John's nose.

  Footsteps rushed from the shadows as John fell to the ground, holding his bleeding face.

  A gang of thugs encircled him.

  "Leave him alone!" Wilcox said, obviously not really drunk. "Leave him to his new-found fortune."

  *******

  After the gang left, John realized he still held Wilcox's pouch. He wiped blood from his nose and emptied the contents out onto the ground. Among a handful of coins sat the most hideous statuette John had ever seen: a fat, naked man the size of his fist, with a dagger in one clawed hand, a sack in the other, and a long tongue snaking down its flabby body.

  Ugly, yes, but it must be valuable as well – why else would Wilcox have had it?

  But then if it was so valuable, why hadn't Wilcox and his gang taken it back?

  And why hadn't they just killed him, or at least beaten him worse? That's what most people would do.

  And then it struck him. There was really only one explanation that made any sense at all: The Society must be recruiting. This was a test. And he'd succeeded!

  John smiled despite his broken nose. As a member of The Society he'd be taken care of. No more begging. No more scraping by. And no more nightmares of the Magistrate. The scarred stub of his right index finger – and scarred-over memories of Jimmy – itched at that thought.

  And, most importantly, as a member of The Society he could finally take proper care of Mary. And then, just maybe, she might eventually come to forgive him.

  *******

  "Password?" a voice behind the door demanded.

  "I don't know," John admitted. "But I've passed the test!"

  A window slid back and a nose like a rickety staircase poked through. John thrust out the statue. "See, I've got it! Open the door then!"

  The doorman's eyes widened and he jerked back from the opening. "Take that damned thing away from here!"

  “Listen up, man,” John said. “Fun’s fun, but I’ve no patience for it right now. I’ve waited for this opportunity for a long time, and I’ll not be denied by a doorman who doesn’t know his damn job. Now open up the door and we’ll just forget this happened.”

  “You listen, you guild-less bastard! Take that troll and be off before you get hurt real bad!”

  The opening slammed shut, leaving John alone on the porch.

  John frowned and scratched dried blood from his mustache. Perhaps the elbow to his nose had affected him more than he thought?

  He turned to leave.

  But then maybe this was another part of the test?

  He turned back to knock on the door again and a burlap sack thudded to the ground at his feet.

  Wilcox leaned out a second-floor window. "Take that bag of money there and leave town before there's more trouble!"

  A dozen rough-looking men came out onto the porch; another dozen looked down from the roof.

  John bent and picked up the bag of money. What the hell was going on here? Why'd they leave him with the ugly statue if it wasn't a test? It made no sense, and the whole incident was beginning to annoy the hell out of him.

  Before he could think better of it, John shouted a curse and flung the idol up at Wilcox, who dodged aside in horror as it flew through the window.

  *******

  John fled back to the Empty Net to seek answers within a mug of ale. The boy outside looked up, but thankfully said nothing. John pushed inside.

  "A month?" Flynn was saying. "I'll take that bet!"

  "You betting he will or he won't?" Glen asked.

  John slipped some rent money into Mary's apron pocket, gave her a quick kiss on the cheek, and took a seat at the bar. "What's the bet, then?"

  "Whether that boy outside will survive through the winter," Flynn said.

  John coughed out a humorless laugh. "In this town? That's easy. Bet he don't."

  Mary came up beside John and put an arm around
his shoulder. "Don't think so negative all the time, John. Why don't we take the boy home with us?"

  John shook his head. "I don't want to see you go through the pain of losing a child again, Mary. I won't let that happen!"

  Mary pulled her arm from John's shoulder and planted her hands on her hips. "You don't want to see that boy out front! You don't want to see me go through pain! You won't let it happen? You're protecting yourself, John, not me!"

  John spread his hands and shrugged helplessly. "We can barely afford to take care of ourselves, Mary – we can't afford to take in a vagrant!"

  "You're right, John – one thieving vagrant in the house is more than enough!"

  Mary threw the cash from her apron pocket into John's face and stormed out of the bar. John thought of chasing after her, but Glen and Flynn were watching.

  *******

  The event with Wilcox still made no sense, but thanks to the bag of money, John thought about it less with each drink. Mercifully, he thought about Mary and Jimmy less with each drink as well.

  "Another ale, Glen! And get one for yourself!"

  Glen held out his hand, palm up. "Cash first."

  John fingered the empty sack that Wilcox had thrown at him and frowned. Where the hell had all Wilcox's money gone? And what had happened to all the friends he'd been buying drinks for all damn night long – where the hell had they all gone?

  John was about to give up and leave, but then he remembered the handful of coins in the jeweled pouch he'd stolen from Wilcox.

  He reached his hand in . . . and then jerked his hand back out as though bitten!

  John put his fingers in his mouth and sucked them thoughtfully as he looked down at the pouch on the bar. He removed his fingers, wiped them on his shirt, and then wiped his sleeve across his mouth.

  He let out the breath he'd been holding, then took another deep breath before upending the pouch on the bar; amid a clatter of coin, the ugly little statue wobbled and then sat up, leering at John with malevolent eyes and a sinister grin.

  John gaped dumbly back at the figure. He vaguely recalled hurling it at Wilcox, right through his damned window, but then many hours and many more drinks had passed since that might or might not have happened.

  Glen's face pinched in disgust. "What is that?"

  "It's art," John said with a weak laugh. "I can get you a good deal on it."

  "I don't want that thing," Glen said. "But that pouch there will get you a bottle of your choice for the road."

  "Tell you what," John said. "Take this statue here too, and you've got yourself a deal."

  *******

  The sun was just a bloody red smear across the eastern horizon when John finally stumbled back home. Snickering drunkenly, he climbed the stairs to his and Mary's apartment. As he reached for the handle, the door burst open, knocking him back down the flight of steps.

  "Get out of my house!"

  John's breath left him in a grunt as he struck the landing at the bottom of the stairs. He rose unsteadily, alcohol masking much of the pain. "Mary . . . it's me – John."

  "I know your damn name! And that boy? He's got a name too, John! His name is Shawn. But you don't want to know that, do you? How could you bet on his death, John? And how could you go and steal again when you promised me you wouldn't? You promised me, John! You promised!"

  Spreading his arms, John looked up the stairway. "But Mary–"

  He threw his arms over his head as his scant belongings, along with a torrent of curses, rained down on him from the top of the stairway. Something hard struck him in the temple, and he again found himself lying on his back.

  He opened his eyes, shook his head, and turned to see what had knocked him down. After his vision came into focus, he saw the statuette squatting in the landing right beside his head. Leaping up, he ran away from Mary's continued curses and the statue's cruel grin.

  *******

  John woke beside the river, the scorching midday sun stabbing into his eyes. His head throbbed from too much drink, his mouth tasted like dried blood and stale beer.

  Funny, he hadn't woken outdoors like this since finding Mary. . . .

  Mary. . . ?

  His hand went to the lump above his ear. His heart pounded in his chest and ears, matching the pounding in his skull. He was sure he'd traded the little statue to Glen last night, but he couldn't ignore the knot on his head, or the memory of the thing sitting in the stairway beside him.

  As he pondered the riddle, John noticed a dry, scratchy burning, as though his body had been scoured with sand. He put his hand to his face, brushing swollen fingers across burnt nose, scalded cheeks, scorched ears; blisters erupted at his fumbling touch, soothing his face for an instant with cool pus before the sun lanced into the exposed skin, scorching it anew.

  But the pain of burnt skin, of a bruised temple, even the pain of Mary's scorn, all that left him when he noticed the jeweled pouch hanging from his belt and saw the bulge of the statuette horribly apparent within it.

  John tore the pouch from his waist, cast it into the river, and ran.

  *******

  John was only mildly surprised when the pouch reappeared on his belt, still reeking of the river's stench. He carefully scratched his face, plagued now not only by bruises and sunburn, but by countless bee stings as well. He'd stumbled into a whole damn hive of the little bastards as he ran away from the river, and had lost his race against the ornery swarm.

  Passersby granted him a wide berth as he trudged through the city, repelled not only by his best no-nonsense scowl, but more so by the swelling stings and oozing boils that gave him the grotesque appearance of a recent escapee from the Isle of Sores.

  An idea struck him while passing Ralston's pawnshop. He went inside. Ralston frowned at him through the bars separating him from his customers.

  "Johnny Boy, is that you? I barely recognized you with all that –" Ralston fluttered his hands in front of his wincing face. "I'm happy to see you, friend, but what in all the hells happened to you?"

  A little while later, John walked out of the shop with cash in hand and the beginnings of a plan forming in his mind. As he rounded the corner, the familiar weight of the pouch returned to his belt. He nodded and smiled. Maybe this was his path to fortune? After all, he could sell the pouch and idol over and over and over again, for no matter how obviously hideous the idol was, it was just as obvious that the pouch was a valuable prize.

  He would be rich!

  And then Mary would be happy.

  And then she would finally forgive him for what had happened to Jimmy.

  And then everything would be okay.

  *******

  John's plan was working like the luckiest of charms. His wealth grew in the following days, and in another week, two at most, he could return to Mary as a prosperous man fully deserving of forgiveness.

  He might've even been content except for the fact that his sunburn and bruises and bee stings seemed reluctant to heal. Plus he had new wounds as well, the most recent compliments of a pack of stray hounds that had run him down and attacked him, this despite the fact that he'd been feeding scraps to the ungrateful mutts for years!

  He also had a nagging feeling that Mary might not approve of the way he'd been earning his fortune. But it wasn't really stealing; no, it definitely wasn't – he'd convinced himself of the truth of that fact days ago. It was just a matter of convincing her to understand it as well. And anyway, it wasn't like he was going to do it forever. Just until his luck changed.

  As John rounded a corner, a rough hand covered his mouth and another seized his throat.

  His vision blurred and then faded away entirely.

  When he awoke, he was strapped to a table in a dim, windowless room that smelled of damp earth and mold. A pair of somber-looking goons loomed over him, thick arms crossed over their barrel chests.

  Another figure stepped out of the shadows. Footsteps echoed dully as the fellow walked over and frowned down at him. It w
as Ralston, and it was clear that he was not happy to see John on this day.

  "The thing is magic!" John cried out. "I can't help that, Ralston! It's not my fault!"

  "Magic?" Ralston shook his head and shrugged. "Even if that could possibly be true, which I doubt, you still used it to deceive me. I fault you for that, John, as will all the other pawnbrokers you've been cheating."

  Ralston heaved a sign. "I'm sorry it had to come to this, Johnny, I really am. But you brought this upon yourself. You see that, don't you?"

  *******

  John dreamed of Mary. She was playfully nibbling his toes while her fingers scampered gently over his body.

  But the nibbles gradually grew more painful, and the fingers began employing more and more jagged nail.

  "Easy Mary," John murmured, conscious of his dream but not wanting to wake from it.

  "Ahh – you're hurting me!"

  John opened his eyes to find a pack of rats skittering across his bare flesh, chewing his naked toes. He leapt up and hopped and flailed and kicked to dislodge the biting rodents, which crept reluctantly into the shadows, chittering complaints at the rudeness of their host.

  John stood in an alley, bleeding, broke and naked but for his belt and the pouch. He'd given the pouch to Ralston as thanks for sparing his life, but he wasn't surprised to find it back. Unlike Ralston, John no longer doubted the existence of magic. And it also didn't surprise him that magic was a curse, just like everything else in his miserable life.

  John found clothes easily enough, though it wasn't so easy making off with them – he somehow got tangled in the drying-line and nearly strangled himself running from the owner's dog.

  Money wasn't so easily found. Ralston made sure no other pawnbroker would buy from him. Not that he'd tried them all; the beatings he got at the first three convinced him not to try further, even if he was becoming numb to the pain.

  The pain of knowing that now he might never win back Mary was harder to ignore. Better to concentrate on something he could control – the pain of an empty stomach.