Richard Ford - Herald of the Storm

Back in the dim past, Rag’s mother had been a corner whore — and a beautiful one too. They had lived in a room back then. Not a big room, and it was none too clean, but they had a roof and walls and it was warm. There’d been food on the table and all Rag had to do was make herself scarce while her mother did the business. She’d been called Morag then, Morag Rounsey; a real name for a real girl. That had all changed after her mother met the man from Silverwall. He wore fancy clothes, had a sweet smell about him and flashed his pennies around like he was someone that mattered. Rag’s mother had told her she was going off with the man, back to Silverwall to be with him, but she’d return soon enough to take Morag with her. Then they’d both move to Silverwall to live with the fancy bloke in his fancy house.

Rag had stayed in that room for days — she couldn’t remember how many. After a while the landlord come to turf her out; she didn’t have any coin and where her mother was weren’t none of his problem, any road. She’d hung round the building for weeks after, always waiting, begging for scraps, selling what little she had left for food. It was a while before she realised her mother weren’t ever coming back.

And so she’d become Rag, a thief and a beggar. She’d learned harsh lessons — who were your friends and who weren’t, where to go and where not, who to thieve from and who to avoid — and now here she was with a crew of her own, for what they were worth. Orphans all, and none of them any good at stealing, apart from Fender of course, but they were her crew, and they loved each other in their own way. She felt like they were family and she’d do what she could to look after them for as long as she was able.

A sudden noise made her jump up. Tidge gave a squeal as he fell sideways, and Chirpy and Migs grabbed each other even tighter.

Rag moved to the doorway and peered out. Relief washed over her as she saw Markus walking across the roof. He gave a wave and a smile.

Markus entered their shack with a jolly ‘hello’, sitting on the little woodpile and looking round as if he was one of them, as if he belonged. It was obvious to anyone with half an eye that he didn’t. The boy was clean for a start … well certainly cleaner than any of the street kids he was sitting with. His clothes had no holes and had been washed within the past week and his hands weren’t grimed with filth, the nails white, not black from scrabbling through garbage for food. He’d been hanging round with them for weeks, and Rag hadn’t seen the harm in it. He wasn’t an orphan; he lived with his father in the Trades Quarter, but Rag had found him wandering the streets, sad and alone like a lost puppy. Of course she’d taken him under her wing — that’s what she did — but he didn’t thieve and he didn’t beg. No use but no harm, so what was the danger?

‘You all right?’ Rag asked, when Markus didn’t speak.

He shrugged back. ‘Good as ever,’ he said.

Rag hadn’t asked, and Markus hadn’t told, but she reckoned on the boy’s father being a bit of a bastard, which was why he had taken to wandering the streets so far from home and hanging round with the urchins. It weren’t none of her affair so she didn’t pry. Everyone had their own private business, she reckoned.

‘Might be cold tonight,’ said Chirpy. ‘We should maybe think about getting the fire going again.’

‘Don’t talk wet,’ Tidge replied. ‘Ain’t been cold for ages. I reckons we should save the wood for another night.’

Rag smiled at his good sense. For his age he had a solid head on his shoulders. He might even be clever enough to leave this shit life when he was old enough.

‘We’ll wait and see,’ said Rag. ‘Could be a storm coming.’ She nodded through the missing slats in the shack towards the north. A dark cloudbank was gathering on the horizon, an ominous blackness that threatened to consume the clear blue.

‘What the fuck’s this, a mothers’ meeting?’

Rag started at the voice, but as soon as she saw the tall figure framed in the doorway she relaxed.

Fender climbed inside, his lithe muscular limbs moving with feline grace within the confines of the makeshift shelter.

‘What’s the matter? You’ve a face as long as a donkey’s cock.’ He sat down in the middle of the group, with Migs and Chirpy shuffling up to give him room. ‘Looks like you’ve had a shit day at work, Rag? Where’s your coat?’

‘I gave it to your mum,’ she replied. ‘She said she was cold sucking cock at night time.’

Fender smiled back. He’d never known his mother or father, so it weren’t any insult. ‘It’s a good job one of us has been busy, ain’t it?’ He reached in the pocket of his coat and pulled out a tiny bronze vase. The younger boys looked at it with awe, their little faces lighting up at such a flagrant display of wealth.

Fender tossed the item to Tidge. ‘Go deal this to Boris downstairs. And don’t let the fat bastard sell you short.’

Tidge didn’t need telling twice and ran out of the shack faster than Rag had ever seen him move. This was good — they might eat tonight. Boris, innkeeper of the Silent Bull, didn’t mind them making a home on the roof as long as they kept providing him with the odd trinket. He’d even give them food and a little grog if the items were valuable enough.

‘What the fuck’s he doing here?’ Fender said suddenly, looking daggers at Markus.

‘He ain’t doing nothing,’ Rag replied defensively, but she knew it wouldn’t placate Fender — he hated Markus. It was jealousy, pure and simple, and Fender could be a nasty bastard sometimes. Nevertheless, Markus had always taken every slap and insult Fender dished out, and kept coming back for more.

‘I’ve had enough of it.’ Fender stood, ducking beneath the low roof of the shack but still towering over the rest of them. ‘If he stays, he pays, like the rest.’

‘Sit down, Fen-’

‘Fuck off, Rag, I mean it. Get out, rich boy, and don’t fucking come back until you bring something worthwhile. We all gives a bit for the pot. Time you did the same.’

Markus had already moved to the door, clearly fearful of Fender and his cold challenge, but he raised his chin defiantly. Rag had to admit she was a bit proud of him for that.

‘All right, I will,’ he said in a small voice. Then he ran off across the roof.

‘You didn’t have to do that. He’s one of us,’ said Rag.

‘Like fuck he is. He’s got family. He don’t need us. Let’s wait for winter, shall we, wait for the biting cold and the hunger to set in? Then we’ll see how many times he comes to stay.’

Rag didn’t answer. She wanted to tell Fender where to go, wanted to tell him that Markus was a member of her crew and she trusted him, but she couldn’t — because, deep down, she couldn’t help but think that Fender was right, and when the going got tough they would never see Markus again.

The song of steel was not a pretty tune. It rang out, discordant and loud, hammered in with muscle and sweat and dirt. Nobul Jacks performed the song like an artist, working his anvil as well as any fiddler at his bow, his powerful strokes expert in their precision. His formidable frame struck out the rhythm; hammer smashing white-hot steel, which sparked in quick quick time, filling the smithy with a dirge to rival any orchestra.

In the darkness of the forge a fierce fire burned, blades protruding like the spokes of a wheel, ready to be struck flat or quenched in water, ready to sing like the strings of a harp. Nearby stood the grinding stone whose voice called out as it sharpened and honed in a perfect falsetto.

For Nobul this was more than mere craft, more than a living. When working the forge he could forget what his life had become — all that existed was the song, the music of his labours, and it swept him from the world, his nightmares and his grief. Once he had closed the door behind him, he felt safe, deep in the sanctuary of his noisy, dirty, honest work.