A Matthew Story
Well, in case anyone wanted to know, here's the story of Matthew BEFORE he was a master.
He's about...ten, I'd say.
Dark and dusty. Those were the only words that could possibly describe the alleys at night. Failak was no place for children. A small and poor town, people lived their whole lives by the doctrine “every man for himself.” Children grew up alone; the lucky ones had a parent who spared a crust of bread a day.
The boy digging through the trash pile had no parents to speak of. He wandered the night, already knowing that it was much too dangerous to sleep outside in the day. To defend himself, he had only his fierce tongue, which had been sharpened much too young.
There had been nothing to eat but scraps for ages. The boy had so far counted the days with all his fingers and toes and was starting on his teeth. He was almost done with the top row. With all this counting of teeth, he felt a new one about to surface.
It was lucky that it never got cold in Failak, thought the boy. The rag he wore about his waist wouldn’t have been much comfort. It barely provided him protection against the sands of the desert, much less any chill that a wind might bring.
A slight noise in the background caused him to halt in his rummaging. Years of living on the streets had honed his senses to a lethal edge and, though whoever it was sounded as if they wanted to be quiet, the boy heard the footsteps. He whipped around and scowled.
A man stood there, dressed in rags as he was, but there was something…different. His hair still hung in lank, greasy clumps like everyone else’s and he was still smeared with dirt, covered in muck, but there was something not right. Maybe he had stumbled upon money long enough ago that the traces of obesity hadn’t left, but the boy didn’t think he was thin enough. And his eyes. His eyes still held the light of one who hadn’t yet given up on life.
The boy, voice hoarse from lack of use, managed the sentence, “This is my ground.”
The man, his life-filled eyes suddenly full of sorrow, nodded and said, “Yes, I know.”
“Leave.” The boy, even at his young age, did not tolerate fools, nor did he tolerate anyone who wanted to share his pittance.
The man gave him another infuriatingly sad look, but said nothing more and turned away. Unsatisfied and slightly disturbed, the boy went back to rummaging.
Midday found the sun shining over-bright, spilling its glow onto the dusty streets of Failak and onto the sleeping boy. His eyes had learned to sleep well in the light and were much more alert without the sun watching.
He slept as peacefully as was possible on an empty stomach, barely having the energy to toss and turn. He awoke instinctively at dusk and felt the new presence before he saw it. Baring his teeth, he turned and found the man again.
“What do you want?” he grunted, standing up. The man said nothing, only looked at him.
“You’re very sturdy, did you know that?” he finally asked, smiling sadly.
The boy didn’t know how to reply, so he continued to bare his teeth in a feral snarl. The man shook his head, still drenched in sorrow. All of a sudden, he looked startled. The boy was glad to see that he wasn’t sad, but this new emotion made him wary.
“How terribly rude of me!” the man cried. Before the boy even had time to wonder why he was so rude, his brain latched on to the educated way this vagabond spoke. “I’ve not yet properly introduced myself!”
The boy hardly made out any of it. No one talked to a sewer rat like that.
“My name is Ty.” The boy said nothing, so he continued. “I’d like to help you.”
“I don’t want help!” the boy shouted, finally finding his voice and turning to run, only finding the solid, clay wall. He scowled at it and rammed a tiny fist into it, not having the rational thought to realize he couldn’t break it down himself. He slammed punch after punch into the rough stone, bloodying his hands and hearing the bones splinter and crack.
A gentle hand appeared on his shoulder and he stopped. The hand was clean. He turned around and found the man. He wasn’t the same man anymore, though. His whole body was clean. His hair was neat, shiny, and combed. His rags weren’t rags anymore. He was garbed in fine, white breeches and fine, strong sandals. A gold pendant hang at his neck.
“What are you?” the boy demanded, jutting out his chin.
“I’m an angel,” he explained patiently.
The boy stared at him. “Leave me alone!” he finally shouted, struggling to escape his grasp. He thought he might faint from hunger. He shouldn’t be doing such strenuous things.
“Please, stop struggling and let me explain!”
“Find someone else! I can take care of myself!”
“Stop moving!”
The boy was rooted to the spot. He tried to yank his arm, but it wouldn’t move. Only his eyes seemed to have life anymore.
“Good. Now that you’ve decided to calm down, I shall explain. I am an angel. You, my dear boy, have an extraordinary talent. Come with me, and we’ll develop that talent. Please. You’re our only hope.”
The boy, not sensing the way he buttered him up, cast his eyes downward.
“Can I leave Failak?” he asked, wondering if he was hoping. It wasn’t an emotion he was used to feeling.
“Leave Failak? You can leave Persia, you can leave this world.”
Leave Failak? Persia? Earth? “Huh?”
“You’ll live as my disciple.”
“ Diss-” He couldn’t pronounce it, but he liked the way it sounded. Ty laughed.
“My student. Come, child.”
He didn’t have to compel the boy to take his hand-he did it on his own.
“I don’t got a name,” the boy said, still trying to sound gruff and tough. The angel halted and turned, studying him.
“We’ll call you Matthew,” he finally said. The boy, not used to being called anything nicer than “boy,” found his eyes filling with emotion.
“Matthew,” the boy repeated slowly. Ty smiled and the boy returned it.
He's about...ten, I'd say.
Dark and dusty. Those were the only words that could possibly describe the alleys at night. Failak was no place for children. A small and poor town, people lived their whole lives by the doctrine “every man for himself.” Children grew up alone; the lucky ones had a parent who spared a crust of bread a day.
The boy digging through the trash pile had no parents to speak of. He wandered the night, already knowing that it was much too dangerous to sleep outside in the day. To defend himself, he had only his fierce tongue, which had been sharpened much too young.
There had been nothing to eat but scraps for ages. The boy had so far counted the days with all his fingers and toes and was starting on his teeth. He was almost done with the top row. With all this counting of teeth, he felt a new one about to surface.
It was lucky that it never got cold in Failak, thought the boy. The rag he wore about his waist wouldn’t have been much comfort. It barely provided him protection against the sands of the desert, much less any chill that a wind might bring.
A slight noise in the background caused him to halt in his rummaging. Years of living on the streets had honed his senses to a lethal edge and, though whoever it was sounded as if they wanted to be quiet, the boy heard the footsteps. He whipped around and scowled.
A man stood there, dressed in rags as he was, but there was something…different. His hair still hung in lank, greasy clumps like everyone else’s and he was still smeared with dirt, covered in muck, but there was something not right. Maybe he had stumbled upon money long enough ago that the traces of obesity hadn’t left, but the boy didn’t think he was thin enough. And his eyes. His eyes still held the light of one who hadn’t yet given up on life.
The boy, voice hoarse from lack of use, managed the sentence, “This is my ground.”
The man, his life-filled eyes suddenly full of sorrow, nodded and said, “Yes, I know.”
“Leave.” The boy, even at his young age, did not tolerate fools, nor did he tolerate anyone who wanted to share his pittance.
The man gave him another infuriatingly sad look, but said nothing more and turned away. Unsatisfied and slightly disturbed, the boy went back to rummaging.
Midday found the sun shining over-bright, spilling its glow onto the dusty streets of Failak and onto the sleeping boy. His eyes had learned to sleep well in the light and were much more alert without the sun watching.
He slept as peacefully as was possible on an empty stomach, barely having the energy to toss and turn. He awoke instinctively at dusk and felt the new presence before he saw it. Baring his teeth, he turned and found the man again.
“What do you want?” he grunted, standing up. The man said nothing, only looked at him.
“You’re very sturdy, did you know that?” he finally asked, smiling sadly.
The boy didn’t know how to reply, so he continued to bare his teeth in a feral snarl. The man shook his head, still drenched in sorrow. All of a sudden, he looked startled. The boy was glad to see that he wasn’t sad, but this new emotion made him wary.
“How terribly rude of me!” the man cried. Before the boy even had time to wonder why he was so rude, his brain latched on to the educated way this vagabond spoke. “I’ve not yet properly introduced myself!”
The boy hardly made out any of it. No one talked to a sewer rat like that.
“My name is Ty.” The boy said nothing, so he continued. “I’d like to help you.”
“I don’t want help!” the boy shouted, finally finding his voice and turning to run, only finding the solid, clay wall. He scowled at it and rammed a tiny fist into it, not having the rational thought to realize he couldn’t break it down himself. He slammed punch after punch into the rough stone, bloodying his hands and hearing the bones splinter and crack.
A gentle hand appeared on his shoulder and he stopped. The hand was clean. He turned around and found the man. He wasn’t the same man anymore, though. His whole body was clean. His hair was neat, shiny, and combed. His rags weren’t rags anymore. He was garbed in fine, white breeches and fine, strong sandals. A gold pendant hang at his neck.
“What are you?” the boy demanded, jutting out his chin.
“I’m an angel,” he explained patiently.
The boy stared at him. “Leave me alone!” he finally shouted, struggling to escape his grasp. He thought he might faint from hunger. He shouldn’t be doing such strenuous things.
“Please, stop struggling and let me explain!”
“Find someone else! I can take care of myself!”
“Stop moving!”
The boy was rooted to the spot. He tried to yank his arm, but it wouldn’t move. Only his eyes seemed to have life anymore.
“Good. Now that you’ve decided to calm down, I shall explain. I am an angel. You, my dear boy, have an extraordinary talent. Come with me, and we’ll develop that talent. Please. You’re our only hope.”
The boy, not sensing the way he buttered him up, cast his eyes downward.
“Can I leave Failak?” he asked, wondering if he was hoping. It wasn’t an emotion he was used to feeling.
“Leave Failak? You can leave Persia, you can leave this world.”
Leave Failak? Persia? Earth? “Huh?”
“You’ll live as my disciple.”
“ Diss-” He couldn’t pronounce it, but he liked the way it sounded. Ty laughed.
“My student. Come, child.”
He didn’t have to compel the boy to take his hand-he did it on his own.
“I don’t got a name,” the boy said, still trying to sound gruff and tough. The angel halted and turned, studying him.
“We’ll call you Matthew,” he finally said. The boy, not used to being called anything nicer than “boy,” found his eyes filling with emotion.
“Matthew,” the boy repeated slowly. Ty smiled and the boy returned it.