Streets of Poverty

 "Wait till I get my hands on you, you thieving little devil. I'll feed your entrails to the dogs!"

Dray sprinted down the aisle of the marketplace, ducking and weaving through the streets he called home. His feet pounded sun-parched earth, and hands clutched the treasure that had caused the commotion.

Just in time, he skidded to a halt before he got rolled over by a cart. Those few crucial seconds lost were enough. Hands grabbed at him, and the furious merchant caught up.  Elbowing Dray's captors aside, the merchant hauled him in by the scruff of his shirt, and raised his fist.

With a wrench, Dray tore out of the merchant's stranglehold before the blow could land. He dropped the coins in the struggle, and they scattered everywhere. No chance of salvaging them. He fled.

To his consternation, the merchant continued to give chase, yelling and shaking his fist at Dray's back. What did the man want? Dray didn't have his money anymore. They were all over the ground, free for the picking. Which was certainly what the street rats were doing.

Desperation lent Dray speed, but even that could not counter the weakness spreading in his limbs. His stomach gave a feeble complaint, and settled down again to murmur in its sleep. It had learned long ago that complaining never did any good, so it contented itself with slumbering to numb the emptiness. In contrast, his heart raced erratically. Blood surged through his body, trying to feed his muscles energy he didn't have.

The world spun for a moment, sending Dray careening into a stall selling children's toys. Marbles scattered and rolled across the ground, transforming it into a dangerous minefield. Little drums tumbled into the dirt, their rattles doing little to drown out the stallholder's outraged roar.

Disoriented, Dray picked himself up and shook his head, willing it to settle. It cleared enough for him to realise the merchant had almost caught up. Only the marbles had bought him time.

Eager to put as much distance as he could between him and the advancing merchant, Dray staggered into a little girl blocking his escape route.

She was about half his age, only four. Her face was round and glowing with health. Her clothes were clean and well kept, and pink ribbons threaded through her hair. In her hand, she clutched a half eaten pastry. It smelt so good.

She stared up at him with round, curious eyes, cocked her head, and laughed brightly.

"Get out of my way," Dray snarled, bowling her over. He snatched the pastry out of her hand for good measure.

Her laugh turned to sobs, then screams.

Dray slipped through the crowd as concerned adults rushed to placate her. Over her screams, he could just make out the furious bellows of the merchant, caught in the press of bodies.

Shielded from the merchant's baleful glare, he took a shortcut through an alley, and emerged into a quieter section of the market. Sure that he had lost all pursuit, he wolfed down the now cold pastry, relishing every bite, feeling the strength rush back into him. Dray stared at his empty hands. It wasn't enough. He needed more.

Damn that merchant. A string of coppers – hardly a pittance. Surely he could have cut Dray some slack. Obviously the merchant had not thought it was worth very much, since he had been more interested in taking out his wrath on Dray than on the money itself.

Those coppers would have been enough to buy two loaves of bread. A little plain, but food was food. Dray wasn't fussy.

Raised voices cut through the heavy afternoon air. Curious, Dray followed it, eyes darting all the while for easy pickings.

He found the source of the din easily. A fat merchant was haggling with a stallholder, his voice getting louder in an attempt to drown her protests.

Dray's stomach roiled in disgust. They were haggling over a sausage. The huge girth of the merchant and the bulge of the money bag at his belt showed a need for neither food nor a low price. Admittedly, Dray thought the sausage suited the merchant very well. Both were fat and oozing juice, or in the merchant's case, sweat.

A quick scope of the area told Dray that the street rats were gathering, sensing an opportunity. With the merchant gesticulating wildly and practically spitting in the poor woman's face, hardly any attention was paid to the heavy money bag bouncing at his waist.

All eyes were turned towards the haggling merchant now. The ebb and flow of the market seemed to have frozen around the turmoil that was him. Even if no one was looking at the money bag, any street rat who dared steal it under all those eyes was a fool.

Well, a street rat didn't survive by being wise. Life was a risk. The trick was to learn to minimise those risks, and Dray had always been a cunning fool.

He slipped through the crowd, feigning curiosity. When he was close enough, he pretended to trip, barrelling into the merchant who had just struck a deal and was reaching for his money. The merchant tottered and crashed into stall. The sausage he had accepted a few moments ago slipped through his fingers.

Dray helped the disgusted stallholder pull the merchant to his feet, making use of the momentary distraction to filch the money bag. He tucked it inside his tunic, conscious of its weight. It felt heavier than he had expected.

The merchant was red and huffing by the time he got to his feet. Before he could turn on Dray, Dray had pointed a finger at a small boy of six, and yelled, "Him!"

All eyes flicked to the boy, caught like a rabbit in the spotlight. He was frozen in a guilty hunch over the sausage which he had darted in to snatch when it fell. The sausage was halfway to his mouth, and he hesitated for too long, unsure whether to bite or to run.

"He stole your money bag.  I saw him," Dray continued.

A sharp intake of breath from the crowd. The merchant's hands flew to his belt. Finding his money bag missing, he bellowed like a furious bull and blundered towards the boy. In the ensuing chaos, Dray slipped away with his ill-gotten prize for the second time that day.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw dark figures detaching from the shadows of the alleyway. Dray quickened his pace, hoping to look inconspicuous. The narrowing distance between him and the shadows told him it wasn't working. He broke into a run.

Elbowing people out of his way, Dray barrelled through the market place and took a turning into an alley. This menacing world was his home. Dray knew it so well he could navigate it even in the dark. Conjuring a mental map to mind, Dray wove through the stinking labyrinths of the city, careful to avoid running himself into a dead end.

That wasn't working either. Dray could still hear pursuit behind him. Whoever they were, they knew the streets as well as Dray did. In the enclosed space, Dray couldn't tell how far behind they were. Running feet echoed all around him.

Suddenly Dray was flying, his body lurching forward, then tumbling to the ground. Sharp rocks cut into his arms and knees as he skidded across the hard earth. The money bag rolled out the front of his tunic, and Dray reached for it with a stinging hand.

His fingers had barely brushed it when a hand swooped down and swept it up. With dread, Dray followed the hand, his eyes clashing with dark brown. A red, jagged scar cut from the corner of the boy's right eye down to his cheek, where a wound from a fight had gotten infected and had never healed properly.

"Scar," Dray said, his tone flat. Inwardly, he cursed himself. Those hadn't been echoes. They had been real footsteps, circling around him. One of Scar's underlings must have had gotten ahead of Dray and tripped him up when he ran past. They formed a ring around him and Scar now, silent, intimidating.

"Saw what you did back there Dray," Scar said, coolly drawing a gold coin out of the money bag and tossing it up and down. Dray felt the older boys around him stir, shifting involuntarily towards Scar. Dray shared their sentiment. A gold coin! He cursed himself again for losing such a treasure.

"Clever, I must say. Couldn't have done better myself. Although poor ol' Joss wouldn't agree. He won't be sticking his head out of his hole for another two weeks after that beating he got." Scar weighed the bag of  coins in one hand, the gold coin spinning all the while the other. "By golly! This bag weighs a ton. There must be enough in here to last me and my boys for nigh on a month."

"It's mine Scar, give it back," Dray said, struggling to his feet. It didn't make much of a difference. The ring of older boys still towered over him, cutting off all escape.

"''Fraid I can't, Dray. I got my boys to look after."

A snarl ripped from Dray's throat, and he launched himself at Scar, easily twice his weight. The money was his. He needed them. Scar had no right to take them from him.

A blur of motion at his side found Dray caught in midair. Two of the boys had stepped in to protect their leader, and they now had Dray with his arms twisted behind his back, his feet only just touching the ground. Dray's arms hurt from the vice grips, and from the grazes he had sustained from his fall. He gritted his teeth, trying to ignore the flash of pain.

Scar hadn't even so much as flinched. An amused smile danced on his lips, mocking Dray. He flicked the coin inches from Dray's face and caught it in mid air, making a show of thinking. "Tell you what. You prove yourself, and I'll give you back some. Can't give it all back though." He raised his hands in front of him and shrugged, as if to say what can I do?

A tilt of his head saw Dray released into a heap on the ground. The circle retreated, giving Dray room.

"What do I have to do?" Dray muttered sullenly, rubbing his arms. That smeared blood all over, and made it hurt more, so he stopped.

Scar gestured with the coin. "See that pup over there? Throw a rock at it."

Dray stared at Scar, then at the pup. It was only a few moons old, thin and ragged. It snuffled around at the heaps of rotting garbage strewn around, looking for crumbs, its tail drooping sadly.

Dray forced an indifferent shrug, and stooped to pick up a rock. The pup was less than five metres away. At this range, Dray would be sure to hit it. And it would hurt.

He launched.

The rock flew true, striking the pup just behind its head. Its tail shot between its legs, and it made a sound between a scream and a whine. Its eyes rolled, and it snuffed the air blindly while backing up, unsure whether to run or to face the threat.

Scar and his friends guffawed. Dray held out his hand, silently demanding his due, but Scar was enjoying himself.

"Again," he said between chortles.

Dray shot Scar a look of pure loathing, but complied. This time the pup didn't wait around. With a squeal that hurt Dray's ears, it shot off into the shadows, pursued by jeers and cruel boys. Scar stayed long enough to flick a coin at Dray, before disappearing after his underlings.

Dray's hands shot up fast enough to intercept the coin before it hit him in the face. He felt the sting of metal against flesh. No doubt Scar had thrown the coin in hopes of causing some damage. It felt cool in his hand, after that brief heat of pain. Dray looked at it.

"Scar!"

"I never said how much I would give you," a mocking voice floated back to him, barely audible above the beating wings of birds startled by the scream.

Dray stormed down the street, gritting his teeth. One copper! After all the trouble he had gone through, all he had was one measly copper. Damn Scar to the fiery pits of hell. Now what was he going to eat?
An aromatic scent teased at his nose, and Dray doubled back. Loaves of bread lined the stall, and sweet delicacies nestled next to them. It was these delicacies that sent Dray's head spinning with hunger. Little buns stuffed with meat and laced with spices – a mouth-watering treat. But only a mouthful. It would never satisfy Dray's hunger.

But the bread! Dray couldn't remember the last time he had tasted bread so soft and white. The only food in the slums available for scavenging were stale and hard.

Dray's fingers twitched. The stallholder, a scrawny woman, surprising for one who baked for a living, was preoccupied. The sun was setting, and no honest man would want to be on the streets when it sank beneath the horizon.

Dray watched the woman pack up after a long day's work, all the while wrestling with himself. It was one thing to steal from merchants who cheated for a living, and quite another to steal from those who struggled to place food on the table.

Struggle as much as you?, a snide voice asked inside his head.

No, no one could have it as hard as Dray. At least she has a table to put food on, and a home to go to, he thought bitterly.

The streets were emptying now, and no one spared Dray a second glance, too intent on returning home to safety. When the woman turned to load her trays of buns onto her cart, Dray took opportunity of her distraction and made off with two loaves of bread, one in each hand.

The streets that Dray was hurrying through now, head down and ears pricked for danger, were the filthiest and most desolate part of the city. It was down one of these alleys where the rickety lean-to that Dray called his shelter stood. Rats swarmed boldly over piles of rotting trash, stopping to watch Dray pass by. Dray saw their noses twitch at the scent of the fresh bread, saw the wicked glint in eyes that reflected the light of the dying sun. He kept his head down, muscles tense, and continued his brisk pace.

A corner away from his alley, Dray saw a familiar figure. Dry blood matted its fur, although it was hard to tell what was blood and what was grime.

Dray knelt. Whistling, he tore a chunk of bread off and held it out. The pup's nose whipped out of the mound of decaying rubbish and turned towards the bread between Dray's fingers. Too starved to be wary, despite the abuse it had sustained earlier, it blundered towards Dray. As soon as it was close enough, Dray swept it up, silencing its shrill whimpers with the chunk of bread. The pup's tongue rasped against his fingers, licking off all the crumbs. For the first time in months, Dray smiled. The change in him was astonishing. The premature frown of worry lifted from his serious face, and he looked as carefree as any child of ten ought to be.

Dray carried the pup down his alley, a slight spring in his steps. A shadow stirred at his approach, and retreated under the hole-ridden canvas stretched across sticks.

Dray crouched down in front of the huddled figure, and offered it the pup and loaves of bread. Huge eyes peered out from the forlorn face of a girl who had only known five winters. She stared warily at the boy who had found her on the streets earlier that morning, and left her alone in this dark place.

"I promised you I would return, didn't I? From now on I'm going to take care of you both."

*~*~*

Streets of Poverty is my biggest undertaking to date, NaNo aside. It took 12 hours in total, and had to be completely rewritten at one point. It is the first project in an attempt to get into writing frequently, and improving my skills. Streets of Poverty was written with the focus on characterisation.  

What was your initial impression of Dray? How did it change as the story went on?

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