He was without a shadow of doubt the most brilliant (and most gifted) thief in the slumps of the Town. Follow the adventures of an illiterate young ragamuffin known only by the name Firth.
Well...don't tell me you were expecting the whole fairy-tale hubbub. For this story is as real as the air you breath, the warmth of the summer sun, and the taste of the rain on your tongue.
Do not wonder what my Name is, I am known only as the Traveller.
And do not wonder where I am from, for I belong to all the world and yet remain separate from it. So that I am become a carrier of stories, and a keeper of memories.
Now like any good story, this story begins with a place, the Town.
And as before, do not ask the name of the Town, for it is known by no name but the Town.
Our story begins on a night, like most nights in the Town.
The lone figure trudged through the downpour, their footsteps a dull echo in the dark of the night. Their muddled shadow dancing erratically in the ghastly amber light of the gas lamps. It was the darkest part of night, midnight. The gas lamps seemed to stretch on as far as the eye could see, not that it would have been very far in the torrent of rain on this particular night. Lightning, flashing, raced across the night sky, thunder boomed like the clamour of a thousand steam trains and our hooded figure quivered. The pale flash of lightning, illuminating the hooded figure as they turned towards the great oak doors of the Town orphanage.
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The orphanage loomed menacingly over our mysterious figure, half of it covered in foliage. The vines seemed to climb hungrily across the face of the orphanage, as they rustled in the wind. Not a flicker of candlelight escaped from the windows, with it's black curtains drawn and hulking oak doors like the jaws of some long forgotten beast, shut tight.
The knocks on the door by the poor soul, weary from travel, were low and dull. And so incessant was their rapping on the door, that it rang long into the dead of night.
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Mrs Woodworm stirred in her sleep. The orphanage rarely had any visitors, in fact it was only an orphanage in name. It was more accurately described as a dilapidated shelter, although the Town mayor came to visit sporadically to keep up appearances.
He hadn't scheduled a visit and so Mrs Woodworm almost thought she had dreamt it. But she was sure she heard the knocking. She swung her tired legs out of bed, and quickly recoiled from the cold of the floor. Feeling her bedside table in the dark, she found her box of matches. Stricking one along it's flint, the golden flame threw shadows along her colourless walls. Lighting her night lamp with the match, she left the warmth of her bed, shuddering as the chill of night clawed at her gangly frame. She swore colourfully, wrapping herself in a thick old cloak she had draped on her chair. The floor boards creaked, as if they would give way at a moment's notice, as she made her way across the hallway. If you listened you would hear the almost inaudible rustling of feet, and not the feet of children but that of the rats that seemed to have made permanent residence under the floor boards of the orphanage.
The knocking rang through the hallway, and if it were not for the ungodly hour Mrs Woodworm would have shouted. Retrieving the key from her pocket she put the key into the lock, one turn, two turn, three, unlocking the door. The door creaked as Mrs Woodworm pulled it open and to her surprise she saw a young woman. She was shivering from the wet and cold, her lips blue. Mrs Woodworm stared, shocked, before hurriedly letting her in, leading her towards the room where visitors were seated. Putting her in the chair closest to the fireplace, she hurried to get a fire going. The dying embers of the previous fire cracked to life as she put new wood unto them. Stoking them with the fire tong to get it going, Mrs Woodworm stole glances at the young woman in the soft glow of the fire.
She had a strong gaze, and her pupils gleamed like stormy blue gems in the fire light. Her auburn hair sat over her shoulders matted from the rain. She had a pretty face, with freckles on her high cheek bones and a slender build. But the signs of hardships were etched deep into her visage. Her wrists thin and dress worse for the wear.
As Mrs Woodworm continued to sneak glimpses at the young woman, she quickly realised that she was heavily pregnant. Her bump rising with her laboured breaths.
She didn't have any change of clothes for the poor girl, and she trembled terribly from the cold. Mrs Woodworm took off her blanket and draped it over her the shoulders of the young girl.
"Where was she from?"
"Who could she be?"
"Was she possibly running away?"
Thoughts scampered in Mrs Woodworm's head. She had seen her fair share of women who had run away with lovers only to be abandoned. And they never seized to break her heart.
Her features though gaunt, hinted that she was beautiful. And for the life of her, Mrs Woodworm couldn't fathom why she felt the young woman was special. Her thoughts were disturbed as the young lady begun to moan, and she was growing louder by the second. It took a minute for Mrs Woodworm to put two and two together. A woman, quite heavily pregnant, moaning as if in pain, of course Mrs Woodworm thought, how silly of her not to have noticed, she had to be in labour! The joy of having realised this evaporated as it sank in...she was in labour!
What to do?!
That night the orphanage experienced the most excitement it ever had in ages. Mrs Woodworm had to wake up the rest of the orphanage keepers, and had one of them call the local doctor Mr Fiddleton, and a few older mothers who had helped deliver babies in the Town. The rest got warm water and extra blankets.
The older children were all up by then, stealing glimpses through half opened bedroom doors.
Mr Fiddleton, a tall and skinny man he was, arrived a while later. His worn brown doctor's case in his grip, and his umbrella in hand. Mr Fiddleton was a chaos of a man, his funny build never seemed to match his seriousness. He had a head that seemed much too big for his neck, such long arms and legs.
By now the older mothers from the Town had gotten the young woman ready, with warm towels at hand. The delivery lasted for two grueling hours, and by the time the little baby was finally born the impromptu team were positively spent. The baby's cry resounded in the creaking orphanage.
Mr Fiddleton handed the cleaned and wrapped baby to the new mother. "It's a boy" he said, "and a healthy one". The young woman with tears in her eyes, held her child then with a smile said "His name will be Firth"
