Every new adjustment is a crisis in self-esteem...
~Eric Hoffer
When I awaken, it’s early morning, and I’m inside a small room. The furniture is rather old and shabby, but the bed I’m on is soft, and if the blankets have holed here and there, they are warm. A cheery fire burns in the hearth, and the figure silhouetted against its light, sitting in a wooden chair. He must have heard me stir, for he rises and comes over to the bedside.
At first, remembering the frightening people in the alleyway, I shrink back in fear, but the sight of him soon puts me at ease. He’s tall, and thin, with a pleasant, young-looking face. A wayward lock of dark hair keeps falling in his eyes, which are dark also, a sharply alert. His smile is but a faint expression, and doesn’t seem to be one that comes often to his narrow face, but it’s warm and reassuring. He speaks in a soft, soothing voice, one meant to calm the fears of a very young and very frightened child.
“Awake at last, are we? You’ve slept for hours, little one.” He reaches out and tousles my hair in a good-natured, friendly way. “Aye, little lass, an interesting bundle I found on my doorstep last night. Where’s your family, little one, and what’s your name?”
I notice that my scraped arm has been bandaged, and only throbs occasionally with a dull ache. Whoever this man is, he must be kind. “R-R-Rois,” I stammer out, the last vestiges of fear being slow to leave. “My p-p-parents are gone, I couldn’t find them anywhere...” The last sentence drops off awkwardly as I sniffle and find myself dissolving into tears again. The man shakes his head and brushes a teardrop off my cheek with a fingertip.
“Now, now, Rois, none o’ that. Be brave, yes, that’s better, child.” He smiles again, that small, crooked smile and once again soothes my fears. “I’m Cobe, and if your parents ha’ left you here, Rois, you couldn’t ha’ stumbled into a better place. I’ll take care of you, Rois, no fear. Aye, you’re safe now, little one.” He clumsily reaches out and enfolds me in a rough hug. “Your parents won’t be comin’ back, I fear, but you can stay here, with me, aye, and I’ll teach you a trade that’ll keep you alive.” He chuckles, a faintly bitter sound. “For a while, at least.”
I nod, uncertain of what to make of all this. Cobe smiles that lopsided grin again. “Are you hungry, Rois? I think there’s enough food for two.” I nod again, biting nervously on the tip of my finger. Patiently removing my hand from my mouth (just like Father is the thought that comes to mind), he leads me to a chair and dishes up a bowl of leftover stew from the pot hanging over the fire, and hands me a piece of bread. “Lean pickings, I know, but I wager you’re too hungry to complain.” He chuckles again. “And the same with me.” Handing me a spoon, there is silence the room as we eat.
Cobe pushes his chair away from the table and studies me intently as I finish, his hands folded together, index fingers tapping against his chin. His eyes have something of that calculating look of the others in the street, but a warmth to them that keeps me from becoming wary. When I’m done, he asks, “Where are you from, child? And why would your parents abandon their only daughter in this cruel city?”
I look down, a chill feeling of hurt spreading through me. I don’t want to have to think of this, to remember this...how my parents cannot love me...how I am demonborn. But Cobe waits patiently in his chair, and at last I answer.
“We lived out...out there, off to the east.” I wave my hand vaguely in toward what I presume to be the direction of the front city gates (Cobe tells me later I gestured toward the gallows...a horrifying thought) “My parents left me here, they said...they said I was demonborn...a curse...” I try to swallow back my tears, with little success. Thankfully, Cobe takes over the conversation.
“East, eh? Farmers or woodcutters, then.” He notices my tears and brushes them away with his fingertips. “Now, now, hush...you’re not a demon, child...funny eyes, yes, but demon, never. I could never believe a poor lass like you to be a demon.” He mutters something that sounds like swearing, flushes uncomfortably when he remembers me, and speaks again. “Those are nothing but silly peasant superstitions, Rois. Some folk are easily frightened. It’s sheer nonsense. Why would they call a precious lass like you a demon, now?” He leans forward, an intent expression on his face.
I look down at my hands, folded in my lap, and twisting the fabric of my shirt between my fingers. “I changed my shape...a puppy...I was just playing, but Mother said I was demonborn, and Father agreed. I think” I sniffle, but no tears come anymore.
Cobe whistles softly through his teeth and leans back in his chair. “A shifter? Astonishing. Simply amazing. Shapeshifter. As I live and breathe.” He notices my distress and leans forward again. “Rois, lass, you’re not a monster. Or a demon. You’re just something very special, more special that most of us. You’re a shapeshifter, child, something very rare indeed.” He smiles gently and brushes a strand of hair out of my face. “Precious rare. Don’t be ashamed of what you are, lass. It’s a rare talent you’re blessed with.”
I nod slowly, still unconvinced. The total rejection from my parents still stings too much, the pain is too fresh to be so easily soothed away. Cobe stands and stretches, clearing away the dishes from the table.
“Well, Rois,” he says as he tidies up the small room, “if you’re going to live here, we shall say you are my apprentice.” He flashes another brief grin. “And your new trade, precious, shall be professional thievery.”
I look up, shocked. Mother always told me stealing was wrong. “But...people shouldn’t steal...”
Cobe understands my bafflement, and drops into a crouch beside my chair. “Sometimes, precious, people have to steal. It’s a matter of staying alive. And in this city, no one’s going to give you anything. Those so-called upright, hardworking citizens are nothing more than selfish, self-centered fools. They wouldn’t help a poor child like you, lost and alone. Your only way to survive, Rois, is to steal. I learned that a long time ago, when I was your age. The only way for a thief to stay alive is to be good. Very, very good. And you, my lass, are going to be the best.” He smiles reassuringly and taps a finger on the tip of my nose. “And your lessons will start today.”