The Little Woodtail, D.H. Bridgegate [best ebook reader for pc .txt] 📗

I truly hated Zbaka; there were no trees, there was not an inch of greenery, and there was not a breath of fresh air. There was, however, plenty of filth and trash and homelessness like no city I ever been to or read about. And there were plenty of poorly-finished sidewalks with stone so sharp and pointed that one would cut his foot if he was foolish enough to walk the streets barefooted. And there were plenty of huddled together houses and shops and workshops that were so tightly built that, if my adventurous air overcame me, I would hop from rooftop to rooftop on my way to school.

And oh, there were many—too many— magicians. Long ago, Zbaka was referred to as the 'city of enchantment' (personally, I enjoyed to call it the 'city of filth') and because of this, on every corner and in every alley were there magicians. Most of them gave me no time, wishing not to waste their enchantment on a mere child. Yet still, there were those few who would attempt to impress me with their magic. Once in a while I would glance or smile or even toss a coin to those who impressed me, but I never actually cared for magic or enchantment or whatever it was called. Mother nor Father ever practiced it and neither would I. Admittedly, I was fascinated by such magic when I was younger but at the age of eleven I was no longer amused. Now when magicians sought my attention, I wouldn't glance or smile or toss a coin. They began to annoy me, and on that hot morning in dreadful old Zbaka, I wished not to run into one, to even come within sight of one.

If I had even an ounce of luck that day I must have used it all up for my wish, for not a single magician looked my way. But I was far from lucky. I was still late, terribly late and as I bumped, stumbled, and rushed my way pass the large crowds of people on the busy streets, I begin to lose myself in my thoughts. I just knew I was going to be subjected to hearing Mr. Ra'zakanare complain about my absence. He would tell me every morning, if late, “Do you know how many young boys would kill to be in your situation?” To this I nodded, or said “yes” or sometimes would not even reply at all. Then he would grumble some incoherent words and order me to get to work. And as I neared the little house, I braced myself for one of the grumpy woodtail's thousand-and-one lectures. Little did I know that this day was far different than the ones long past.

When I said “little house”, I was referring to the newspaper office. That's exactly what it was, a little house of wood. Since the Zbakan Chronicles was the only newspaper for Muunzakans in the Muunzalea district of Zbaka, the office wasn't exactly the prettiest nor was it the most comfortable. The printing press was downstairs in the cramped living room, the writers shared space in an even smaller room upstairs while the newsboys, including myself, were stationed outside in a little dried yard out back awaiting our orders.

I had hoped to evade Mr. Ra'zakanare when I arrived, or for that matter La'hassadru, the girl who worked on the stories above, as she had the loudest mouth in all Zbaka. I tried to open the door as quietly as possible but it creaked. I tried to crawl on the floor as slowly and carefully as possible but it too creaked. Eventually I realized I could escaped from neither, and soon Mr. Ra'zakanare approached me. Here it was. The same old speech, in the same old printing press, for the same old reason.

“Hello, Pa'saarrith.” He said “hello”? I couldn't believe my ears, I wouldn't believe my ears. Then he gave a warm smile. Spirit, help me! Mr. Ra'zakanare never greeted anyone let alone smiled. Something was wrong. Something was terribly wrong. I was right. Something was wrong that day for the moment I opened my mouth to reply, Mr. Tasmajarru called me upstairs.

Mr. Tasmajarru was the head of the newspaper. He was tall and fluffy and reminded me, to my young eyes, of Sa'sakatuia if she was old, shorter and well, a man. He was a kind spirit, a fellow Zarrakadarian, but didn't speak much. The most you could get out of him was “Keep up the good work, fellas.” So when his surprisingly thunderous voice spoke of my name, a chill went straight down my back and right back up again. This is why Mr. Ra'zakanare was smiling. This is why he so cheerfully greeted me a “hello”. He knew something was going to happen to me or the sake of my job. No one had ever been called into Mr. Tasmajarru's office. I wasn't proud to be the first.

The long walk up those wooden, creaking stairs seemed like a century of procrastination, a century of impending doom. How was I to tell my mother I was fired? She'd be so disappointed with me that it'd be unbearable. How was I to tell my father? My schoolmates that I so often bragged to or even my sister? As I thought about all the possible unpleasant explanations I'd have to give to my family and friends, I found myself in Mr. Tasmajarru's dusty office. Suddenly now, that long walk didn't seem long enough. Somehow, now that I was in his office, I felt that I wouldn't have mind just walking up and down the stairs all throughout the morning and day. I wished to walk back the downstairs, hoping that he had forgotten something, so that I could brace myself better. I wished for this to be a simple misunderstanding, that he would soon let me go and I could laugh at Mr. Ra'zakanare for his foolish mistake. I wished and wished and wished but to no avail; I was here now, in his office, and nothing could change that no matter how much I wished for it.

Silence. An unnerving silence overcame the room, Mr. Tasmajarru at his desk thumping his fingers upon it or using them to wipe away the accumulated dust the only bit of noise in, it seemed, Zbaka. I wondered then, if I was supposed to speak first, to apologize for my constant lateness. He looked at me as if I was to start whatever talk we were to have so I opened my mouth; but before a single sound could come out, he spoke.

“Times are hard,” he began, leaning back in his shaky chair. “You understand this, Pa'saarrith?” I nodded, fearfully, unprepared. “Do you know how many endangered boys would love to have your job?” Oh, boy. Here we go again. I had been in fear for this? I was fretful and worried and concerned about the same stupid speech?
“Excuse me, Pa'saarrith?” I must have thought aloud for Mr. Tasmajarru stood upright and moved his chair closer. To keep my job, all I had to do was listen, to nod, to say “yes” or “no”, and I botched it by speaking aloud my disrespectful thoughts. “Mr. Pa'saarrith,” he began and suddenly I wished for my sister to be addressing me and not Mr. Tasmajarru. “I have been meaning to tell you something: Your mother might be a jeweler but she isn't a goddess, and you are not the god of all little boys. She might treat you like one but you are just the same as everyone else. You flaunt around this office as if you were the world's best newsboy. You're not, and it annoys me. Now If you are late one more time, just one more time, I will kindly give your duties to a boy who would be much more respectful than you are!”

My eyes were as big as my nose was, listening to every word he spoke and every breath he breathed. I felt like retorting but I wouldn't dare. I felt like crying but I couldn't, not in front of La'hassadru and my fellow newsboys for I'd never hear the last of it. So I did the only thing I could: I nodded.

“Now Pa'saarrith,” said he, getting up from his chair to gaze outside the window, “I want you to sell five newspapers, at least.”
“Five? But you said I only had to sel--”
“Is there a problem, Pa'saarrith?” I didn't reply but shook my head, tears on the verge of streaming down face.
“Try going on Black Square. You might find folks interested enough to read the news, with all of this mess going on in Zaskaadad I'm sure quite a few people are concerned about where the war is going to head next.” He opened the door, told me to leave and then slammed the door in my face. When I turned, I found a snickering La'hassadru, in all her fat glory. If only one woodtail could be called fat, then La'hassadru would certainly be the one. Fat, rude, obnoxious. Needn't I say anymore?

“What do you want?” I grunted, with a few tears escaping my eyes.
“You got in trouble, didn't you?” She gave me a smirk so cruel that I wanted to punch it off of her face. I wouldn't do that, however, so I said to her two words I said the best: “Shut up.”

I returned downstairs with a look of defeat, and apparently some tears still lay in my eyes for fellow boys were chuckling, giggling and laughing like giddy maniacs. “Aw, the little weakling get in trouble?” one of my fellow newsboys had smiled and I felt my body slump. I held my head down so no one else could see my tears that were becoming more and more noticeable and harder and harder to contain. I don't think it was working at all. So this was what being a Muunzakan felt like. That's what I felt like; a little demon who lost his way in a crowd of Zarrakadarians who were tickled by its stupidity. Only I was a Zarrakadarian lost in a crowd of demonic, rude little Muunzakans. I was beginning to see why Mother hated them so.

I quickly made my way to the outside, where I sat on a stack of bundled