This is the beginning of a story I'm writing, based very loosely on King Arthur. It's set in the early eighteen hundreds, durring the industrial revolution. Enjoy!
Art was lucky, at first. Being the carpet maker’s apprentice was a good place, relatively removed from the smokey massacre of factories. He had three meals a day, a place to rest his head, and a room full of vaguely uncontaminated air. Johnson, the carpet maker, was good to Art in his way. His son, Larch, was always the pet of his affections, though, and it was clear that Larch would receive the store after his father’s death, while Art would be forced into the streets, perhaps taken away to the deadly coal shuttles.
On the day it began, he was hunched over the loom as usual, long fingers that seemed switched with a piano player’s at birth flew nimbly but methodically over the strings. Larch was in The Room, his own personal workshop Art wasn’t allowed to set foot in. His lips slowly mumbled the pattern of the strings, imitating his hands. He concentrated with my whole mind on the task at hand. Suddenly, Johnson burst through the rickety, wooden door, muttering curses under his breath as he stalked through the room. Art jumped slightly from his seat, startled by this sudden interruption. Johnson sat down with a heavy thump, letting the whole of his small, skinny weight rest on an overturned thread basket. He put his head in his hands, shaking it back and forth. Art was slowly turned back to the loom, his fingers a bit shaky as he resumed his weaving. Although Johnson often lost his temper, it usually had something to do with Art himself, so whatever had happened now could be nothing good.
“Mr. Banks has been killed.”
The words shattered the air, as if exploding from Johnson’s mouth. Art immediately dropped his work. He didn’t want to believe what Johnson said, but his cold, hard voice wrong through Art’s head like a bell. A warning bell. General Samuel Banks was a rich, highly respected member of american militia with a summer house in Albany. He often visited the city to see and be seen, buy, haggle, and order around. He was the keystone to the carpet shop’s profit, often stopping in on these visits personally to acquire a new hearth piece and chat with Johnson about politics. He also highly recommended the shop to many other members of his circle, making a bit of money for Johnson when the going got tough. His death would put a more than considerable dent in the shop’s income.
As Art was still digesting this grave news, a second blow came, figuratively and literally. A pounding knock came at the door, the sharp rap of doom. As Johnson did not seem to be inclined to move off his basket, Art made a step towards the door. But before he could open it, it opened itself, revealing a very white telegram boy. He looked around, then walked toward Johnson, stopping hesitantly in front of him. Without moving his head from it’s perch, Johnson held out a hand to receive the telegram. The boy slapped it into his palm, then quickly retreated. Johnson slowly lifted his face to the light and scanned the thin paper. His eyes became shadows of the ghosts that they were when he saw the message it held. All the life that was left in him seemed to whoosh out of his limp body. “No.” He whispered, barely audible above the silence. “No. She’s gone. She’s gone.” Something seemed to change in him. Art stepped back, fearing the worst. When Johnson turned to look at him, his eyes had undergone yet another transformation. He seemed to be past the state of despair, past fatigue, almost past rage. Almost. Johnson walked slowly, purposefully toward Art. He seemed to have nothing to take out his anger on. And wanted a target. He pointed his finger menacingly into Art’s chest. “You. Go. Now.” he growled. You’re not welcome here anymore. Understand?”
Art was lucky, at first. Being the carpet maker’s apprentice was a good place, relatively removed from the smokey massacre of factories. He had three meals a day, a place to rest his head, and a room full of vaguely uncontaminated air. Johnson, the carpet maker, was good to Art in his way. His son, Larch, was always the pet of his affections, though, and it was clear that Larch would receive the store after his father’s death, while Art would be forced into the streets, perhaps taken away to the deadly coal shuttles.
On the day it began, he was hunched over the loom as usual, long fingers that seemed switched with a piano player’s at birth flew nimbly but methodically over the strings. Larch was in The Room, his own personal workshop Art wasn’t allowed to set foot in. His lips slowly mumbled the pattern of the strings, imitating his hands. He concentrated with my whole mind on the task at hand. Suddenly, Johnson burst through the rickety, wooden door, muttering curses under his breath as he stalked through the room. Art jumped slightly from his seat, startled by this sudden interruption. Johnson sat down with a heavy thump, letting the whole of his small, skinny weight rest on an overturned thread basket. He put his head in his hands, shaking it back and forth. Art was slowly turned back to the loom, his fingers a bit shaky as he resumed his weaving. Although Johnson often lost his temper, it usually had something to do with Art himself, so whatever had happened now could be nothing good.
“Mr. Banks has been killed.”
The words shattered the air, as if exploding from Johnson’s mouth. Art immediately dropped his work. He didn’t want to believe what Johnson said, but his cold, hard voice wrong through Art’s head like a bell. A warning bell. General Samuel Banks was a rich, highly respected member of american militia with a summer house in Albany. He often visited the city to see and be seen, buy, haggle, and order around. He was the keystone to the carpet shop’s profit, often stopping in on these visits personally to acquire a new hearth piece and chat with Johnson about politics. He also highly recommended the shop to many other members of his circle, making a bit of money for Johnson when the going got tough. His death would put a more than considerable dent in the shop’s income.
As Art was still digesting this grave news, a second blow came, figuratively and literally. A pounding knock came at the door, the sharp rap of doom. As Johnson did not seem to be inclined to move off his basket, Art made a step towards the door. But before he could open it, it opened itself, revealing a very white telegram boy. He looked around, then walked toward Johnson, stopping hesitantly in front of him. Without moving his head from it’s perch, Johnson held out a hand to receive the telegram. The boy slapped it into his palm, then quickly retreated. Johnson slowly lifted his face to the light and scanned the thin paper. His eyes became shadows of the ghosts that they were when he saw the message it held. All the life that was left in him seemed to whoosh out of his limp body. “No.” He whispered, barely audible above the silence. “No. She’s gone. She’s gone.” Something seemed to change in him. Art stepped back, fearing the worst. When Johnson turned to look at him, his eyes had undergone yet another transformation. He seemed to be past the state of despair, past fatigue, almost past rage. Almost. Johnson walked slowly, purposefully toward Art. He seemed to have nothing to take out his anger on. And wanted a target. He pointed his finger menacingly into Art’s chest. “You. Go. Now.” he growled. You’re not welcome here anymore. Understand?”
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