One Man's Resolve

To his great misfortune, the heavy rainfall did little to mask the sounds of his movements from within the tiny, one-room cottage. Legs shaking, arms trembling; he felt his way around the meager contents and furniture of the room. The only crude window was shut, and the plain curtains drawn but for a slight parting. A trace of light shone through the sliver, falling upon the elderly couple who laid upon a straw mattress, oblivious to the intent of their imposing visitor. His lungs failed him for a time as he discovered his victims to be the Lombardis, the selfless couple who ran the only decent butcher shop in the Poor Quarters of Milan. He recalled several times in his youth shortly after his fathers death when the butchers had sold his mother portions of meat for next to nothing when they were without a means of income.

It wasn’t long before he remembered that his sister lived yet on borrowed time and that he had an undertaking. With his head cleared, he continued forward with new resolve. The awkwardness that accompanied his earlier motions had been replaced with a more confident and determined gait. Step by step, he made his way towards the mattress, confident that whatever savings the butcher had accumulated over the years would be within an arms grasp of where Mr. Lombardi slept at night. The floorboards were as ancient as the couple and he cursed inwardly and jumped back as a loud creak filled the void of the room. He felt utterly exposed and reached into his tunic and pulled out a rusting knife that was hardly suitable for dicing vegetables. It felt clumsy in his hands and he knew that even after considering the direness of his situation, he did not have it within him to harm the couple, much less silence them. Body tensed, the young man prepared to flee, worry etched onto his angular face. Mrs. Lombardi stirred and groaned at having awoken at this tired hour. She turned into her husband and snuggled into his body, then returned to a blissful sleep, a smile illuminating her face. Fleeting moments passed before he resumed his search, his heart racing from the excitement of almost being discovered. As he was turning his head to look elsewhere, the glint of something metallic near the sleeping couple caught his eye. Craning his neck to investigate, he found a key tied to a thin rope around Mr. Lombardi’s fragile neck. Grimacing at the prospect of his next course of action, he crept forward, knife in hand. Twenty minutes. He had twenty minutes.

* * *

The indifference of the night angered him. The clouds, the rain, and the moon all seemed to mock his disposition; this hour of darkness appeared much like any of those preceding it, yet there was nothing ordinary about it. He thought it appropriate that an event of the supernatural should transpire to mark this hour of tribulation, but was met only with nature’s apathy. The silhouette that trailed his figure shrank and grew again as he ran past the column of lamps that lit the streets of the city. The scarcity of time was not lost upon him, as he darted into an alleyway and increased his speed. The young man took great pains to not trip over the many cracks of the street but paid no heed to the waste that had gathered on the road, often stepping on the refuse as he continued. Though he was light and his footsteps gentle, the silence of the night rewarded him with strident footfall.

Those not seeking death knew well to not bring attention to themselves when traveling the Poor Quarters past nightfall, and his incessant thudding would accomplish just that. He slowed to a brisk walk. There would be no rescuing on his part, were he to die at the hands of a common cutthroat. Hefting the pouch made heavy by the merchant’s gold, he delved deeper and deeper into the side street with good speed until he heard the muffled crying of a boy and the all-too-common sounds of violence. Now cautious, he crept forward, the rainfall serving to adequately cover his movements.

Two grown men sporting heavy cloaks were preoccupied enough with the beating of a younger boy that they would likely as not have heard the newcomer approaching at a full sprint. The boy laid trembling on the ground, convulsing, yet they spared him no kindness as they continued in their savagery. A pathetic plea for help began to escape his throat but the bigger of the two men stomped on the boy’s stomach, ending the yell. The young man pulled out his knife once again, his grip firm this time, and awaited the opportune moment to jump in and strike at one of the men from behind. The boy looked to be his sisters’ age, not yet an adolescent. Remembering his sister, he shook his head regretfully and slid his knife back within his tunic. There was no time to spare and in jumping in, he risked his own well-being and ability to reach the site where the last remaining of his kin was held. It took all of his willpower for him to turn his back on the helpless child, but he did so, and quickly found an intersecting alley into which he turned. A last despairing and pitiful cry filled the night before silence reigned once more; the child was no more. Tears made their way down his visage and he held back sobs, but did not look once over his shoulder as he ran. The rain ceased. Ten minutes.

* * *

The dark clouds cleared as if they had never been there at all, opening up the sky. Stars spanned the infinite firmament and moonlight shone once again. The determined young man failed to notice the shift as he proceeded doggedly through the outskirts of the city. The dread of the Poor Quarters unfolded around him as he witnessed gruesome acts of violence and aggression, but he was unperturbed and continued in his quest, assisting none of those in need.

He had lost his perception of time, but knew there remained some minutes before he was too late. His mind had numbed and he expended the last of his energy sprinting down the street towards an old building. Its barred windows and ominous design dissuaded most, but the desperate, young man unfalteringly took the steps leading up to the front door two at a time. He took care to drop the purse of gold onto the porch—as instructed—and threw himself through the heavy, timbered doors. A young girl was sprawled upon her back in the center of the dark room. The young man released an anguished cry as he leapt to her position and kneeled at her side. She was unconscious but breathing. Tears of joy, relief and exhaustion emerged. He stroked her coarse, dark hair and sat unmoving as the sun surfaced and the terrors of the night subsided.