The Lost Boys

Chapter Two

"Good-morning Mr. Hatsby," Anya whispered, gently shaking the man. Mr. Hatsby rolled over, his eyes still in slumber.

His face was leathery and filled with wrinkles like a distressed jacket. Sparse white hairs decorated his head, the strands thin and feathery. The rest of his body was marred with scars and decaying skin. Mr. Hatsby had been a burn victim.

Anya remembered the night the Western soldiers set the Southern town on fire. Nearly everything burned to the ground, and thousands were killed. Anya remembered the faces of all those bodies, crying out for help - all screaming for water, their throats, along with their bodies, parched and sand-papery. It still chilled her to the very bone.

Mr. Hatsby had been one of the few who lived. Every morning he needed to be scrubbed, seeing as new, weak skin grew over the decaying patches, pus forming under the new skin. It smelled horrible and it caused great pain to Mr. Hatsby. Little did Mr. Hatsby know, Anya had been giving him small doses of her healing everyday - it seemed to improve his health and morale greatly.

The only damaged part left were his legs, which were the worst of all. The skin was so raw and red one could mistake it for deer meat. Yet Anya toiled on, unaffected by the damaged skin. Mr. Hatsby sat up, pulling the pants of his legs to his knees, where the scar tissue was beginning to form. Anya walked him to the small bathroom down the hall and sat him down, his legs over the tub.

In one hand she took the rough stone used to peel the layers of skin back. She kept one hand empty, running her fingers over the skin before scrubbing.

"Any dreams last night, Mr. Hatsby?" Anya asked.

Mr. Hatsby had been an author, and quite a good one, before the terrible fire. His hands were so weak he could barely hold a feather pen. His stories, which were often inspired by his own dreams, always intrigued Anya. Perhaps it was the dreamer inside of her quenching its thirst. She often deprived herself of such frivolities.

"Only a nightmare my dear Anya," Mr. Hatsby sighed regrettably. "It was quite a terrible one, may I add," he grimaced.

"Would you mind telling it to me?" Anya asked kindly. She seldom ever slept - and when she did, she dreamt of Peter.

"Anything for my sweet Anya. Before I forget, it is your birthday, is it not?" Mr. Hatsby asked, his whispery voice growing ever stronger. Anya smiled, looking at Mr. Hatsby's milky blue eyes - he had gone blind from old age. Despite his empty eyes, she knew he had the strongest soul.

Her fingers left a trail of ivory threads, weakly tying the skin together in one section. The healing process had to be slow to avoid suspicion.

"Yes, my eighteenth," Anya nodded, scrubbing the rest of the infected skin away.

"Splendid age, may I add. Now, on to this pitiful nightmare I suffered last night. Back when I was a young lad, not much older than you, and before the terrible war plagued the forests, I would often go on strolls early in the morning. The dew was fresh on the grass and leaves of old, hanging trees," he smiled, reminiscing. He paused for a moment, Anya begging him to continue with a curious gleam in her eyes. He licked his thin, wrinkled lips, pulling the edges into a frown.

"I would always make a stop at Potham River, near the small bridge. Usually, it was quiet, the babbling water flowing gently down the gentle river. But this time, there was a boy. He was small in stature, a thin frame, and dark hair. His skin was fair, like the shimmers of sunlight through the foliage. When he turned to me, I noticed how frighteningly green his eyes were. There was something about his face that left me...unnerved."

"What was so frightening about him?" Anya pressed. How could a small boy be frightening to a man?

Mr. Hatsby sat quietly, thinking for a moment. He pressed his finger to his thin lip, his milky eyes staring just to the left of Anya.