Heartkind

I hate children. This single thought had long since become the mantra of Widdon. It wasn’t their brashness or their noise. No, that was the plague of humanity. Children simply magnified it. No, it wasn’t anything one deemed childish that gave him his sense of dread. It was things that any reasonable human would pray they were pure of. It was their cruelty to each other: their inability to perceive others as equals.

And here he stood, looking at yet another example of why he hated children: one child with a broken arm and facial scratches, another clutching a bleeding elbow, both shivering and making nervous glances at the third child. The third child seemed the most shaken out of all of them, completely still and staring at the ground. Widdon couldn’t even see his eyes, but he knew that they would be cold and hollow, like looking into a frozen lake.

It hadn’t taken long to piece it all together. As soon as he was summoned from the nearby city of Ashbrook, he knew what was coming. There was an incident. He looked back at the child. He was frail and small for his age. He couldn’t be more than six at the oldest. But that dead look told Widdon that the child still knew what he had done. He was lucky that the other two were only beaten. He’d seen worse. The memories sickened him. He’d seen worse all right.

“Does anyone care to tell me what exactly happened here?” Widdon began, knowing the answer. He just had to be sure.

“It was that demon-kid!” whispered the first child, pointing with his good arm. “He attacked us!”

The accused didn’t even lift his head to protest.

“Why did he attack you?”

Immediately the child paled. He didn’t want to answer that. Probably a good sign. Maybe this one isn’t deranged.

The second one cleared his throat, but kept his eyes down. “We were teasing him, Mr. Widdon, but we didn’t mean anythin’ by it.”

“There was rocks,” spoke the third. “They was throwing rocks at me.”

Widdon glanced over. That was the most sound he had heard the child make in the entire time he had been there. Widdon walked over to the child, and knelt down.

“Why were they throwing rocks at you?”

The child did not respond for a while. The first child began to speak, but a side glance had him silent again. The third child finally spoke.

“Because my dad isn’t here.”

Widdon didn’t need clarification. “Have they done this before?”

The child only nodded.

Widdon was almost certain now. “Were you scared?” Again, only a nod answered him.

“Did you think they wanted to hurt you?” Nod.

“Then what happened?”

There was another pause. He child began to cry, but he didn’t sob. Tears just ran down his face silently. “The fox came and rescued me. But it fought too hard and they got hurt.”

So this one was innocent. He hadn’t meant it. An accident. “Do you know what the fox was?”

The child shook his head.

“There are things called Heartkind. Some people have them. Sometimes, when we get scared, they come to protect us.”

The child cried. “I don’t want it to protect me! I just want it gone!”

Widdon sighed. He hated this part most of all. When they cried, he wanted to help, but he was so limited. “I can take you to a place where you can learn to control the fox. It will become a part of you, and you will never have to worry again.”

The child’s sobs slowed down a hair. “How can you?”

“A school in Ashbrook. You can come and learn how to use the fox. And no one will throw rocks at you. They’ll all be just like you.”

The child slowly stopped crying. “Can I see my mother?”

“When time comes, I’m sure you can.”

Widdon felt a hand on his shoulder. He apologized to the child and stood up. It was a woman from the town who had been tending the kids. She pulled him aside.

“He can’t see his mother.”

Widdon glared. It was just like these arrogant townsfolk and their superstitions to brand the child a demon. “And why would that be? Because he’s a Heartkind?”

The woman met his gaze. Her eyes were dark and tired. “She’s dead.”

“What? Does he think I’m going to kill him?” He said, alarmed.

The woman continued staring. It was a piercing stare. It had no end. He was a direction, not an object. “He doesn’t remember it at all. His Heartkind was attacking the two, and she tried to intervene and…” her voice caught. She tried to be official, but it was too fresh. The woman began to cry, and turned away.

Widdon didn’t need clarification. He turned around, took the child by the hand, and placed him in the cart. He directed the horse up the hill, toward Ashbrook. He hadn’t seen worse, after all. This was the first time he’d seen someone who’d killed their mother, and it was a child.

I hate children.