The Ember Thief

Chapter One - Prisoner 117

She told me that death was an animal that waits for us in those fleeting moments between heartbeats. It prowls patiently, weaving its way through the rhythmic thumping, watching for the first glimpse of frailty that flickers the candle. Then, when it finds the perfect moment of stillness, it lunges, extinguishing the flame and devouring a lifetime of memories, without remorse, and thankfully for us all, without judgement. But what stuck with me the most were her last words before she ended my life. She told me that regardless of who we are, everything begins and ends with the mind. What curious words I thought they were for a dying ember to hear.

The stillness of the night was broken when a pair of dirty legs struck the stone floor. With a groan, the prisoner rolled upright and sat hunched over from the bed. His grey matted hair hung limply down from his face, forcing the small wisps of breath to slip through the strands and curl gently towards the low ceiling. There was a thinness to the man that seemed to go beyond just skin and bone, it was the weathering of someone who had been starved of hope and of company. The seasons that he had spent at Mandavar had gnawed at his youthful features, chiselling away to reveal his older self. His body had seen nearly forty winters, but prison had added at least ten more. This is why Mandavar was widely referred to as: The Anvil. Inmates are worked like metal, till only the slag remained.

He took a moment to slip back to consciousness, wearing it like the comfort of old clothes. It felt odd to be awake. His prison had been more than just the thick layers of brick and mortar that surrounded Mandavar's walls. The reverie in which wandered in between worlds had made him numb to days that had passed. In the rare lucid moments, he had stood barefoot in the shingle of the ferryman's harbour, listening to him sell his wares with a song. He watched as the endless caravan of people arriving to hear his shanty; they bartered with coin and sailed in silence. His pockets, however, were always empty, threadbare even in death, so he would just stand on the shoreline and wait to hear the ferryman sing once more, losing himself in the melody. But that song now seemed like a mere whisper on this night, perhaps there was not enough of him there to set sail, or perhaps debtors were unwelcome, even there. For once, he was grateful to be poor of the mind and of the pocket.

Separating his eyelids seemed like a chore. Through the watery slits, a blackened stone wall, etched with the scouring of tally, and the suggestion of a door emerged from the blur. The cell reminded him of a coal scuttle, soot-stained and hollow. It was only the courtesy of the night, seeping in through the barred window behind him, that stopped the grim detail of the cell from being fully realised.

As his eyes were busy adjusting to the dark when a sudden noise struck the walls with a peculiar weight. The more he concentrated on it, the more the timbre changed until it became lighter, more brittle. The sound softened in shape and size leaving a distinctive echo that reverberated in the night air. The water that dripped from the cracked ceiling fell into a bucket at the foot of the bed with a rhythmic plinking sound. Each drop rang like a bell to his ears, crisp and clear. It chimed the hour and signalled that his senses were returning like the tide. The faintest smile flickered in the corner of his mouth. He knew it meant one thing, the ferryman would have to wait; he was still alive.

Half-expecting the inevitable fall to the floor, the prisoner risked moving his weight from sitting to standing upright, but before he could blink, he found himself on two feet and gently swaying like a willow tree. The speed at which he moved took him by surprise, as if he had been dragged upwards by the scruff of his neck. His fingers quickly found the wall and the swaying slowed. All that now stood between him and the door was the gap of several flagstones. With some concentration, he managed to convince one stubborn leg to blindly follow the other with nothing more than the promise of escape. Despite each leg creaking like a rusty wheel, he quickly found himself pressed up against the cell door. Pleased with his progress, he took a moment to look back at the long road travelled, it was barely spitting distance. Another small smile visited him again, these victories may have been trivial, but trivial matters were everything in prison.