Cowboy Bebop Fan Fiction ❯ Evens ❯ Pennies From Heaven ( Chapter 3 )

Chance 3: Pennies From Heaven

Sister Clara raised her quill from her notebook. Scanning quickly across the neatly ordered ranks of text, she checked that she had made a proper record of everything that required it. Then, reaching across the scarred surface of her desk, she dropped the quill into the ink-spattered well that rested at the far edge. Her chair creaked as she leaned back, the weariness of its lament matched only by that of Clara's shallow breath. There she remained, thinking of little in particular as she allowed the moist ink to soak into the paper before she finally closed the book for the night.

The sun was setting on another long day. The room, small and Spartan, was now painted in a muted shade of orange, courtesy of what little of the sun's dying light could trickle through an unglazed window in its East wall. Though the glow that radiated from the chipped and uneven coat of white paint that adorned the walls was warm, the space they enclosed was bitterly cold and becoming colder by the moment.

Sister Clara placed her hands on her knees and hunched herself slightly in an effort to retain what little heat she could from her own body. With regret as elusive yet persistent as the draught that swirled through the old convent, she watched as each breath escaped her mouth and condensed in the cooling air. Each one came and went, dissipating and finally becoming lost, like the days that passed slowly, almost unnoticeably. And yet, as with those days, she was grateful for every one.

Deciding finally that the ink was dry -- or at least dry enough -- Clara reached out and gently pushed closed her notebook. The book didn't quite actually close; the progress of its cover hindered by the warped pages. This old tome had seen many seasons, and bore the signs of weathering to prove it. It was a small wonder it could still do its job as well as it did.

Rather than force it shut, Clara allowed the cover to rest upon the bulging leaves. She then rose laboriously from her chair, and stretched her arms above her head. With a stifled yawn, she lowered her arms and began to straighten what few bits of tattered stationary lay scattered about her desktop. Once torn paper and chewed pencils had been organised sufficiently, she stepped out from in front of her chair and pushed it beneath the desk.

Clara gave another yawn, and turned to the window. Slowly she stepped up to the rotting wooden sill and placed her hands against it. She flinched slightly as she was caught unawares by the sensation of biting cold, and then gently allowed her weight to rest upon the surface. There she stood, silently staring at the view beyond.

By day, the vista was by all accounts uninspiring. Much of the landscape was dominated by a vast crater-cum-landfill -- a great open sore in the earth infected by the detritus of a spent civilisation. About the edges of this wound were scattered a handful of shanty towns, comprising mostly ruined buildings dating back to better years, and a few temporary edifices built from materials scavenged from the dump below. The latter were generally raised up on stilts, so as to deter raids from the unnaturally large vermin that prowled the artificial wastes. If ever there was an environment to test the limits of human survival, this was it.

However, as the day drew to a close this harsh world took on a different quality. The pale light of the diminishing sun would acquire a hew of deepest red as it filtered through the tainted air and streak the skies with layer upon layer of pinks and purples, which vanished into the encroaching night overhead. The calls of roosting seagulls would drift upon the breeze, singing a faint, discordant song of what they considered to be a paradise of plenty. At this time and this time only, these wretched, diseased surroundings became not just bearable, but beautiful.

But these qualities, as with so many things in this world, were a deception. In truth, none of it was any less foul, and in many respects it was that much more dangerous. Twilight marked the edge of a perilous territory. After dark was the time of the predators -- both man and beast. Once the gulls' song faded it was the predators' soul piercing strains that filled the air, or rather, those of their prey.

Sister Clara moved away from the window; it was best she did not allow herself to be spotted by whatever monstrosities might be emerging from their dens. Slowly she moved across the room to the simple, collapsible bed that stood flush against the far wall. Turning, she lowered herself into a seated position upon its uneven surface, an action that was heralded by the discontented screech of rusting springs.

Clara placed her hands against the coarse bed linen in an effort steady herself. She did not want to rouse the children who now slept in the dormitory above. They had been sent to bed sometime before sun down. There was no reason for them to be troubled by the same sounds that haunted her nights.

Carefully lowering her weight the rest of the way, Clara finally sat properly upon her bed. There she remained a while, trying hard not to think of anything in particular, and instead enjoy this moment, for this was the only one of the day that was hers and hers alone.

Well, these moments were not exactly hers. This time of day was among the few opportunities she had to pray, to share her thoughts with the one to whom she had pledged her allegiance and her life. But if she was honest, she had not taken full advantage of all such opportunities in the last few years. Perhaps it was due to her busy schedule, or the lack of structure in her life that came from being the only one of her order for a thousand miles. Or, more worryingly, it could have stemmed from a waver in her faith. Lord knows, her years as sole proprietor of the orphanage had not been easy, and had given her little to be thankful for.

Clara banished the thought.

"Oh, Lord," she uttered quietly. "When did I become so cynical?"

It had not been easy to maintain her faith, but she had. She needed it to continue each day, functioning in her given capacity. But it was not so much for the children that she had held her faith, but rather, because of them. The smiling faces that greeted her each morning were a constant source of awe for Clara. These children had seen so much suffering, of their own and others, and yet their spirits remained unbroken. Bereavement and abandonment, cruelty and exploitation; all of these things were common among the short life stories of her charges. But still they could smile. That such tiny, delicate shards of innocence could endure in the maelstrom of pain and brutality that swirled across this broken world was no small miracle.

Sister Clara smiled to herself. That seemed an appropriate thought upon which to end her day. Raising herself to her feet once more, she allowed her thoughts to turn to preparing for her own early night. Her days did, after all, begin earlier than most others'.

Crossing the room, she again approached the window to grant herself one last look at the ethereal beauty of the twilight world beyond, before it was consumed by the ravenous night. Much of the sun was now lost to the horizon, as it left the sky to cast the merciful light of a new day upon some other place. In its former lofty place hung a shattered moon, casting a sorrowful gaze upon the earth as if ruing its ill-fated association with its ailing blue companion. This was the time over which none had dominion, and as such, there was no activity below. All was silent. All was calm.

Clara gasped in fright as three quick, sharp raps rang from the brick walls of her room. Catching her breath, she turned quickly to face the door. Leaning back, she placed her hands blindly against the windowsill, and stared across at the closed portal. There she waited in silence, reluctant to reply.

A gust of wind swept past her, momentarily swirling about the room and causing the rickety old door to shudder in its frame. The hinges creaked, and the single, rusty bolt chattered, and then all was silent.

Another three raps.

Still, Sister Clara did not reply. She had no idea who stood beyond her door. The old convent had not had a secure front door in many years, leaving the building open to any who might wish entry. Save the old bolt fastened loosely to her door, the only defence was anonymity. If she gave them no sign of her presence, then she gave them no reason to enter.

Another three raps, louder than before.

Clara stepped forward slowly, and began to edge towards her desk. She trod carefully, acutely aware of every sound she made, from the rasp of her breath to the rustle of her habit.

Without warning, a deafening screech filled the room. Clara winced, and froze where she stood. The sound was excruciating.

She had trod on the squeaky floorboard.

She waited a moment to see if there was any reaction from outside. None came. Clara then resumed her trek.

After what felt like an age, she finally reached her desk. Looking down she beheld the single, wide drawer set into its face. The drawer stretched almost the width of the desk, and accounted for much of its depth and length. And yet, for all its volume, it housed only a single object.

Slowly, reluctantly, despairingly, Clara reached for the handle. She didn't want to. More than anything, she didn't want to. What that drawer contained appalled her and frightened her. It was the very embodiment of the death of the old ways. That she should feel the need to have it sickened her.

But it wasn't for her. There was something more important to her than the old ways, or her own principles, something so precious that it was worth setting these things aside to protect. And protect it she must. Protect it she would.

Slowly, carefully, quietly, Sister Clara began to pull upon the handle.

"Sister Clara?" a tiny voice came.

Clara stayed her hand.

"Sister Clara, are you there?"

Letting out a quiet sigh of relief, Clara released the drawer handle. Today wasn't to be the day.

"Maybe she's not there," a second little voice came.

"Don't be stupid," snapped the first. "She's always in her room now."

"Don't call me stupid," the second retorted. "You're the one who's stupid."

"Am not."

"Are too."

"Am not!"

"Are too!"

"Ssshhh," yet another voice interjected. "Sister Clara might be asleep."

Clara smiled to herself. It was about time she intervened.

"Settle down children," she called. "I'm coming."

She then moved to the door, and with some strain, drew open the rusty bolt.

Pulling the door aside, Clara was surprised to be confronted not just by the owners of the three voices, but also by a throng of other young faces. In fact, it seemed that almost all of the twenty or so children sheltering at the orphanage were stood in the hallway. Each one was dressed in modest but well laundered nightwear, and was staring up at her awaiting their cue to speak.

Curious as to what could precipitate such a gathering, Clara asked,

"Whatever is the matter, children?"

In an instant, she was surrounded as every one of the horde of youngsters spilled over the threshold of her bedroom, almost sweeping her away as they did. Along with this came tide of infants came a torrent of voices as each and every one attempted to convey their concerns, resulting in an incomprehensible flood of poor grammar and ill-conceived sentences.

Bracing herself against the waving hands and tugs on her habit, Sister Clara attempted to take control of the situation.

"Children, please," she pleaded. "Calm down. Please, one at a time, children, one at a time."

The effect was minimal. What she wouldn't give for her hosepipe right about now.

"Please, children, calm down. I can't understand what you're saying."

Slowly, order began to assert itself over the small riot. After the excited buzz had finally subsided, Clara straightened out her habit and addressed the children.

"Now, what's the problem?"

The response was silence. One or two of the children looked at one another, some in puzzlement, and others in expectation. But not a word was uttered.

Clara pondered a moment over what was going on. Then she realised she had asked them to speak one at a time, and clearly they had not assigned the role of spokesperson to any one individual.

"Okay," Clara sighed, and then began to survey the crowd.

Looking down, she found a small girl stood before her wearing a ragged, but immaculately clean nightdress. Clara recognised her as being the owner of the first of the voices to emanate from beyond her door. The girl, Tina, had a handful of Clara's habit in one hand, and a glass jar nestled under her other arm. The jar was half-filled with human fingernails; a grotesque collection the origins of which Clara had feared to ask. Tina could not be persuaded to part with it, even at bedtime. In fact, her only concession had been that it would be placed beneath her chair at mealtimes, rather than on the table.

"Tina," Clara began. "What's the matter?"

"Well," Tina replied, tentatively, "We were all in bed, and we were asleep. But then there was this noise. It was kind of a clinking noise, only it was really loud and..."

"No it wasn't," a young boy piped up from the back. "It was a pinging sound. And it was quiet."

"It was not, George!" Tina protest.

"Was too!"

"Was not!"

Clara sighed once again.

"Tina, George, stop it. Now Tina, carry on. And speak slowly."

Pausing a moment to point a victorious tongue at a pouting George, Tina continued.

"As I was saying," she stated placing her free hand on her hip, almost prompting Clara into laughter with her deliberately grown-up mannerisms. "We heard this loud klinking noise. So we all woke up and got out of bed and went to see what the noise was. So we looked aaaall over the room, and then ..."

"It was Ed!" George butted in.

"George," Tina cried angrily. "I was telling the story!"

"Edward?" Clara said.

She looked about room. It was then that she realised that Edward wasn't there. In her fatigue she had failed to notice the absence of the lanky, boisterous ten-year old girl -- an impressive feat in itself. The strangely named child was nowhere to be seen or heard.

"Tina, where is Edward?" She asked, suddenly overcome with concern.

"She went," Tina replied, breaking from her staring match with George.

"What?" Said Clara; still fighting fatigue.

"She went."

"Yeah," George interrupted. "She said the face told her to."

Clara frowned in bemusement.

"The face?"

It was not unlike Ed to dispense obscure, even nonsensical bits of information. Clara had suspected from day one that there was something unusual about the child, who seemed completely free of the boundaries of reasoning to which others were held, even more so than her fellow children.

And yet, she was strangely knowing. In the years that the child had resided at the orphanage Clara had, to at least some extent, had the opportunity to gauge Edward; an opportunity she suspected was a rare one. What others might view as eccentricity, or even madness, had more than once translated into a deeper understanding that few adults could boast. It was amazing and unsettling in equal measure that people, with all their secrets and barriers, seemed so completely transparent to her.

"Yup," said George, breaking Clara's train of thought. "The face."

Clara was still confused.

"Show her," Tina rasped at George impatiently.

"Oh, right," he replied.

He then began to barge his way past his peers, appearing only as a protruding mop of black hair as he went. Excusing himself none to politely, he finally made his way to Clara's feet. Reaching into a pocket on the chest of his discoloured long-john pyjamas, he extracted a small metallic object.

"Here," he said, holding the object up.

Sister Clara reached out slowly, and plucked it from between the child's fingers.

"Thank you, George," she uttered absently.

Examining the object, she found that it was a small, irregular disc cast from a dark metal, clearly a bit of scrap retrieved from the landfill outside. Upon the face of the disc was scratched a crude drawing of some kind of animal, a dog perhaps. Still, Clara was confused.

"I don't understand," she said. "The face told her?"

"Look at the other side," Tina instructed.

Clara turned the disc over. The reverse side bore an even stranger marking. A circular face with smiling eyes and a broad grin returned Clara's gaze.

"You mean this face?"

It was only as these words left her mouth that Clara began to understand what it was she held.

Heads.

It was coin. Clearly this object was intended to resemble an all-too-rare token of currency.

"Yes," George answered Sister Clara's question. "She said that the face came up and told her to go."

"Then what happened?" Clara asked.

"Then, she went," said Tina succinctly.

Suddenly, the full extent of the situation dawned upon Clara.

"Oh my Lord," she muttered, raising her hand to her mouth in horror.

"But not before she gave George a goodbye kiss," Tina went on.

"Did not!" George retorted.

"Did too!"

"Did not!"

"Did too!"

Tina then began to lead the rest of the children in a riotous chorus of George and Edward sitting in a tree, much to the open chagrin of George, who stuck his fingers in his ears and began to sing a discordant song of his own.

Meanwhile, Sister Clara was being consumed by panic. Frantically her tired mind tried to resolve a course of action, a task not made any easier by the ever-increasing volume of the children's singing. As she tried desperately to focus her thoughts, her imagination began to overwhelm her with all the possible fates that could befall a child travelling alone across these lands.

Then, realising that her dallying would only worsen matters, Clara turned for the window and began to wade slowly through the writhing crowd of youngsters. After an eternity, she emerged on the other side and trotted up to the windowsill. Leaning out of the window further than was safe, she frantically scoured the ever-darkening scene bellow. Over and over, her gaze swept across the garbage-strewn wastes, desperately searching for that distinctive shock of red hair. Gradually, Clara's search took her eyes further from the orphanage, along with her hopes of being able to retrieve the nomadic Edward.

Suddenly, her eye was caught by something stirring on the far rim of the crater. A tiny shadow, narrow and faint, was emerging before of the dim arc of the setting sun. Even at this range, and in this light, the awkward stance and wiry frame were unmistakable.

Clara was caught into two minds. Should she call out to Ed, and risk drawing unwanted attention to both herself and the wayward child, or pursue her in an effort to return her to safety? The latter, Clara felt, was out of question. She would never be able to catch Ed before total darkness set in, and she certainly could not leave the other children alone. Resolving that there was only one viable course of action, Clara drew in the deepest breath she could and cupped her hands around her mouth.

Then she stopped. Lowering her hands, she squinted at the silhouette that was even now becoming lost to her. In the sombre orange light, she caught sight of what appeared to be a long, gangly arm, held aloft and being flung from side to side. She was waving.

She was waving goodbye.

It was then that Clara realised no amount of shouting was going to bring Ed back. As she stared out across the seemingly widening crater, Clara found herself gently returning the wave. And then, with the children's voices still ringing in the night air, the little silhouette faded into the sad smile of the setting sun, departing as swiftly and inexplicably as it had once arrived.

Clara doubted that she would ever see Edward again.