Chapter One

The child

Father John

The little church on the hill had always been his home. He’d been taken in by the other fathers there and raised as their own. He couldn’t remember his mother. Maybe she died; maybe she’s still out there somewhere. His father he could remember, a cruel and violent man. He spent the family’s money on drink, gambling and prostitutes, to come home angry. John was often at the other end of his father’s fist. His father came home one day completely sober, and took little John into his arms and carried the small boy to the little church on the hill. John was left there. Alone. He still had that memory; it was the most vivid one. The day had been a calm autumn one, the sun hadn’t yet peaked for midday but rested gently on the horizon, giving a warm glow which complimented perfectly the cooling breeze that washed through the trees, sending the weaker of the red, golden and brown leaves fluttering through the air. They tumbled over his father’s shoulders and the whirling wind whispered through his black, black hair. His coat billowed behind him as he headed back down the hill, his six year old son left sitting obediently on the moss covered church steps. It never occurred to the boy to follow his father, perhaps he didn’t want to. Maybe he knew in his little innocent heart that no fatherly love could ever come from that man, that no matter where he was, little John would still be alone. His life at the church had been a happy one, there were other children there for him to play with, mostly orphans or abandoned children like himself and all of them boys. They spent their days playing in the grassed courtyard and cleaning and polishing the church so it sparkled and gleamed. It made the children happy to do this, they could see how happy it made the church goers to see their chapel shiny and fresh. Very few of the boys carried on in their lives to becoming men of the church, only John and a boy named Michael did so. Father John had always been popular with the church goers, probably for his quirky sense of humour and polite and welcoming nature. The church became incredibly busy once father John started delivering the Sunday sermon. People flocked from the all the different villages, sometimes the time they spent at church would be quadruple the norm. They wanted to chat and have tea and laugh with father John. This could go on for the entire of Sunday. When that woman gave that child to him, he was not surprised. Many a child had been left at the door, just like himself all those years ago. Not usually children of this age and never had a child in his care been described as the devil. But that’s what she said, on that bright Sunday morning. The child followed the woman with its eyes as she disappeared down the hill. Father John gently pulled at the hood that covered the child’s head. The child turned at the feel of someone’s hands and looked straight into father John’s eyes. The hood flopped off the child’s head to reveal shocking white hair, almost silver in the twinkling of the morning sun.

The eyes that transfixed on father John’s were a deep dark red. It was a boy, of about thirteen. His face was flawlessly aligned, everything fitted perfectly into place, so much so that your eyes could not focus, like trying to read a book that is too close to your face. The boy flicked his eyes from one person to another, the church goers gasped at the strangely coloured boy, with his silver hair and red eyes. “It’s a demon!” Mrs Figg screeched at the top her voice, the other church goers carried on in this line of conversation, screaming and bellowing at the silent child before them. Father John, being far worldlier than these people was less shocked by the child’s odd colouration. He had seen such looks before and was certain they weren’t they work of the devil. He quietened the church goers and sent them home, ensuring he’d take the demon out of the child before it could cause any harm. He turned to get a better look at the boy. Besides the hooded button down coat that reached the boys toes he was completely naked. His hair was long enough to flop down the sides of his face and neck, so that when he looked down you could barely see his face. The boy sucked on his bottom lip, looking nervously at the floor. Father John sighed. “Right well, looks like you’re going to stay with me from now on.” Father John looked at the boy hoping for a response of some kind but none was given. “Follow me please.” Father John took a left around the outside of the church to a little wooden door at the back of the building. Inside the door was a tiny little room with two other doors, the stone floor echoed with their footsteps, one door led to the chapel, the other led to the living areas for the fathers and children. The boy followed father John through this door and into a stone corridor and onwards. The children’s dormitory was in the roof, up an eerie spiral staircase. Father John had never liked the staircase, he’d always worried it would never end and he’d been spinning down and down forever. Small brass beds were pushed against the walls, just big enough to fit in that gap of flat wall before the slant of the roof started. If you sat up too quickly you were sure to bang your head, as father John had done many times. Another boy was at the back of the room, tidying beds that the younger children must have left a mess. “Oh Daniel, could you make up a bed please, we have another boy with us.” Daniel nodded without looking up; he was far too busy sorting out everyone else’s beds. Daniel was the oldest of the eight boys at the church, nine including the oddly coloured boy. He was sixteen going on seventeen and was the shopkeeper’s assistant in the village. He was also the assistant in the church as most of the child caring duties fell on him. He was a tall boy, long and thin. His hair was a sort of dusky brown and his eyes were a calm and sensible hazel. He was only ever described as an incredibly plain boy, very nice, but very plain. When he did look up he noticed the boy with the silvery hair. Daniel gave the boy a confused look and father John piped up. “Oh yes, Daniel, this is…” father John had forgotten all about asking the boy his name. “What’s your name?” He asked nervously, feeling terrible for his awful rudeness.

“… I don’t have one.” The boy’s voice was low and tuneful, kind of calming yet intoxicating; his accent seemed to be a blend of everything, like he spoke with a thousand voices. Father John had to shake himself out of a kind of trance and was shocked at how he’d noticed all that from just four words but, more importantly, the boy didn’t have a name!  How can a child not have a name!

“Oh um, ok, well… what name would you like? You can have any name.” Father John and Daniel looked on, awaiting his reply with wide eyes, as if the choice the boy would make would somehow be fabulously interesting. The boy shrugged his shoulders and looked about for inspiration.

“Tristan!” Daniel piped up. “I had a pet budgie named Tristan, had white feathers on his head like your white hair! But, I mean you know, you don’t have to have it, it doesn’t really matter…” Daniel trailed off shyly, twiddling with his thumbs.

“Yes, Tristan, there you go, problem solved!” Father John ushered Daniel away to prepare the bed for Tristan. They didn’t really give the boy a choice on his own name but he wasn’t interested enough to complain. Tristan was as good a name as any.

 

Daniel

Born in the deepest darkest nook of the city, Daniel was only small when he was taken into the country. His father was lord knows who, a client most probably of his perfectly odd w***e mother. She would ‘entertain’ clients all night and all day, dragging her innocent baby son around from room to room. She barely ate, she barely drank. She grew thinner and thinner and sicklier and sicklier, her child hardly surviving also. A woman came to their room one day, their dank, dingy room, consisting of a bed and table covered in grime. The woman took the baby Daniel away. His mother didn’t fight, she was scarcely alive. The baby came straight to father John, father John was kind to him, fed him, clothed him, taught him how to play games and sing and dance, and how to make friends with the other boys in the church. Daniel became the eldest when he was fourteen; very rarely did anyone older come to the church. From then he spent most of his days taking care of the younger boys. He didn’t mind, he’d always enjoyed the idea of being a parent and this felt like pretty close to. When the silver-haired boy came Daniel was quite bemused. In all his years there hadn’t been an odd child at the church. All the boys dropped off there were fairly normal, just not wanted or looked after. But this one… Daniel didn’t really know what to do with himself. This weird yet perfect, strange yet beautiful thing before had left him in quite a state.