Chapter III - The Home for the Homeless by Faith MCCann

Chapter III 

The Home for the Homeless 

by Faith McCann 

The Home for the Homeless was all a bustle since early in the day. Mr. Smyth, was standing along the railing which ran along the entire second floor balcony, hands stretched out on the railing, overlooking the vast open floor room below. It was built more like a one room auditorium, or meeting area than a rooming house. Men and women were scurrying about, cleaning everything that could be moved and then everything under that which was moved. 

It had been ordered that the long pine boxes, just long enough and wide enough to fit a moderate to slender man, be washed out of the bodily sweat of the different bodies sleeping in them night after night. They eerily resembled coffins, hence their name 'four penny coffins', which reflected their nightly cost. Mr. Smyth had just been informed late yesterday, that the Magistrate was closing the Home, and that everything must be washed out and removed from the building. 

The Magistrate demanded that every inch was to be scrubbed and sanitized as he might choose to reuse the wood from the boxes. Also the wood from the long plank benches, called 'two penny hang-overs'. Where a nightly client of the Home could pay to sit and hang their upper body over a rope strung taught.  

It sounded horrid but it was better than risking freezing to death trying to sleep in a cold, wet doorway. Even then, death was not always an option, as many were roused by the authorities when discovered and shacked off to walk the streets until a dark shadow provided cold solace, until again discovered, once again.  

Many preferred the crude Home for the Homeless's accommodations when compared to the dangers of the outside, nightly world. Some of the more brave ventured out into the wilds of the surrounding woods, risking other types of danger from murderous criminals hiding from the law to feral, wild, hungry wolves, big cats, and other unknown furry animals whose eyes glowed bright, evil, orange in the night. All were predators, looking for prey. 

So intent on watching the activity below, looking for the slightest error in his worker's assigned jobs, Mr. Smyth failed to notice a tiny gray mouse scurry up the stairs and along the back wall behind the director. The tiny rodent, dressed in a corduroy brown traveling jacket and brown breeches with a royal blue bow tie, stopped for a moment, glanced at the thin, dark haired man with the sharp profile and a grim mouth, and stern look.

Pressed against the lower wall's floor trim, tiny arms splayed out against the wall as if pressing as thin against the wall as possible, he could remain invisible.  Realizing he remained unnoticed, the stealthy, afternoon messenger passed slowly and carefully behind the director. 

Once he was a good, few feet down the hall, he came to an open doorway. Quickly, with all the mouse speed he could muster, the tiny creature scurried across the floor, over the rug and up the chair leg of the desk chair in the director's office. Inherently feeling the need for speed, the tiny mouse shoved his little paw into his pants pocket. Out came the smallest of scraps of paper. The size of a miniature postage stamp, folded over and over and over again. 

He placed the folded bit of paper on the desk. Reached into his other pocket and pulled out a tiny fist full of what looked like an iridescent powder. He held out his hand and the light coming through the window made the pile of pretty powder sparkle with a rainbow of colors. He sprinkled it onto the paper and it shimmered, and started to flutter and grow! It unfolded and unfolded and got bigger and bigger! Soon it was the size of a full sized person letter. It sat on the desk, right in the middle, as if delivered by the Grand Post Master herself! Proud of a job well done, he started to scurry across the desk then heard a foot step right outside the door!

"Oh My!"  'PoP' 

Mr. Smyth entered his office and stopped. Had he heard a squeak, then a loud popping sound? He looked around but saw nothing unusual, all looked typical. . . wait. . . was that a letter on his desk? He hadn't seen a delivery boy. How unusual, it hadn't been there a few moments before.  

Well, let's see. Probably a coupon for the new pub, opening down the street. He walked over, hmm . . . Was that a shadow that moved in the corner? No, he shook his head as he picked up the letter. He skimmed the letter, then sat down and read it over slowly, again and yet again. A sly smile twisted his thin, merciless lips. Well, well, apparently his job was not over yet. 

He got up and went quickly back out to the balcony, having grabbed a large brass hand bell as he exited his office. 'Clang' ,CLANG!,  CLANG!' The bell pealed. The harsh ringing demanding everyone's immediate attention. 

Mr. Smyth looked down to the chorus of faces looking up at him expectantly. He felt elation, where just a few moments before he felt disappointment that the job of cleansing and emptying out of the Home had been so close to finishing. He saw it had been finished except for the floors that were drying. They would be dry and clean as a whistle in an hour or so. He counted the faces and knew each expected to receive a few coins for their labors that day. Ah well, it was of no matter. The money would come from the Magistrate's pocket not his. 

"Everyone! Attention!! Everyone!"  The room had remained silent, as everyone was still watching and waiting for him to say something. "Harrumph!" He cleared his throat, "His excellency, The Magistrate has ordered that, due to his grand generosity" he took a deep breath, wait .  .  .  did he hear a snicker? He looked around the floor below carefully. All he saw were expressions of hope, expectation and some tearing up of eyes as prayers were being said. , "that the Home for the Homeless will remain open! Every piece just cleaned and removed will be replaced to it's original position, right away!" A loud cheer rose up from below as if someone had just threw out handfuls of gold to each and everyone. 

Smyth watched as the benches were brought back in from outside. Benches for sitting up were lined up towards the front of the large room. Benches for sleeping upright, while hanging over the ropes were secured back to the flooring. Finally, the long pine boxes were placed on the floor, tight against each other, only this time with a cleaned tarpaulin placed into each box. 

There was a system of higher benches set up in front of the sitting benches where the patrons could sit on the lower and place their tin plates and cup on the upper as if it were a table, when eating their meals. Mr. Smyth was trying to contain his excitement, because he had enjoyed his position as Director and having ultimate power over so many lives, whom without him. . .  'Well, let us be honest, he thought to himself, so many would be dead and Godless at that! Giving them shelter, a meager meal and Salvation, what more could any man ask for?' 

Also, it was an improvement that the place smelled better, at least for a moment in time. By this time tomorrow it would smell of the despair of humanity forgotten once again by their brethren. Those unfortunate ones, left alone in the cold. Those hungry and disdained by those whom the world deemed more fortunate and blessed.

Mr. Smyth again failed to notice one of the shadows slowly moving along the base of the darkest part of the upper hallway. A shadow with a furry tail attached to it! The shadow slowly creeped down the stairs and along a forgotten wall to a back entrance. unseen or rather unnoticed. 

The truth about magic is, most times, it hides in plain sight. The eyes see it, but the brain fails to recognize anything is there. It would rather believe in imagination, blame a speck in the corner of the eye, perhaps the light playing tricks, rather than the truth. 

Mr. Smyth continued ruminating on his mission. To bring his understanding of God to the wretches that would soon fill the benches when the sun started to fall. He looked down into the bustle of activity taking place in the bottom floor.  "Hey you, boy! BOY! You there!" A young boy looked up at him, and pointed to his chest in question. "Yes, yes! Go out among the town and let the street folks, those who frequent this place know the Home for the Homeless is again open, as of this night. The same rates apply! Quick now, before the sun goes down. When you get back I will give you a copper coin." 

A crafty look crept into the young boy's eyes. "Well, now Mr. Smyth, it's a big town for a small lad like myself. It could take the entire rest of the day to do the job proper like. I can't think, that you would want it done poorly?" The boy looked up with an expectant, shrewd twinkle in his eye. 

"What are you getting at boy? Oh! Of course, I'll make it two coins! Now get to it, before they all wander too far away looking for a place for the night." Smyth knew how resourceful a desperate man or woman could be. 

Mr. Smyth glanced down again and saw the young orphan remained and stood below with his arm upstretched as long as he could stretch it, his palm as flat as a platter. He stood with his stance rock solid. It was obvious to both the thin, aging man and the younger, that the young man had no intention of moving a muscle, until he was paid. 

Mr. Smyth looked directly into the young boy's eyes, and received in return a direct gaze as straight and serious as any 50 year old banker. Knowing he was quickly running out of time as the days were shortest this time of year, since it was just passed the Solstice, he sighed a deep breath of resignation and nodded his head. 

"What is your name boy?" As he fished in pocket for a couple of coins. 

"Davie, um . . . David Sir"  his arm still outstretched. 

"Yes, you negotiate like a man, a man's name you should use. David." He threw the coins over the railing and the boy deftly caught them both with one hand and turned and ran across the floor to the door. He turned to flash a bright smile at Mr. Smyth before disappearing into the out of doors.  

Now to prepare his sermon to those who needed to find salvation this evening. 

To be continued .  .  .  next Chapter 'Entering Hell' 

From the Author:  I hope you are enjoying the story of the Rag and Bottle Shop. I am enjoying sharing the adventures of Catsandra and her familiars and the community of Castlewick with you. Please feel free to share this blog link to other fans of magical, fantasy fiction. 

I write my stories using the inspiration of the incomparable Charles Dickens who wrote and published his work during the 1800's in Great Britain in installments. Mr. Dickens was a strong social critic of industrialization and capitalism, as well as bringing to the public attention the need for social reform.