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Evil Jack Scrivens, don't step on a crack
He'll turn you to stone with his finger bone
He'll stop your heart and make you cry
Evil Jack Scrivens, just say goodbye. It was a childish rhyme, one that the children would sing in the street whilst turning a skipping rope. It was a rhyme that could only be heard when Jack was seen leaving the village at the end of the day, hunched over with his sack full of coins extorted from the Orcs of the village. Eyes followed his movement as he passed them, although no-one dared look him in the eye for fear that he would threaten to take double the amount of groats off them next time. He had spotted the villages need for a advisor on monetary matters. A financial advisorc as he liked to call it. It has started back when people had begun giving away food in return for potions. A strange rumble of excitement had swept through everyone, the belief that a potion could change their poor, miserable existence was very often too tempting to resist. Jack already had a lifetime experience of getting what he wanted from people. It was his need for survival as he grew up which had turned him into a master of deception. His advice, although very simple and mostly common sense, had become invaluable to whoever it was sold too. He had prayed on the gullible and before long his pockets were fully lined and his belly full. Jack had begun this career at an early age and now, Sentinel knows how many years later, he was still making his eight mile trip into town to deposit his dirty wages, although now, what used to take a couple of hours, would now take almost a whole day. Jack finally fell into his arm chair at about six o'clock that evening. The fire now lit, was roaring away and bathing the room in a soft flickering golden glow. A freshly brewed cup of tea sat on the table to the side of him. Before long the book he was reading dropped to the floor and he drifted off into a deep sleep as the night time fell upon him like a heavy blanket. The fire crackled away for an hour or so before dying down before fading out completely. The small, contained room was before long lit only by the moonlight and the reflection of the white snow which had fallen on the ground that evening. Suddenly, Jack awoke with a start and his eyes taking a few moments to adjust to the darkness. He was sure a noise had woken him from his slumber but now, when he listened, everything was eerily quiet and still. Just as he made a move to re ignite the fire, he heard chains clinking against stone, the sound growing closer and closer. With eyes wide and focused in the direction of the noise he began cowering in his leather chair, his breathing becoming more and more difficult. The door ahead stayed tightly closed, yet the scraping of the metal against the stone crept closer and and closer. He was desperate to light the oil lamp or throw some more wood onto the fire but his muscles seemed to refuse the commands of his mind. Minutes passed and the anticipation of what lay ahead grew in his mind so much that Jack felt his heart would give out on him. Slowly a wisp of smoke filtered through the bottom of the door and began forming a vague figure of a man. The features, unclear at first, soon formed the shape of his late father, Jack gasped in shock. 'Lad. I didn't want it to come to this but you have left me with little choice but to show you something that you should have realised yourself a long time ago. I only have a minute to say this so wind your neck in and listen close. You will be visited by three spirits this evening, the first at midnight. Your pig headedness is not going to help you now so I suggest you do something that is foreign to you and listen. Just remember one thing, you are being given one chance, one ! Don't throw it away Jack, please.' With that the ghost of Jack Scrivens Senior disappeared into thin air. Jack sat there, shocked, not believing what he had just encountered putting it down to a dream of some kind. He re-lit the fire and drank the cold cup of tea to try and wake himself up. Although he didn't believe that he would be visited by three spirits that evening he spent the rest of the night on tender hooks, but eventually fell asleep. Midnight approached and he awoke to his sleeve being pulled by an unfamiliar small skinny Orc child. Jack snatched his clothing away and glared at the boy who had a dirty cheeky face with dried snot stuck to his upper lip and one protruding tooth. The child clutched Jacks lower leg and within a second the roof lifted up off the cabin and they they were floating in the air before magically travelling through the icy cold sky. Jack was terrified and when the child let go of Jack he plummeted to the ground and landed heavily on the snow in front of an old shack. The boy, however, landed elegantly beside the heap of Jack Scrivens and gave him a toothy grin. 'What the f...' Jack started to say but the boy interrupted. 'I'm Ben Sir. You'll get t' know me as the spirit of things past. I'm 'ere to show you what med you to be the Orc you are today. You know somefink? You really ain't very nice are yah? Did you know that the kids in the village are scared o' you and make up songs about you? The grown ups don't fink much about you either. Must be lonely being you Mr Jack.' Jack frowned at the boy while he stood and brushed the snow from his clothes. 'Forget this.' Jack muttered and walked up to the door of the shack and knocked. He knocked again, keen to get in from the cold. There was no immediate answer so he knocked a third and fourth time. 'S'no good sir. See. You ain't visible to the naked eye. Sometimes cats'll see ya but that's 'bout it.' Ben took Jack's hand and led him through the door, literally through, no turn of the handle, no push against the wood, straight through the wood. The room was cold and damp with a pile of blankets shoved in the corner, an unlit sooty fireplace stood at the far side of the room with an old arm chair placed in front. Other than that the room was a baron, empty box. A little boy sat alone on the stone floor playing his own little game with acorns, chatting away to himself as he laid out the pieces. A scrawny Orc maid approached from what looked to be the kitchen. She held a tray with a bowl of steaming broth out towards the boy and smiled warmly as the boy gratefully reached out and accepted the food. The older Orc warmly ruffled his hair and left him to eat. Am memory came unbidden to Jack's mind. He remembered the taste of the broth, watery, barely tasting of anything but warm water and grain, if anything it tasted mainly of soap. Then it struck him, the boy on the floor was seven year old Orc. Jack Scrivens as he had been back before black powder. The woman was his mother whom he had absolutely adored. His father had left them to earn money. But he'd read the letters and knew his father had, against his mother's wished, joined a warband, now nothing more than a mercenary working for a bandit leader. He remembered his father had been gone for three, maybe four, months at this point. The old Jack remembered how he used to hear his mother cry herself to sleep every night when he had not already done the same. He had known, from the night his father had left, that he was then the man of the house. A blinding flash of light caught Jack unawares and as his eyesight returned, he realised his view of the room had shifted. His mother now sat on the threadbare armchair by the fire nursing a cut on her head. A trickles of blood ran down her cheek mixing with her tears. His father stood at the other side of the room swaying, drinking from a bottle filled with some kind of spirit, his words were coming out slurred as he screamed and shouted at Jack's mother who, terribly afraid of being hurt again, cowered further back into the chair. Jack recalled she had given up covering the cuts and bruises on her body because from the day that father had returned it had been the last time she was allowed to go into town. Jack stared at his father and remembered that he had come back a different Orc but until this moment of reflection on what had been he had forgotten just how different. He turned his attention to the tableau before him, suddenly without warning the bottle flew out of his fathers hand and smashed above the fireplace, spirits running down the wall in a torrent. The liquid fell onto the half lit fire and immediately it burst back to life quicker than any of them had expected. Old Jack turned away but what had happened that day came back into his mind as bright as the fire had been. The flames had leapt up and his mothers chair, then her clothes had caught fire. At the same time the younger version of Jack opened the front door just returning home from work, the air from the open door had fed the fire and the flames lapped higher. Without hesitation Jack had leapt across the room, fearlessly, as he scooped up his frantic mother and rushed her out of the now burning shack. Putting aside feeling of hatred, he ran back into the shack and rescued his father a minute later. All three members of the Scriven family rolled around in the snow to put the flames out and cool their burns. Then as fatigue overcame them they lay there awaiting help from any passers by, to weak to even call out. Jack remembered how eventually they were taken in to a neighbours house to be looked after. But sadly his mother had died that night and now he realised something inside him had died too. Jack had always blamed his father for what happened. Shortly, soon after recovering, he ran away and began his life of begging and stealing on the streets of Dresda before black powder, and the War. He didn't give his father a second thought back then. Jack had learned years later that he had drunk himself into an early grave and Jack remembered how at the time he simply just didn't care. *** Jacks eyes snapped open and he was back in his cabin with the fire roaring in front of him. The warmth had created perspiration spots across his forehead or had that been the crazy dream of his childhood, his mother and father? Convinced that the tea that he had drunk earlier probably had contained something stronger than tea leaves, bloody herb seller, he decided to go and lie down for the rest of the night. 'You are a stupid old man Scrivens'. He muttered to himself as he prepared himself for bed, and before long he was falling asleep once more. No sooner than had his eyes closed he was woken by a warm sensation from his feet. Struck with panic he realised they were burning ! His immediate reaction was that he had actually fallen asleep in front of the fire but as he sat up and glanced down he was greeted by the face of a ragged old crone hooked over his legs. She gripped his ankles with veined, bony hands. The burning was coming from her long fingernail as they pierced his skin, blood flowing down onto her face. She grinned at him, her teeth all blackened, some missing completely, his blood flowing into her mouth. He screamed. 'I'm your present.' She cackled as she whipped him off the bed with ease and dragged him through the floorboards and into the soil below. Jack tried as best he could to hold his breath as he felt the soil rush up his nostrils and down his throat. He started to choke. When he caught his breath he was standing in the street. It was daylight and children were playing, vendors were setting up their stalls while crying out to passers by to purchase their wares, there were housewives scrubbing down doorsteps and window ledges, a couple of stray dogs chased each other while begging for scraps. The street was buzzing with activity. He noticed a group of children skipping with an old length of rope and as he got closer he heard their song. Evil Jack Scrivens, don't step on a crack
He'll turn you to stone with his finger bone
He'll stop your heart and make you cry
Evil Jack Scrivens, just say goodbye. An Orc who had been setting up his stand with vegetables laughed with the children and impersonated Jack by growling and chasing after them. The children screamed and scattered. The laughter echoed through the streets as the children carried on playing. The adults all chuckled and shared the joke before carrying on with their day. It was so well rehearsed Jack realised that this was by no means the first time that this had happened behind his back, they must do it all the time. Jack suddenly felt something he hadn't ever felt before. It was a dull ache that churned in his stomach. He noticed the old crone was now stood next to him, the blood, his blood, still fresh on her face as she too looked around, the people on the street unable to see them both. He turned to her and fell to his knees, pleading to have this feeling, this awful feeling taken away from him. She snatched his wrist, one again clenching tightly, the pain in his stomach faded but was replaced with a burning in his hands. With his eyes closed tight he winced with the pain. It felt like his hands had been plunged into a cauldron of boiling water, he could almost feel the blisters form and burst one by one. He opened his eyes, an the pain was instantly gone he realised had moved again as he stood in the middle of a field. The old crone turned to him, the blood now gone. 'Now it's up to you.' The woman prodded his chest, her nail piercing his skin through his shirt. 'But how do I get home?' She stared straight into his eyes before turning away with a slight shake of her head and fading away as Jack watched. Jack looked around and have a clue where he was. He didn't know where he was or which direction he should walk in order to get home. He nearly let fear and panic overwhelm him, but figured that it didn't matter much which way he went right now but he better get moving he was sure he'd recognise somewhere shortly. His legs felt heavy beneath his fat belly, heavier than normal. He had eaten well this year, perhaps too well. The money that he made had more than covered fresh meats, bread and wine on a daily basis. Now he thought about it he normally ate so much he would have to loosen his trousers and sleep for a couple of hours to recover. His legs grew heavier. He would often awake to sizeable leftovers and then stuff them down aswell to save any waste. He suddenly noticed that his breathing had become laboured, his legs seemingly getting heavier. In fact the walking was causing short sharp pains in his chest every now and again. He vowed to cut down on eating soon, he had always meant to thinking he had plenty of time to worry about stuff like that. As Jack had been ruminating a mist had formed and as his breath hit the wintry dark sky he saw clouds of white forming. The moon barely lit a path in this unfamiliar place but he carried on regardless, surely he'd recognise somewhere soon. Before long he noticed a break in the trees in front of him. A soft yellow glow emanated the surrounding area. Not sure if it was the sunset or not he quickened his pace as he could almost feel its warmth. But before reaching, suddenly without warning, the sharp stabbing pain hit his stomach and chest more ferocious than ever before. He fell hard to the ground his breathing now a raspy, phlegmy struggle. He managed to open his eyes but all he could see were little white fairies dancing around him, getting faster and faster. They hummed the tune that the children had been singing. A single tear formed in Jacks eyes, he would do things differently. he would change. He pleaded to any Gods that could hear him to let him live through this. His thoughts turned dark and he slept. *** Again Jack's eyes opened and he found himself in his shack. He felt overwhelmed by how vivid his dreams the night before had been. He had twisted in his covers and had become entangled it had made it difficult to breath and had actually woken him up. He opened the curtains and a fresh white blanket of snow had fallen on the ground. The sun shone in the crisp blue sky as he realised that it was Cryptmass Eve. The streets were full of families running in and out of houses delivering presents and showering friends and family with kisses and well wishes. He began to feel strange as he watched the joy in others. Slowly, a warmth spread throughout his body and a smile formed on his face. He thought back to one Christmas he remembered fondly. One with both his mother and father, the last time they were the perfect family. They had had barely any money, his mother had saved for months for a new coat for Jack and his father proudly bought home a turkey that he had won in the raffle in the local alehouse. It was the last time that he could remember that he had felt warmth and happiness. All of a sudden he had an overpowering urge to join in the buzz outside. He threw on his clothes, pulled on his coat and leapt out of the door. The nearest passersby froze for a moment, worry in thier eyes and waited to see what was going to happen next. jack broke into a smile, spun round and scooped up two children and planted a kiss on both their cheeks, the parents were next to be hugged. Jack began singing as he shook peoples hands, wishing them a very happy Cryptmass and handed out coins to the families that passed him by. He knew that the money he was giving out was probably more that these people usually saw in a month. Overwhelmed with the new feeling of joy Jack soon became slightly weary and leant against a lamppost to catch his breath. He glanced up and there, in the distance, something caught jacks eye. A little boy, face and clothes dirty and worn, with little white fairies dancing around his feet. He was holding the hand of an old wiry crone like lady. The boy waved at Jack. Jack smiled and waved back as he saw them disappear into thin air. Jack looked around to see if anyone had noticed them but of course no-one had. Jack spent the rest of the day handing out money to everyone he saw. At one point a little girl ran up to him in the street and handed him a piece of paper. It was a handwritten note saying 'Merry Cryptmass Mr Scrivens'. Jack's smile brightend and he wept, like he had never wept before. Webmasters Notes "Second Chance" was written exclusively for Orcs in the Webbe's 2009 Countdown to Christmas Advent Calendar and was first published on Wednesday 16th December 2009. This is Sarah's second story for Orcs in the Webbe. Her first story in which an Orc female is haunted by the events from her past can still be read in "Reflections".
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