Mirrorscape by Mike Wilks Page A

than everyone else, his spotty face in need of a shave.
    At Mel’s appearance the conversation ceased. All eyes were upon him. The head apprentice took a long draught from his goblet and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He had a rat-like, pointed nose and tiny grey eyes, above which ran a long, single eyebrow, and there was a large wine stain on his shirt beneath his open doublet. Slouching back in his throne-like chair, he asked in a slurred voice, ‘What’ve we here? Wash your name?’
    Mel smiled and introduced himself. ‘Melkin Womper. But everyone calls me Mel. Pleased to meet you.’
    There was a moment’s silence and then they all bellowed with laughter.
    â€˜A Fegie, we’ve got ourselves a real, live Fegie!’
    â€˜I do believe you’re right,’ sneered the eldest apprentice. ‘Our very own country bumpkin. Look at what he’s wearing – it’s tabby . And he’s barefoot. Have you ever seen anything like it? And where did a shoeless, tabby-wearing Fegie get the wherewithal to buy an apprenticeship with old Blenko?’
    â€˜I didn’t buy it. It was a free one,’ answered Mel.
    â€˜ It was a free one ,’ mocked the other. ‘And what makes you so special? What’re those?’ He had spotted Mel’s drawings and pushed his right-hand companion roughly. ‘Bring it here, Bunt. Let me see.’
    â€˜It’s not bad, Groot, it’s actually not bad,’ said Bunt admiringly as he retrieved a charcoal portrait of Mel’s mother from under the new clothes Mel carried and handed it to the head apprentice.
    â€˜You don’t know what you’re talking about, Bunt. It’s rubbish,’ proclaimed Groot. ‘A Fegie wouldn’t be capable of producing anything but rubbish. I doubt if his hands have held anything finer than a plough or pitchfork. Still, it’s nothing that a few strokes from a real artist couldn’t improve.’ He dipped his finger into the gravy on his plate and wrote ‘Fegish rubbish’ across the drawing.
    â€˜Hey! Don’t do that.’
    Groot ignored Mel’s plea. ‘There now. What do you think?’ He held it up for the other apprentices to admire. When no one answered he grabbed the nearest apprentice viciously by the throat and asked again, ‘Well, Jurgis?’
    â€˜It’s Fegish rubbish, Groot,’ answered the lad in a strangulated voice.
    â€˜Let’s hear it from all of you,’ said Groot, releasing Jurgis.
    There came an unenthusiastic murmur of ‘Fegish rubbish’ from around the refectory.
    â€˜It’s better than you can do,’ mumbled a boy about Mel’s age, sitting at the foot of the table.
    Mel looked down at the mumbler. He had very pale skin and dark hair. His hazel eyes had a dejected look that matched his hangdog expression.
    â€˜What did you say, Ludo?’ asked Groot. ‘Let’s all hear it.’
    â€˜I said it’s probably the best he can do.’
    â€˜That’s right … What’s that smell?’ asked Groot.
    Bunt approached Mel again and saw the shoes he was carrying. ‘It’s the Fegie, Groot. His shoes are covered in scrot.’
    â€˜Ugh, that’s disgusting ! But what more can you expect from a Fegie?’ He turned to Mel. ‘Perhaps you’re used to that smell where you come from but it’s not allowed in my refectory. Ludo, take that smell out and get himcleaned up. I don’t want to see either of you again until he’s dressed properly and smelling like a human being. Here, take this with you,’ he said, flinging Mel’s defiled drawing back at him before taking another great swig of wine and belching loudly.
    â€˜They call me a “Fegie” as if it’s an insult,’ said Mel, balancing his new clothes and drawings as Ludo led him away. ‘None of us have the choice where we’re born.’
    â€˜Think