My Path to Artistry

My Path to Artistry - Emma Hall (Acellus Online Academy, 8th Grade)

“There are two sides to every story.” That is a phrase I am sure you’ve heard countless  times before. And yet dear reader it is true nonetheless. What might be to some is perceived as  an act of kindness might really just be altruism. Heinous deeds sometimes are done for a good  reason. And the despicable villains of stories might be the covert heroes in reality. But these  things you will never know unless you listen to their own stories, become attuned to their  twisted and nonsensical reasoning in their own minds.  

 We are regrettably short sided as human beings and embark on a winding pursuit of truth.  

 But this is foolish. There is no truth. Everyone’s idea of truth is different, just as everyone’ opinions are. There is only truth if there is right and wrong, if the world’s secrets and beings are  painted in only two shades. But this is also incorrect. For the world dwells in a shade of gray.  

 At this point I am sure you are most woefully confused, but I promise all will make sense in  time. Reader, this is a story from the other side of the story. From mine. This is my truth. My  perspective. My reality. My own shade of gray that I reside in. And a side of the story that you  can do with as you please. 

 The story of Robin Hood is a legend in all parts of England. A novelty whispered around a  bonfire and written into books. The valiant thief dashingly mending the gaping holes in th common folks' satchels of money and courageously challenging the devious, greedy Prince  John, while cleverly escaping the clutches of the Sheriff of Nottingham and his soldier 

 But my truth is different. First of all let me introduce myself. My name is Matilda o Winchelsea, Whinchelsea is two miles southwest of the infamous city Rye, my parents were  some of the first settlers there. Anyhow, I moved to Rye when I was twelve years old, after m beloved parents were tragically executed by King Richard after being falsely accused of  treason. I still remember when they were arrested, it was a day that forever charged my life.  

 I could tell something was awry for days before they were convicted. They were being  followed, my parents. On the way to the market, to the bakery, to the well, there were these  two men flogging their footsteps 

 “Papa, Mama,” I remember saying after the second time we were followed to the market,  “there are frightening men who are following us. Should I tell them off? I’ve been practicin sword fighting so it might be a great opportunity to practice 

 ”No, Matilda,” my mother interrupted harshly. “Stay away from those men! Stop being so  childish all the time. You are almost thirteen. Act like it. Your behavior is despicable.” She took  a deep breath, green eyes dilated with fear, rather than narrowed then anger.  

 This confused me, but I ignored my unappreciated friend named “logic” telling me that  something was wrong. Since when have I ever listened to them in my life anyway?  

 Her hands are trembling, I observed, but I just huff and roll my eyes marching ahead of he 

 My mother was a beautiful woman, with golden-red hair and bright green eyes, but at that  moment it seemed that she had aged ten years from her current thirty in that moment. I  glanced back at my father, noting that he looked equally upset. This time I acknowledged that  something was definitely wrong. Even though I wouldn't go so far as to inquire about it with m injured pride.

 My nerves stung from her berate. Ahead of them, I increased my pace towards home. My  parents both owned a successful tavern in town, so their abode was quite luxurious. We had a  cobblestone path leading to a wooden garden gate in front of the cottage. The house was a  pale white color with square panes of glass, a brown curving thatched roof and brick chimney.  My father loved gardening so we had many species of plants in our front garden. From roses to  apples to thyme. My favorites were the peaches. Mother didn’t share Father’s passion for  gardening, preferring to spend her free time reading or playing games. We used to play  checkers for hours on end. 

 Thinking back there is very little I would not give to go back in time to those treasured  moments of my childhood. Complaining to my mother about practicing my handwriting while  she lectures me on its importance and having sword fights with fire pokers. I always took th moments for granted, always wanting to grow up too fast. How ironic that now I would do  anything to get them back. 

 Once we reached our home in its sprawling glory my parents ushered me inside all the  while ensuring that the windows were properly boarded up. 

 I collapsed on the dais, arms crossed as I attempted to reassure myself that I was not  sulking. Just reasonably ignoring her…..in a slightly pouty manner. That she deserves! The next  day the guards arrived. I was screaming for them to stop while they walked away with my  parents in manacles. 

 They said they had plotted against the king, committed treason. But I never believed it. 

 From there I was transported to an Orphanage in Rye, the village known for its secrets and  covert criminals residing there. To be honest, I guess you could say my story starts at Rye’s  Orphanage. 

 The air was thick with smoke and other unpleasant odors when I arrive. The whole carriage  ride over my eyes had become fixated on anything that could provide distraction for my littl grief-stricken mind. I found the shops in Rye fascinating, they were brightly colored and some  were for the strangest things, like an amphibian shop. I wasn't even sure what an amphibian is,  but it was a very strange word.  

 The carriage halts in front of a rickety building. My last stop to the realization of how my life  has so drastically altered. Everything felt so surreal until that moment. This wooden, two-story  building, this orphanage was my new home. My old edifice and life that went with it was reall gone. 

 I remember my eyes watering as I attempted to quell the dread and anxiety that began to  rise at this notion. It had seemed that in a blink of an eye I had lost everything. Hands  trembling, I gathered my bag, a large embroidered canvas bag that now contained all the  remains of my old life. It was decorated in golden suns and medallions contrasting with its red  background. I paused for a second as the door swung open, reluctance seizing me by my  scrawny shoulders. 

 ”This is your stop, girl,” the rough voice of the driver reminds me. 

 I nod, even though he can’t see me and stumbled out of the carriage. The driver shuts the  carriage door behind me. And walks to his seat. I find myself trembling again as I precariousl walk up the stairs. The door looms in front of me now. I glance behind me, and watch as the  carriage ambles away, leaving me alone. There is the sounds of voices and chaos leaking  through the door. I felt incredibly stupid staring at the door. The smell of unwashed children 

tickling my nose. One of my hands is clutching my bag, while the other is fisted in my cotto purple dress, resisting the urge to play with my earrings. I take a deep breath. 

Knock.  

Knock. 

 Knock. 

 There is a minute that I feel some sort of epiphany. A niggling voice in my mind that tells  me nothing will ever be the same again. That reminds me that walking through that door will  commence the next chapter of my life. The part of my life’s story without my mother’s sage  advice and my father’s engaging laugh. A chapter without my childhood home, without my  former naivety to welcome loss. To bear pain. To dwell in loneliness. The page had flipped an now I was left with no one to turn to. No one but myself. 

 Then the door opens. And the head of the orphanage, Ava, with her tired face and  lackluster eyes, appears before me. Starved and curious eyes of orphans eat away at me. And I  step across the threshold. Into the next chapter of my adolescent life. 

There are old tales from the crypts of time of gods who have the power to wreak havoc  or grant us deepest wishes. Stories that are ingrained into the culture of England, along with  the most renowned of legends. Many men and women, especially in Rye, are superstitious and  believe this. That there are gods that control this world's elements and that we should avoid  upsetting them. I never have though. There is no such thing as luck or good fortune. Only those  who take opportunities and those who let them go to waste. Of course my younger self who  had been sustained on a diet of bedtime stories and good night hugs, had never thought of  this. 

No, I thought the gods hated me. That they must scorn my name. Especially in the firs weeks at the orphanage.  

I was an easy target for bullies. Small, obviously entitled. There were about four of what  I called the “mule pack” ; they were the oldest out of all of us; and in my opinion the stupidest.  All in their early teens, huge (not really, but most of us hadn't had a major growth spurt yet),  and as cruel as they were illiterate.  

Which is very. 

Upon my arrival they wasted no time in ravaging my belongings and taking anything of  value.  

I had tried to stop them but only managed to get a right hook to the face, much to my  indignation. I still remember the burning feeling that filled my hollow chest as they divested m belongings. The bitterness, like none ever before I had experienced. I had never hated  someone before, never felt so violated in all my seven years of life.  

The next morning after crying myself to sleep, I awakened to the reality that this truly  was my new reality. Not some sort of nightmare I had dreamt up. The orphanage was made  entirely of wood, with a straw thatched roof, with a privy connected to the back. On the firs floor was the kitchen, if you could really call a collection of bare counters, a “dining room” b worn pillows and broken chairs, and two other rooms. One for Mistress Ava and one for  storage. Upstairs is the barracks for us orphans, complete with a dusty mirror and two  windows.The entire orphanage is filthy, in disrepair and accompanied by a large collection o creeping insects. Some said insects found their way into my bed. 

Let’s just say between my hapless tears and bedbugs, I did not get a restful night of  sleep. Though it is hard to tell what the cause of my tears were from. The insects or the fact  that my entire life had been uprooted in the course of days. (It was definitely the insects, no that I would ever admit that.) 

 The following morning I was given a meager breakfast by Mistress Ava, a twenty  something year old, who I figured must be the only person that the gods hate more than me 

How else did she end up here? Surrounded by needy children prone to violence and  having virtually nonexistent morals and the personalities equivalent to a mule(that might have  been an exaggeration on my part. It was mostly just the four pack leaders who were awful.  There were at least a dozen other orphans who were not nearly as horrendous, but I was  twelve years old. So I could afford to be a little melodramatic. 

I was just about to consume an albeit meal when one of the pack leaders snatched it.  

“What? Something wrong wittle princess,” the boy asks mockingly as her devours my  oatmeal. His friends chuckle at this; apparently thinking their buddy had said something  incredibly clever. 

“Why are you doing this,” I inquired desperately, bursting to my feet. 

”Why not?” He replies carelessly. “This isn’t the big city anymore, princess. You’re not  going to be coddled anymore.” 

”Dante,” one of his friends, a big brute with a mop of dark, filthy hair and scarred face intercedes. “Use simpler language. I don’t think the little princess knows what “coddled”  means.” 

His wolf pack finds this hilarious. While my face glows with humiliatio 

Fury lights a fire in my chest as I watch my tormenter continue chewing. The boy, I thin his name was Dante, is savoring this. Enjoying tormenting me, the little girl with golden-copper  red hair compiled neatly into two littles buns, the outsider, a doe-eyed girl from a privileged life  who can’t do anything to prevent the big, bad boys from picking on her. 

Oh, I was going to make them pay for this.  

I am going to make them wish that there were gods watching this miserable village to  save them from me. I am going to make them grovel. And cry. And wished they never messed  with me. Heat flares even hotter in my chest at his thought, spreading all over my body shocking me. Then a paradox occurs, the angrier I get, the more closed off my expressio becomes. My fists unclench, as a wave of eerie calm settles over m 

I’m left standing there, completely alone while the rest of the orphans, look on, while the  wolf pack strides away. My anger begins to ebb, as a hunger pain stabs at me and I begin to  feel foolish. They were twice my size and there were many more of them than me, I realize this  as my fury drains out of me leaving this hollow, hopeless feeling. As if I am trapped underwater,  as if there I engaged in war only to realize I have no army. I am trapped, with no help, no fairy  tale knight to save me or happy ending insight. 

This is my life now, I think over and over. It’s obvious but it still hits deep in the river of  my mind and splashes water into my eyes. 

That night as I stared up at the ceiling, peering at the stars through the gaps in the  thatched roof; I felt a resolution overcome me. No, I would not give in to this. I would not stop  fighting, even if it’s the last thing I d 

They don’t stop. The torment does not end, does not give me reprieve. The days drag  by, sometimes I go days without eating. During the day we are tasked with chores under the  ideation that it will prepare us for the life ahead. A life of servitude, after all we are to low to  afford an education nonetheless a high paying jo 

When we are not cleaning, we are on the streets. I often take to walking through the  streets watching people go by. However some of the other orphans beg or steal. 

People watching is so fascinating to me. You can learn a lot from people just based on  the way they walk or what they wear. I’ve made it a game where I’ll try to eavesdrop on as  many conversations as possible to see if my prior assessments regarding their character  proves to be correct. I do the craziest things to get close and hear words that drop from their  lips. Like sugar candies. Sweet in their words, but insubstantial in their meaning more often  than not. 

One time I even went so far in my mission that I scaled a tree and clung to one of its  thick limbs, another time I hid in a fish bucket. I reeked for hours afterwards, though. I notic that as the weeks fly by that it becomes easier to read people 

It begins to dawn on my mind the simplicity of the human species. We display so much  of who we are in the most basic of corresponding, in our every movement. The trick to reading  people I soon found was discerning their motivation. Once you know their core you can read  where everything else traces back to. I often, in my mind, compare it to a cipher, and their  motivation is what cracks their code.  

Rye is a fortress of secreted crevices and passageways. There seems to be never  enough time to explore it. I had begun to create a map of them, for utility purposes. Though I  always made sure to be careful not to run into anyone when exploring. I use some parchment  from the empty pages of a book to illustrate the map, I can practically hear my mother rolling in  her grave as I did this. But I could find no other paper. I used a duck feather for a quill an some pig’s blood from the town butcher for ink. Drawing the map is good at keeping my mind  off hunger and the bitterness whirling inside of me 

Some days I feel like sobbing at the hopelessness of my new life. I wake up every night  with the fathoms of my parents in my mind. Sometimes the flashbacks are unbearable 

Just keep moving, I told myself. But where could I go? 

It’ll be fine, I reiterated day and day out. But I’m not fine. Every day I try in vain distract myself, and every night I wake up reliving the horrors that accompanied their  disappearance from my life.  

My books are some of the few belongings that Dante and his fiends did not forcibly tak from me. I never enjoyed reading before; I always thought of it as a chore. My parents were  wealthy enough to afford books and always emphasized reading's importance. How ironic tha now it is a privilege in this place, one that I used to take for granted. How times change.  Though being around the “wolf pack” is torturous I had then begun to find that the orphan were not so.

I had been reading an old prayer book when a boy with shaggy blond hair gingerly  approached me. He stood in front of me for a moment, as if regretting his decision already. I  looked up, resentment welling up in me. He was one of Dante's friends, so I wanted nothing to  do with him. 

“Hello, there. I’m Robin,” he begins. 

”I know,” I said. “We’ve known each other for two months.” 

”Well, that’s flattering. So, your name, it’s Agatha? Daisy 

”It’s Matilda.” 

”Oh, Matil. Well. Close enough,” he replied with a shrug. 

”Not really,” I mutter under my breath.  

”Anyways I was wondering if you could well—“ he gestures towards the book I’m  holding.  

“Could what,” I inquire, feeling merciless after he butchered my name so completely. ”You know,” he taps the book cover. 

”Not really.” I do. But honestly, it’s not that embarrassing to admit it. Most people in this  vicinity can’t read either. 

”Can you teach me how to read,” he asked, sitting down on my bed. 

In response I scoot down to the end of the bed.  

“Why would I do that? You and your friends have been nothing but malicious towards  me!” 

”I don’t know about that….,” his voice trails off leaving the two of us in awkwar silence. 

An idea strikes me and I feel a chill overtaking me. Vengeful ice seeps into my  extremities as I turn my head away from him. 

”I don’t know how you can expect me to assist you when you and your friends have  been so unkind. Maybe if you told them to back off I would consider being a little more kind but-“ 

”Wait! I’ll do that. I’ll talk to them, does that agree with you?” 

”Yes,” I say primly. Then I rustle through the contents under my bed and pull out a  children’s prayer book, a relic from my childhood. “We’ll start with this one. Now, do you know  your letters?” 

”Not really,” he says, face flushed with shame 

I sigh. This would take a while. But the information he would give me would be worth it  in the end.

Blackmail is one of the most efficient tools I learned as a child. We all have secrets, litt treasure troves of information that once let out into the world chase us. Everyone has a secret.  The tricky part is finding out what it i 

When I started tutoring Robin how to read, numerous other orphans also expressed  their wishes to learn how to read. This was troubling in the sense that now I had a lot less time  on my hands and would therefore interrupt my regular activities of exploring the town and its  people…..among other things. But it soon proved to be quite advantageous to me. Children  were often disregarded, but saw much. 

It was November. The leaves were falling in their colorful glory and the air had chilled. It  marked a vivid warning for the orphanage of the upcoming winter and all the hardships that  would come with. Dread coiled in my stomach as I looked out the window. 

My hands ached as I clutched them. Dante and fiends stuck my hand on the stov yesterday. The pain was terrible, frying my nerves and reddening my hand. It still hurts to use it,  despite Robin’s promises they had not left me alone. And I was beginning to think they never  would. 

But while they would not stop harassing me Robin had broken off his relationship wit them. Some days I had begun to wonder if we were friends. I taught him how to read nearly  everyday. And years down the road he became my closest confidant. But eventually tha changed. For the worst. 

I stroll through the market crowd, my linen, white dress is thin, doing little to protect me  from the cold and it's is stained with dirt. I can see the boys up ahead; Dante, Oliver, and  Sephardim. I weave through the crowd, walking right past them. I am right in front of them now.  I’m sure to keep my head down as I walk in front of them. 

”You're sure about the time,” Oliver asks Dante. 

”For the last time, yes, Oliver. I’m sure,” Dante huff 

”Alright, alright, you know I can never understand what he says. The accent is too thick.  And that passageway, it’s unnatural.” 

”It is, the mural of bones is very strange.’’ 

”Scared, much?” Dante leers mockingly. “Why don’t you—“ 

They’ve stopped walking and their voices are lost in gusts of wind. I keep stalking  ahead, but as soon as I’m out of sight I loop around. Mural of bones, I think to myself as I  increase my pace. I knew exactly where they were going. 

The entrance is in an alley wall. I am facing a sandy brick wall at the back of the Rye’s  busiest tavern, Midas’s Goblet. I placed one of my inflamed hands on the wall tracing it ove the bricks until I felt an image. I lean in closer, on the brick is a crudely carved goblet. My hand  skimmed over it, then I came across the image of a torch. My fingers roughly push the bric inwards towards the wall. It gives and there is a click.  

Taking a step back I then turn toward the opposite wall and find and press a differ image. This one is a skull with a crown on top of it. 

There is a grinding sound and the cobblestones in the wall behind me open up, in its  disappearance is a set of winding stairs that lead to the depths of the earth. Hurriedly I climb  into the passage, crouching down as I pull a leaver that shuts the passage. 

In hindsight I wish I had brought a lantern or a torch of some kind. For it took me  considerably long to get to the mural. But in due time I made it and managed to shove myself  in a crevice just in time.  

Later that night my mind was abuzz with new information. They call it the mural of  bones for a reason. I don’t know how long ago or who did it but one of Rye’s deepest  passages is a mural that depicts a hero, a warrior who led his people to victory and saved them  from doom. 

They called him many things: the wise king, the valiant king, the merciful king. The  people adored him and anointed him with many favorable qualities. But the one that he was  most known for was the prince of justice. Ironic considering he was only a night. 

As a reward for his noble actions and service to his country the people overthrew the  former king, who had failed him due to his greed and cowardice and installed that young hero  in his place. His rule at first was great, but he was more bitter than the people could imagine Believing that the nobles were also corrupt due to their greed and conceit he executed them  all.  

The mural shows this, explains through its words and features how the serpent of fear  crept up on the young man. How he hung the nobles and cast their bodies aside to rot until  there was nothing left but bones. 

In their place he elevated commoners, who had nothing. But soon they grew ambitious,  so labeling them corrupt the king also disposed of them. The king did most know what to do  no matter their nature or their ties with power people grew corrupt. Too confident, too greedy too deceitful. 

So he vowed to let someone else partake in his power. Vowed to rule alone and to  eliminate any social classes. With this he broke off ties to their allying nations determined to d this alone. 

But as the years passed by, the people were oppressed and felt stuck and powerless.  The economy began to fail with their hopes. People began to starve as the king sat paranoid  on his throne eating luxuriously with the bones of his enemies at his feet.  

The people turned on him. After a bloody struggle the king was exiled and a new ruler  ascended to the throne. The new ruler sought to reestablish the noble courts and the  parliament. And so ends the story. Its words and lessons are forever painted on the walls deep  in the heart of Rye. 

It’s called the mural of bones because the Prince of Justice had made a throne of the  bones of his enemies. Bedecked in his throne room in them, the mural is truly a startling sight. 

My mind turned over the mural capturing its meaning. Without power, without freedom,  nations wither and people lose hope. I may not have been a noblewoman but I didn’t have to  be, to know that it would be no different in this orphanage when it came to its hierarchy. I sa up in my bed, fully clothed (as I had planned) and decidedly made my way silently down the  stairs.

I turn left at the bottom, creeping towards the offic 

Creak. 

I flinch. The building is dead silent, and I hold my breath waiting to see if anyone heard Then I shake my head at my stupidity. I can hardly see anything, but I make my way over Miss  Ava’s office. I had to grope the doorway to find my way to the desk. My bandaged hands s over the surface and I winced. Once I felt a paper and pen, I grabbed them and slid out the  back door.  

The moon is obscured by dark clouds tonight, crickets are chirping. I hid a lamp in one  of the hollows of a tree, using a rock and stick found nearby I lit it and quickly set to work  writing the letter. 

After that I go finish one more piece of business before covertly stashing the quill an lantern under a rock this time.  

I’m lying in bed again. I stare at my ceiling, tomorrow things would change, I vowed.     

When I fall asleep a smile is still on my face. 

Sounds can paint a portrait just as easily as paint can.  

The angry voices splatter red and dark shades across the canvas.  

While the pleading, traitorous voices come alive in the form of green serpents, slithering  their way out.  

The gasps of disbelief and confusion are white and yellow daisies in this image of  chaos. So surprised, so innocent. It makes me feel bad that they had to witness this.  

Different details create images on the canvas, like where I hid my quill, my journey t the lord of Rye’s castle, and all the lies I told.  

Guilt is there too, creeping up on everything like a gray, suffocating clou 

This creation of my own making. My new canvas. 

Paint runs off the page. Words chip off. Silence reigns. They are gone and it's all fault. 

In the passage that night among the presence of bones and traitors the boys met with a  nobleman planning a takeover. I had found the chink in the wolf boys armor, so of course I  backstabbed them. 

Their story is ending. This game has been won. And a fresh idea in my mind was  brewing. My victory is sweet in my mind with my newfound talent. My new hobby. 

I call it revenge. 

But don’t worry this is far from over, reader. Revenge and ambition was everything I  needed to begin my ascent.