As sunlight peeked through the dense forest, its golden rays piercing holes in the damp air, a woodpecker hopped along its favorite branch. Claws dug deep into the craggy and soft bark, the woodpecker shivered with delight. The branch had the best bark in the forest, easy to hold, but firm enough to endure a good flexing of talons. The woodpecker’s red breast swelled as he drank in the fresh morning air. He bent down to sip a drop of dew nestled in the rifts of the branch; another reason why this branch surpassed all others. The woodpecker shuffled down the branch, seeking to position itself under an opening of the leaves where it could warm itself in the sun before attending to the daily task of pursuing insects. A skip to the side, an inch to the right, almost... There! The woodpecker ruffled his feathers and chirped happily; warm light rained upon his glossy back. Suddenly, the ecstatic bird spotted something. He cocked his head to the side, his beady eyes flicking back and forth over the one spot, where, at the very tip of his, his perfect and flawless, untainted and beautiful, branch, there was a dead leaf. The woodpecker’s pupils dilated and he froze, transfixed. It was as though the air just stopped moving and all noise deadened. After a second the woodpecker submitted to gravity and fell forwards, a piece of the branch still attached to his claws, and he hit the ground, dead. His heart had stopped at the thought, the realization that his branch, his tree, was dying.

Tarquin rose late that morning. Slowly pulling the wool blanket off his head, he could even tell from behind closed eyelids that it was well into the day. Tarquin frowned; something was amiss. He cracked one eye open, groaned, and shut it again. It was late. Tarquin took a deep breath and paused for half a second before rippingo ff the blanket and getting onto his feet. Tarquin didn’t sleep on a mattress; he said it was uncomfortable. His toes curled and flexed, feeling the polished wooden floor, while the rest of Tarquin bent and stretched, shedding the memory of slumber. Tarquin breathed deeply once more and wrinkled his nose with pleasure; he loved the earth smell in the morning after a rain. Tarquin padded over to the washbasin in the corner of his room. He had a very simple rood: no bed or mattress, just a straw pillow and one blanket in the middle set on the floor; a simple wardrobe set against the wall that he barely ever used as most of his clothes were in a stacked neatly next to his pillow; and a bowl of water and a mirror for the sanitary necessities. Tarquin splashed water on his face and ran his fingers through his hair before daring to look in the mirror. All he saw were his green flecked eyes and a mop of chestnut brown hair. There was no need to pay attention to the rest of his face, he already knew that it looked like and those bits never changed and weren’t the slightest bit interesting. Tarquin’s eyes were a real mystery in the town of Manzi. No one had ever seen green eyes in 200 years, most people had either blue or brown, and even so, his were still special. Tarquin pressed his face as close to the mirror as possible so he could stare at his own eyes without his vision blurring. There was a new shade of brown near the irses he detected, but otherwise, still unnatural. Finally after careful scrutiny, Tarquin moved on to his hair. Unlike the rest of the men in Manzi, Tarquin’s hair was short. His hair did not even hope to fall past his ears as it was fashion, and he didn’t dare dream for a beard, he was only 16 after all. Though Tarquin had pulled, tugged, prayed, begged, and even tried different concoctions of roots and herbs that were supposed to promote hair growth, Tarquin’s stayed the same length: long enough to curl in front of his eyes and distract him but too short to tie up or do anything else. Tarquin tugged at his fring hopelessly and sighed before pulling on some leather boots and a cotton shirt and stomping into the kitchen.

“Good afternoon dear! Someone forgot to wake up this morning!” trilled Gweneth, Tarquin’s mother, from the sink. Tarquin thought to just grunt and be moody the whole day, but something about seeing his mother’s cheeky grin as she washed dishes made him smile. He gave her a huge hug from behind and kissed her on the cheek before answering,

“Sorry Gwen. Missed my wake up call!”

“Honestly dear! Stop relying on a silly bird to wake you up!” Gweneth pulled out a plate of sausages and eggs for Tarquin but withheld it, “And stop calling me Gwen! It’s rude!” Tarquin laughed and grabbed the plate, big dimples appearing on both cheeks, and said,

“Well it’s rude to call my woodpecker a silly bird! Where is he anyway? I didn’t hear him this morning. You didn’t eat him did you Gwen?” Tarquin dashed to the other side of the kitchen, putting the table between him and his mother. Gweneth brandished a kitchen knife menacingly,

“Call me Gwen one more time and you can cook your own meals! With only one hand!”

Tarquin set his plate on the table and smiled mischievously.

“Yes mother.” he said cheekily.

“Good boy!” Gwen turned back to her dishes, humming an old folksong.

“Ay mwoom, wha Chaarlee gwon te?” Tarquin gargled, his mouth stuff with eggs. Gweneth giggled,

“Chew then talk you savage!”

Tarquin gulped loudly then neatly wiped his mouth with a napkin,

“I said, where’s Charlie gone to?”

“Oh your sister’s around here somewhere...” Gwen answered vaguely. Charlotte, or preferably Charlie if you didn’t want your teeth knocked out, was Tarquin’s little sister. She was just fourteen but even so, Tarquin and everyone else knew not to anger her. Charlie was a petite little thing but she had won the town boxing competition each year for three years running.

“Alright mum, I’m going down to the carpenter’s now!” Tarquin kissed his mother on the cheek one last time and headed towards the door.

“Be safe darling!” she called out after him.
“Don’t you worry your pretty head Gwen! I’m always safe!” Tarquin laughed wickedly and shut the door quickly, but not quick enough to miss the unmistakable thud of a kitchen knife being embedded in the wood. Tarquin fled the scene cackling, chased by a stream of oaths.

Manzi was a very awkward town. There was no method to the madness of it’s structure other than some abstract circle form. In the center of Manzi lay The Market, a mess of ramshackle booths and stalls where one could find everything from cabbage to door knobs. There were no streets or definite paths in The Market and shop keepers liked to randomly uproot themselves and set up their stall elsewhere. One day you might find a lovely necklace but when you come back the next day to buy it, the shop is gone! The people of Manzi were also famous for their bargaining. Shopkeepers and customers will argue from dusk till dawn on an item that the customer didn’t really want anyway but was just bringing down the price for fun. The Market was a scene of chaos each day without fail and it brought a smile to each person’s face. Surrounding the market were the specialist workshops such as blacksmith’s or tanner’s. Here and there one could find cafes and boutiques that one could spend a day just chatting and gossiping with the owners without even buying a thing. A cobbled road ran crookedly all around the market, connecting the stores and workshops with a few random back alleys that sometimes just led to nowhere. Horse drawn carts clattered along the road, pulling in supplies or delivering goods and more often than not two carts going opposite ways would get stuck because the road was too narrow or took too sharp a bend for both of them to navigate around. Usually these traffic jams escalated into verbal personal attacks with many people crowded around to listen to the insults and throw in a few themselves. These jousts ended when one person couldn’t think of a witty reply and gave way for the other to pass, and the drivers would go along waving goodbye merrily to each other like long time pals. Fanning out were the cottages for the people that didn’t have a trade and made their living on fishing or just as helping hands. They did keep some livestock but there was not much work as a farmer in Manzi as Manzi was the only town on a relatively small island in the middle of a gigantic river, the Gepi River. The Gepi really was gigantic. From Manzi you could not see one bank and the other bank was a few kilometers away. This was because Manzi Island was situated at the widest part of the river, right where it bent eastwards and flowed to some unknown ocean. No one knew where exactly the Gepi flowed to as no one had ever tried to canoe that way; it was far too dangerous. Downstream was full of rapids and raging water, it would be suicide to try and follow the current. Upstream from Manzi was a different story however, the waters were calm and clear. It was said that one could float out to the deepest part of the river and still see all the way to the bottom. Manzi was dependent on the Gepi for survival as it was their only fresh water source and the people of Manzi took great care not to pollute the river.

Whistling merrily, Tarquin sauntered down the weathered meandering road towards Dave’s, Manzi’s most skilled carpenter, workshop. Tarquin stepped off the road and strode through the back door of a tall two storey stone house. He marched through a family’s dining room, giving a friendly wave to the two year old rolling on a sheepskin rug. A little grandmother sitting on a rocking chair in the corner peered in the general direction of Tarquin and barked sharply,

“Who’s that? I may not see well but I can gosh darn hear like a bat!”

Tarquin smiled and answered, “Unclench your first Mrs. Chappell! It’s only me Tarquin.”

Mrs. Chappell’s face brightened just the slightest, but she quickly frowned to hide it.

“You! Boy! You think you can just traipse through my daughter’s house anytime you please?”

“Of course not Mrs. Chappell. I was late and decided to take a short cut through here. I do hope it’s alright.” Tarquin bent down and picked up the chubby child, Chantal. Chantal chortled at the silly faces Tarquin pulled at her. Mrs. Chappell eased up her eyebrows at the sound of her grand daughter’s laughter and nearly unpursed her lips. With a twinkle in her eye, Mrs. Chappell asked,

“So boy, I hear the carpenter’s daughter has got eyes for you.”

Tarquin blushed and put down Chantal before answering,

“I don’t know nothing about that Mrs. Chappell.”

“Speak proper Manzi boy! And don’t lie to me! Don’t you go breaking her heart you hear!” Before Tarquin could answer a scream rent the air.

Baby Chantal had been sitting, arms outstretched towards Tarquin, clenching and unclenching her fists. Of course she was giving him the universal sign that she wanted to be picked up and given attention but the idiot hadn’t caught on. The silly boy had continued to ignore her and so Chantal had no choice but to yell,

“Come and pick me up you blither dimwit! I’m far more important than some conversation with grandma over there!”

However this only came out as,

“Up Tark! Up!”

Tarquin winced and hastily picked up Chantal.

“Don’t fret Mrs. Chappell. Linda is wonderful, but I’m not having eyes for any girl right now.”

Mrs. Chappell narrowed her already squinty eyes

“You don’t like boys do you boy? ‘Cause you know that ain’t natural!”

Tarquin laughed uproariously as did Chantal who didn’t quite know why but was sure it was about something remarkably clever and witty she said. “Let’s just say I have another priority at the moment.” Tarquin remarked mysteriously. Quickly cutting off more questions, Tarquin bid garewell to Chantal and the irritable Mrs. Chappell.

“Don’t come back you villainous boy!” Mrs. Chappell called out after Tarquin. The old lady settled back down in her rocking chair and allowed just the tiniest twitch of her mouth. That’s boy’s cheek will get him into trouble some day, she thought.

Tarquin burst out of the house and found himself directly opposite to the carpenter’s. Tarquin glanced up into the sky, not quite noon but still very late. Tarquin hadn’t estimated how long his shortcut would take and how he was going to have even less time to work on his project! Tarquin jogged down to the workshop and immediately his nose was clogged with saw dust. The sound of sawing wood and hammering nails filled the air. Tarquin rapped his knuckles against the wall; there was no door, just a wide opening so that Dave could ‘see the town’s going ons’.

“You’re late.” a voice called out. It was a deep commanding voice with a rugged no nonsense tone. Tarquin had always secretly admired Dave’s voice and liked to imitate it sometimes when he was bored.

“Sorry Dave. Missed my wake up call!” Tarquin moved to the edge of the wall and removed a pair of leather gloves and an apron from a hook.

“You mean that woodpecker of yours? That thing’s still alive?” the voice answered, sounding slightly amused. Tarquin rolled his eyes and sucked in his cheeks. “Now now, I’m only joking with you. Get rid of that face and come on, we have a lot of work to do today.” Dave stepped out from some corner and startled Tarquin. No matter how long Tarquin had known Dave, his appearance never ceased to slightly scare him. Dave was a slight man, perhaps too slight to be even called a man. He was as pale as fresh milk and even if only spent a minute in the sun, his skin would burn bright red and never tan. His eyes were the lightest of blues, so blue that they were almost grey and he had blond eyelashes that matched his blond eyebrows and long wispy blond hair and beard. Dave had thin to almost no lips and a body frame so delicate that it looked like a simple breeze could just blow him away.

“Well get a move on!” Dave boomed out.

Tarquin smiled slightly and started to saw.