Sweeping Changes

CHAPTER 1

He woke knowing only one thing: that the face staring back at him from the puddle’s reflection wasn’t his. He couldn’t say what about it seemed so wrong -- neither the pale complexion woven with wrinkles, the gray hair tied back behind his head, nor the faded blue eyes. But something definitely wasn’t right. He blinked and opened his mouth, baring teeth in good condition for someone so obviously old, and the reflection moved along with him. It seemed to be the face he was wearing at the moment, even if it didn’t really belong to him.

The old man looked up from the puddle and found himself half-laying on the ground, on a city street lined with flat paving stones and a thin layer of trash. The buildings were all stonework, built to last, looking almost like castle battlements. There were no windows. He sat up properly, finding no bruises worth mentioning, then he noticed the broom.

There was a distinct path through the leaves, fruit rinds, and animal droppings. He had apparently been cleaning the street before he’d been afflicted with whatever it was. Voices sounded distantly from a few streets over, but there was no one nearby to ask.

He got to his feet and resumed sweeping.

No point in just sitting around while he thought about it. Not when the street was so disgracefully dirty.

His thoughts didn’t come up with much. He found that his joints were sound and his back strong, and he handled the broom with a deftness that spoke of many years of practice. In no time he had swept up the remaining trash and brushed it into an opening to the sewer system, where water rushed by quietly below.

He found himself smiling with pride in the network of tunnels, as if he’d had a hand in building them. He probed the thought for more, but nothing surfaced. It felt like memories were teeming behind his eyes, but their way was blocked.

Frowning, he turned back to the place where he had woken. Nothing marked the area to show that anything strange had happened, but as he walked back to the puddle, he noticed something different about his reflection.

It spoke back to him.

=You done wandering in circles?= a voice echoed in his head, as the wrinkled face regarded him with a raised eyebrow. =Pull yourself together, kid; this is embarrassing.=

The old man straightened his posture and regarded the puddle. He wasn’t surprised that it was talking, and he wondered if he should be.

=That’s the stuff! Now stop looking so flaming senile, and use that brain of yours. Got anything identifying in your pockets?=

A quick search produced some creased paper money, a small metal contraption with many blades and tools folded up inside it, a stub of writing carbon wrapped in a handkerchief, and a handwritten note saying that he was owed a new pocket notebook of his choice when the shipment came in next Woodsday. This last was signed with what must be a shop name: City Essentials.

=Righto, a clue!= the other voice chortled. =Let’s start out by finding the nice lady who wrote that.=

“You’re sure it was a woman?” the man asked, feeling slow.

=Of course it was; look at those curly-cues. No self-respecting male over the age of ten writes that girly. Now c’mon, off with you!= The reflection urged him on, pointing toward the nearest intersection.

“Will you be--?”

=Oh, I’ll be popping up; can’t leave you alone to be a stupid-head by yourself. Onward! And stop talking to thin air; you look like a lunatic.=

The old man regarded his snickering reflection briefly before turning and stumping off toward the corner. He used his broom like a cane until the puddle behind him shouted that he looked like a geezer that way.

He didn’t dignify that with a response.

He just kept walking, looking for anything that jogged memories, and listening for sounds of life. This corner of the city was largely quiet at the moment. The height of the sun and the songs of hidden birds said that it was midmorning, a time when most cities were up and running.

Coming to a stop at the corner, the old man rested his broom handle against the ground and looked around at his options. This was another side street, with only lifeless buildings and the occasional potted plant. No people were visible, though he could hear plenty: off to the right there were voices raised in jovial conversation and shouted commands, along with various clanks and thuds of industry. To the left he heard no human voices, but many birds, and the rasping sound of stone being hewn with a metal blade.

Something about the last noise caught his attention, and he found himself turning in that direction. The metal sounded thin and whippy, not like a proper stoneworking tool. And this area didn’t look like it should house a workshop of that sort. Curiosity and a distant feeling of concern drew him toward the sound.

Then the rasping stopped, replaced by a pause and then a loud crack. Something heavy thudded to the ground, and the old man found himself running, alarm ringing through his mind.

He raced down the empty street, avoiding slick spots in the pavement and casting about for the source of the noises. The road let out into the remains of a winding public garden, mostly full of untrimmed hedges and bird nests. More rasping sounds and an instinct he couldn’t explain led him to the center of the maze.

There, hidden from view by overgrown trees and bushes, were three dark figures clustered around a statue missing its head.

The old man felt the desecration like a blow to the heart, and he didn’t stop to wonder why. He let out an inarticulate cry of rage and swung his broom at the nearest vandal.

The three people in shapeless clothes and concealing hats had heard him coming. His target managed to dodge the broom handle that would have dented his skull, jumping back while the other two produced knives and advanced without a word.

The old man noticed many things: they lacked the bluster of rowdy troublemakers; they didn’t run for it like delinquents caught in the act; they didn’t consult with each other before moving to surround him with deadly weapons; and they were dressed in a way that was calculated to disguise their features. He couldn’t say with his conscious mind why the destruction of this statue was important, but it obviously was. And his subconscious still cried out for blood.

He didn’t wait for them to make the first move. Before they could get close enough to reach him with a knife, he stepped toward the one on the left with the broom held up for a powerful swing, then he stopped in mid-motion and lunged in a stab to the midsection of the one on the right.

The man was caught off-guard, and the sturdy pole hit just below his ribcage. He crumpled to the ground gasping for breath while the other two vandals reassessed their opponent and attacked from two sides at once.

The old man spun the broom, sticking the bristled end in one attacker’s face then using it to sweep the feet out from under the other. The first attacker got over the indignity and slashed with his dagger, but the old man wasn’t there any more. He had jumped to the side, getting into position to bring the shaft of the broom down on that outstretched arm with bone-cracking fury.

The younger man cried out as his forearm shattered, but there was no more time to spend on him, not when the one on the ground had decided to throw his daggers instead. The first was supposed to take the old man in the shoulder, but he was still moving, and he saw the motion in time to dodge. The second knife didn’t even leave the vandal’s hand before the old man had leapt across the empty space to swing his broom handle with punishing force. A raised arm blunted some of the blow, cracking more bones yet still connecting with the man’s head hard enough to render him unconscious.

But the other vandal with a broken arm wasn’t ready to give up; he had crept forward with a second knife ready to plunge into the old man’s back.

He wasn’t fast enough.

The broom handle knocked his hand to the side, and before he could bring it back into a dangerous position, the old man had lunged to jam an elbow into his ribs and stomp on the ankle of his forward foot.

The ankle broke with a crunch; the man crumpled with wide eyes and a gurgle of pain. He stayed down this time.

A look around told the old man that the fight was over. One vandal was unconscious with a bruised skull and a broken arm, the second had two broken limbs and some bruises as well -- he looked to be slipping into shock -- and the third was still gasping, but appeared to be recovering from the blow to the solar plexus.

The clack of the broom handle on the paving stones in front of him caused this vandal to look up in startlement. The old man stood before him, staring down with an expression that made the vandal start pleading for mercy.

“Please let me go, I won’t --”

“Why did you do that?” the old man interrupted, jabbing a finger at the headless statue. He couldn’t bring himself to look at it...