What Enid hated most was the cold.

But there was little he could do. They had not had a fire for many nights, and the sharp air bit deeply into his skin. His fingers were always the first to freeze; numb stubs of flesh that lost their sense of touch long before sleep gave him merciful relief. He was a young and healthy twelve, the youngest in the Clan. But his thin, doe-like body was easily permeated by the cold.

He looked to the far side of the ash pile that on better nights had been a warming fire. The others, perhaps two dozen of them, shivered silently. The eroded ruins of what centuries before had been a cathedral offered little protection. The roof of the structure had collapsed long ago and a chilling breeze would funnel through the broken hallways to the room the Clan had made its home. They would draw into a protective huddle, but it would do little good. The autumn chill slid into the flesh like talons, slow and deliberate.

Enid cast his eyes toward Old Napes. She was lying down on the far side of the ash heap, swaddled in black rags. Her eyes were shut and her shriveled features motionless. He hoped she was asleep. Of anyone, he hated to see her suffer the difficult nights that always came before a Raid. The shortage of food and clothing was the chief concern among the others. But the lack of warmth was what seemed to drain most of the life from Napes. Cod how he hated the cold.

Tomorrow would be different, after the Raid, annd for the first time he would participate in it. He would no longer be a simple child, taking without contributing. That part of his life was about to end, and it was for Old Napes, more than for himself, that he was anxious to help.

He feared for her health more than any other in the Clan. His affection for her was as the worship of a sage and the love of a grandmother. Long before he could remember, his parents were killed in a Raid on one of the Fortresses of the Rich. At the time she became his guardian, schooling and comforting the young boy as the others went off to forage through the city for means of survival. Eventually she became a parent, teacher and a mentor, imparting wisdom that was both reassuring and enlightening.

Old Napes knew of many things few of the others had any knowledge of. They would listen and learn reverently about the ancient crafts of healing and war strategy. She would fascinate them with great tales of the world as it was before the great Depression; a time of factories and farms, and of happy people who lived with hope for the future. Such times were so long ago few of the Clan really believed the stories, but they listened out of respect. The younger ones sensed she was past her better days. They knew that very soon, on one of the frigid nights, the unfeeling cold would sap the last vestiges of life from her bones. Her body would cool and fail, and painlessly surrender to death.

Enid, of course, never had such thoughts. He believed every word she spoke, and the notion of her dying was inconceivable. All his skills, all his learning, he owed to her. He had been tutored like no other in the Clan. She had taught him of the right kinds of food to steal from the Rich. She showed him which of their goods had value to their little tribe and which were only the useless amusements of their wealthy victims.

And she taught him of books.

In a world that had been in a bottomless depression for centuries, books were rare and precious things. Reading was an ancient art practiced by few outside the walled-in island of wealth that were insulated from the endless sprawling slums of civilization. The scavenging populations of the poor had no need of such esoteric skills. Stealth and animal reflexes were what insured survival. Not so much against the Rich; they almost always remained huddled inside their protective buildings. Instincts of the wild were needed more against rival Clans, housed in some other ancient ruin. They would pillage each other for newly stolen goods. It was a sad but familiar plight that the starving masses with no dream of deliverance should be victims of each other, rather than of the Rich who hid within city block-sized fortresses of opulence.

Enid thought about the books. It had been a long time since a Raid had uncovered any. No one else seemed to care much about them. Food and clothing, and perhaps weapons were the prizes most sought. But he wanted the books. To his bright, young mind, they would be as important as the other things in easing the misery of their situation.

He remembered their texture, and the strange material they were made of. There was something so natural about them in contrast to the stone buildings, plaster houses, plastic furniture and metal implements that made up the rest of his world. There was no wool or cotton or wood of any kind. The proliferation of cheap synthetics just before the Depression began had done away with all such organic materials. Little of nature survived the ravages of progress except and occasional tuft of wild grass that would force its way up through cracks in the streets.

He huddled into a hole in the dirt and thought of tomorrow. The hunger that usually occupied his stomach was replaced by a knot of anticipation. Tomorrow was his rite of passage. All that Napes and the others had taught him would be put to the rest in raiding the Rich. He wondered what they were like. He had heard they were scrawny things whose skins were white, and even glowed. There were countless tales of cruel, dispassionate creatures that wielded brilliant weapons made of rare metals. He was never sure hour much of this was fact and how much was the taunting exaggeration of the older boys, who still regarded him as a child.

Tomorrow the taunting would end. He both feared and desired the challenge. But he would prove himself to all of them, and especially, to Old Napes.

His eyes dropped back to the dark ash pile. He lay in a fetal curl, wrapping himself tightly in the filth-matted blankets about his shoulders. After a few more moments of wondering, he resigned himself to sleep.

Against the pink haze of the predawn, the Fortress of the Rich was an imposing monolith. Centuries before it was a fashionable six-story brownstone apartment building, embroidered with stylish brickwork and offering a sunny view from its louvered windows.

Now the windows had been cemented over, the brick trim was eroded away, and a sooty gray discolored the once bright, rusty red. From outside there was nothing to indicate that unimaginable wealth was cocooned safely inside.

The Clan was wise to them though. A small chimney vent produced a thin trickle of smoke. An indoor fire, this was no urban cave of another motley clan.

Enid crouched with the rest of them in the broken hulk of a building across the street. The dim light made each of their faces indistinguishable. Despite all the layers of war gear he had been strapped into, he still shivered from the hateful morning chill. But his heart pounded triumphantly. He recalled the loving glimmer in Nape's eyes just before he left the cathedral that morning. She was so proud of him. Now his muscles were tension wires of readiness; he would carry out his task without question or mistake.

The Clan leader picked a spot in the cemented front entrance where a crack revealed a weakness. With decades of Raids behind him, he had learned to read the signs of structural flaws. Enid was given his signal as the others prepared themselves. He darted across the street to stop at one corner of the Fortress. From his belt hung a damp, knotted rag and a slim steel Battle Pipe, his only means of defense. With his spidery limbs and thin fingers, he clung to the cracks in the brickwork and steadily, as he had practiced for years, climbed up the edge of the building.

Only once about halfway up did he pause. When slipping his hand into a crack just above his head, a sharp break in the stone cut his finger slightly. But he continued. After what seemed like hours, he reached the top and hoisted himself up onto the roof.

He signaled to the others who were already aiming a huge stone pillar toward the front entrance. They laid a path of parallel pipes leading to the cement crack in the front and rolled the pillar toward it. The pillar hit the cement with a crunching thud. They backed it up without hesitation and rammed it again. And again. And continued to batter the building until the flaw would give way.

Enid heard voices coming from beneath his feet. It sounded like shouting. He was mesmerized briefly with the thought of actually hearing the Rich creatures speak. But a thud from the ramming pillar brought him around and he turned to approach the smoking chimney.

The voices were louder now as they bounced up the shaft. He could distinguish two or three different ones. But he had no time. He slipped the damp cloth off his belt, balled it up and jammed it tightly into the chimney. Then, checking to see if he was being observed, he crept toward the edge of the roof, just above the nearest cement window.

For long moments, nothing happened. He perched gargoyle-like over the window, hearing nothing but the steady thundering at the front entrance and the occasional voice from one of the creatures inside. The sun had finally risen and the dreamy quality of the morning events sharpened into hard-edged reality.

Adrenaline pulsed through him as he heard crackling at the window below. He watched motionless as the cement began to break from a force from inside. A hole was punctured and the creatures could be clearly heard, hacking and coughing from the smoke of the backed-up fireplace. More force at the window, and the cement protection was busted out of its frame. A swell of smoke rose up past him as the unseen creatures gasped for air.

A loud crash six stories below told Enid the Clan had broken through to the inside. Wild yelps of victory echoed up to his rooftop vantagepoint, signaling his next move.

A male voice from the window below commanded, "Stay here!"

Fascinating as this was, Enid had no time to reflect. He swung himself over the edge of the roof and threw himself feet first into the room below.

For an instant, there was disorientation, then the scent of smoke clearing fern the room. He saw a fireplace, a magnificent work of stone that ridiculed the primitive ugliness of his own Clan's fire pit. The fireplace was framed by a cream-colored wall, subtly textured with thin tan patterns; interlocking swirls of delicate flower-shaped designs. Mounted on the walls were wooden shelves, one on each side of the fireplace. They were stocked with brass and crystal ornaments. Some were animals or jars, others more abstract shapes. They reflected light with a shimmering quality unlike anything Enid had ever seen. Below the shelves were waist high clay pots glazed with bands of violet and deep blue. It was almost more than the slum child could take in. Then he felt a presence.

Wielding his Battle Pipe in his hands, he whirled around to face one of them straight on, braced for an assault. But it never came, what he saw was not anything like he expected.

She was young and smooth and appeared very gentle. She cowered against the wall in terror. Her colors were like something from a fantasy; baby blond hair, milky skin, and a sky-blue gown draped down her thin body. Gradually, he realized he was under no threat and lowered his Battle Pipe.

He was unsure. This was not one of the haunting creatures the Clan told of in their stories. Her features were lightly crafted. She appeared so clean, like an infant unfettered by years of life in the streets. He knew there was nothing to fear here. He was quite in command.

A certain confidence filled him as he inspected her. She seemed to sense he didn't intend to hurt her. The arm she protectively held up slowly lowered and her stance relaxed. She was young, but still some years older than Enid. Her expression showed a realization that his ragged, street-toughened figure didn't disguise the fact he was still a boy.

He took a step toward her and she balked instinctively. But there was an unmistakable look in her eye, a growing certainty, even condescension.

He swallowed hard as she gradually stood straighter. Her face was calm and, to his astonishment, melted into a mild smile. It was almost an expression of affection. Her glance assessed his sinewy brown body, and his heart raced in response. It was a strange exhilaration, unlike any emotion he could ever recall. None of the other females in the Clan ever affected him this way. The early stirring of manhood had flirted with him in the recent past, and he both suffered and delighted in the teasing he would get from the older girls. But none of them had awakened such fresh fascination. They didn't have the pristine perfection of this woman. And none ever gave him such an enigmatic smile; one that somehow spoke volumes to him in a language he only dimly understood. Perhaps this, too, was part of his rite of passage.

He reached out cautiously to touch her. This time she did not retreat. His grimy fingertips grazed her bare arm. It was like touching the setting sun; her tender warmth imparting both comfort and awe. He examined her skin and the small smudge his touch had left. Even in mock battles, he had never known this deep kind of excitement. He reached for her again, his eyes meeting hers as he did. But something was wrong.

Her eyes darted to something behind him. Twisting around, he saw the silver blade slice down toward his face. He bolted sideways, the blade whirring past his ear. The tall man brandishing the gleaming weapon turned toward him and lunged forward. Enid backed against a wall and slid his Battle Pipe out from his belt just in time to deflect a second, forceful swing.

"Get our of here! Downstairs!" the creature shouted to the girl. She scampered away instantly as the angry figure moved menacingly toward Enid. This was the kind of creature he had been prepared for. And despite his youth, he was more than ready.

Enid swung and poked his crude pipe with snake-strike speed. The Rich creature had the size and the superior weapon, but the boy had the raw energy of a cornered animal. Every attack upon him was batted aside and each blow of his Battle Pipe came closer to the skull of his enemy. He wasn't even thinking now, just hacking with exhaustive might; an explosion of desperate power. He slammed aside the thrusts of the blade, the clashing metals ringing on impact. At last, with one well-aimed jab, he struck the chest of this opponent. The creature grunted and stumbled backward.

Enid was upon him instantly. A hard swing of the pipe found its way to the crook of the man's neck. He dropped the sword and staggered toward the doorway the girl had escaped through. A second swing and the battle was over. The creature slumped lifelessly to the floor. A stream of scarlet trickled from his forehead.

The boy gulped in lungfulls of air and stood transfixed on his grizzly handiwork. What was he supposed to feel now? Glory? Victory? He felt neither. Only intense confusion. He trembled, his nerves still firing madly from his confrontation. He was not sure he liked becoming a man.

Yells and crashes sounded from below. He knew there was little time. Another inspection of the room affirmed there was nothing of value here. There was no food or clothing to be found, and he had no use for the inert toys of metal and glass sitting on the shelves. Perhaps the clay pots might be useful. Then, looking over to the adjacent wall, he saw an expansive curtain covered it. At least it might make for a warm blanket. He stepped over to it and pulled it to the floor in a single yank. He was stunned by what was revealed.

Books.

There were hundreds of them crammed onto shelves from floor to ceiling. Every size and color imaginable rested neatly before him. Though slackjawed with astonishment, an anguished cry from below sent him into action.

There was no time to inspect any of them. It didn't matter. They were books, rare and precious. He spread the curtain out onto the floor and loaded armfuls of volumes onto it. When he had piled up as many as he could carry, he folded the curtain corners together and knotted them to form a sack.

A high-pitched wail welled up from the lower floors. That was the signal. The Raid was complete. The crusade was won and it was time to pull out.

He dragged the sack to the window and dumped it over to the street below. Looking down, he saw several of the Clan retreating with arms full of the spoils of their invasion. He climbed out the window, maneuvered to the corner of the building, and with the stealth of an arboreal primate, descended to the street and set out for home.

The fire burned intensely in the ash pit; flames lashed up at the night sky. The orange glow threw shifting shadows of the Clan onto the walls of the cathedral. An occasional spark would weave firefly trails into the air, and the massaging waves of heat warmed the skin of the victorious hunters.

The day had been good. Enid licked from his fingers the grease from the tasty meats he had stuffed himself with. He wasn't sure what kind they were. The Rich creatures sometimes had such exotic tastes. But he was full, and warm, and very happy.

He had grown tremendously. In the eyes of the Clan and of Old Napes, he had become a man. A full member of the Clan. He had made his first contribution and had shown he could hold his own against the hostile uncertainties of his primitive world. There would be a thousand more dawns when he would raid the fortresses of the Rich. But this was the most important one, and he had performed masterfully.

He had done more than simply find his fair share of goods. He had fulfilled a dream; a promise to himself. He looked proudly at the large stack of books nearby. Even the envious older boys had let him look past the immediate needs for food and clothing. He had the vision to obtain for them a rare luxury that would make life just a bit better. At least for awhile, the long nights of this feudal age would not be quite so dark.

Enid looked over to Old Napes. He loved her so, and it had been so long since he had seen her lie so peacefully through the night without shivering. It was she who had made this raid so special. She was proud of what he had done, and he was pleased with himself that he had done so well for her.

He shuffled closer to the embers. He thought of the Raid, the young woman, the battle and blood, of this feeling, the books, and of his new place within the Clan. His own bravery had helped his little tribe gain one more victory against the cold and dark of this age of ignorance.

He smiled proudly to himself, and threw another book on the fire.

-Thomas Quinn