A chapter from the middle, that ended up at the beginning, making it a prologue.
The fog was so thick, the man could barely see where he was going. Good thing he knew the Stump Quarter as the back of his hand. The night sky was pulsing red, as usual, giving enough light to see fallen trees, puddles of slush and an occasional ditch. His head was wrapped in some dark rag, too untidy to call it a turban. The rest of the body was covered by a shapeless bundle of cloth, probably picked in a dump. A typical bum, save for one important detail. An observant examiner might've noticed his boots were too new and expensive. But it was too late to stay observant and the city streets were empty.
He stopped at a particularly wide ditch. Too wide to jump across and no bridges within view. He could swear it wasn't there yesterday.
A gust of wind blew the fog away. Enough to see the nearby residential towers and get his bearings. Most buildings in the Stump Quarter were barely eight-ten metres high, stumps of quartered towers, as the locals joked. “Locals”. Not-really-a-bum spent over a year here, but still felt like a stranger. And merely a week ago such things wouldn't bother him. Life with this roommate was definitely changing him.
He looked around, getting his bearings before the fog crawled back. That mural seemed familiar, meaning he took a wrong turn and missed his goal by half a kilometre. Good. He was getting afraid some shock workers dug the ditch while he waited at the police station.
Ten minutes later he stood on the snow-powdered bank of a canal. The water was free of ice, but fortunately the bank was frozen solid. The thick fog concealed the opposite bank. Did he guess the place right? There was only one way to tell quickly. He tried wading across the canal. He guessed right — here murky water hid stepping stones. Barely ankle-deep. In seconds he was ascending the slope of the opposite bank.
There were no buildings on this island. It was mostly flat and empty, with occasional patches of trees and shrubs. The circle of life for the island plants tended to be pretty quick — trees and shrubs were planted, withered within a week or two, got chopped and something else was planted. Unless it was winter. The municipality never ceased trying to turn the useless island into a park. Whatever keeps them happy.
The beaten path zigzagged whimsically, occasionally crossing other paths or forking, but the not-bum knew better than step off it. Far ahead, above the sea of fog, he could see bright coloured lanterns atop residential towers. As long as the path led him in the general direction of red-red-blue, he was OK. On the ground as far as eye could see — that is, three metres (six if you squint real hard) — he observed a deceptively flat and featureless snow-covered plain. Perfect weather for running away — he could keep his bearings, but any pursuers would lose him if he threw them off.
A few hundred steps later he faced a dilemma — wading through a deep-looking puddle, backtracking and finding another beaten path or walking around the puddle. He chose the latter, and after a single step sunk knee-deep in the icy mud. After climbing to the hard packed path he took off the right boot and poured water out of it. He then unwound the strip of cloth from his foot and shin, wrung it out and wound the dry end around his foot. He mentally smiled. If he had money for proper socks, he'd rub his foot sore.
A few minutes later he reached a paved area atop a short knoll, with a red granite stela in its centre. Or did they really cheat everybody? Was it really sandstone? Paved paths led into the fog, toward the two bridges and a dozen dirt paths met here. If not-bum was interested in sightseeing, he would've enjoyed the view of towers surrounding the island, dark silhouettes over the dim red smouldering sky, rising above the sea of fog, decorated with coloured lanterns, each tower with its own combination. But he was quite familiar with the view.
He walked to the stela careful not to slip on the iced flagstones and checked the rock for signs of recent vandalism. There were none. Good. The last thing he wanted tonight was altering his plans to account for another vandal. His improvisation skills sucked.
He pulled a sledgehammer from under his clothes. Looked around one last time. There had to be some people guarding this site, but where were they? Let's find out. His hammer hit the stela.
Four men with long police batons rose around the monument. Now that they stood up, the vandal could see where they'd been hiding. They've dug small pits (unnervingly similar to graves), covered themselves with camo cloaks and had been covered with snow. They probably spent several hours freezing there, waiting for the likes of him. Yes, the stakes were definitely getting higher.
The vandal stood waiting with his back to the stela. The four guards stood cautiously in a semicircle, well outside the hammer reach. No one dared to move first. Finally, the vandal got bored and swung his hammer, hitting the stela behind his back. One of the guards rushed, seeing the opening. A moment later he desperately tried to stop, to prevent his face colliding with a hammer. His feet slipped and he fell, hitting the pavement with the back of his head. The vandal dropped the hammer, jumped over him and quickly disappeared in the fog. Two guards followed him, the fourth helped his fallen colleague back to his feet, and they joined the pursuit.
Several minutes later the guards returned rubbing bruised elbows and knees and with nothing for their pains. The culprit was moving silently and they immediately lost him in the labyrinth of passages. They ventured further for conscience sake, but gained nothing and barely found their way back.
They were greeted by a most unusual sight — a small horse with an oddly styled long mane. It was too dark to tell the colour, but its mane and tail seemed too bright, obviously artificial, contrasting the dull body fur. If any of the guards had ever seen a real horse, or even paid attention to pictures of ones, he'd have noticed abnormally short muzzle and disproportionately large head with huge eyes. But none of them was a zoology buff.
“What the hell?.. Is that a horse?” one guard asked. He wasn't very familiar with the area.
“I think she belongs to this photographer guy, and gives rides to children.” The one who answered was a local.
“Why is it here this late?”
“He got arrested for public intoxication again. Right on this spot. She's probably waiting for him to come back.”
“Poor thing, freezing here all alone,” the third guard sad. Hitting his head made him more sensitive to the plight of others.
“Nah, he said she's real smart. Knows geography, can find her stable on her own. Maybe she wants some fresh air before going to sleep.”
The first guard eyed the picture on the horse's haunch.
“This colour doesn't look natural. Does dyeing animals with aniline count as cruelty?”
“If you hope for her owner to pay you off, forget it,” the local shot his hope down. “He's greedy and usually broke. Do you think he'd get arrested today if he could pay?”
“Probably no...”
Their musings were interrupted by a barrage of snowballs. The snow was wet, and the balls were hard. The ice-flinger was none other than the audacious vandal. Already riled by the previous chase the guards rushed after him, disappearing in the fog. They did not stop to think why would the vandal come back after being chased off.
Meanwhile, the inconspicuous dumb animal intently stared at the dented granite slab. Probed it with her front right hoof, knocked on it a few times listening to the sound and scowled in disdain. Then abruptly turned around and bucked the stela. It crashed to the ground, shattering into grains of sand.
The horse picked the sledgehammer with her teeth and trotted away. Tomorrow morning was going to be busy, and she hoped to catch enough sleep.