Miranda and Caliban(7)

I am a little envious of the wild boy. I do not think Papa would waste paper on my measurements. But mayhap I am being ungracious because I have not yet broken my fast today.

“By the height of the lad and allowing for the effect of deprivation on the natural process of maturation, I should gauge his age within the range of nine to twelve years.” Papa measures the wild boy’s arms and shoulders, his calves and thighs. “Although by the breadth of his skull, it may be that he suffers from a form of dwarfism, and we might reckon him older.” He sets aside his calipers and rubs his bearded chin thoughtfully. “As for that, time will out. Eh, lass?”

“Forgive me, Papa.” Dizzy with hunger and thirst, I have lost the thread of his musing. “What is it?”

Papa’s brow darkens, then clears. When he is deep in his studies, he sometimes forgets the need for food or drink, subsisting on nothing but air. I see him remember I do not have his endurance. He slides his arms beneath the wild boy and lifts him. The wild boy’s head and arms and legs dangle. He looks small in Papa’s arms. Papa shifts him onto the pallet and straightens, retrieving his staff. “Come,” he says kindly to me. “Let us take sustenance, you and I. Whatever secrets the lad holds will wait.”

On his pallet, the wild boy stirs and draws in his limbs a little, then lies still, splayed on his back like a dead frog. I hope he does not awaken while we are gone, finding himself alone and fearful in a strange place. I know I should not like it.

In the kitchen garden, I draw a pail from the well and drink straight from the dipper. I do this three times before my thirst is slaked. There is an egg in the nest that was Bianca’s this morning. I slip it carefully under Elisabetta, who is acting broody over a clutch of her own, which I leave undisturbed.

The smell of journey-cakes cooking over the fire makes my mouth water as I gather greens and milk Oriana. When everything is done, we eat journey-cakes and boiled greens with a dollop of tangy white cheese.

“How long will the wild boy sleep, Papa?” I ask.

“Some hours, I should think,” he says. “I shall allow him to awaken as nature dictates.”

I push boiled greens around my trencher, trying to scoop them up with a crumbling bit of journey-cake. Papa is in good spirits, so I dare a bigger question. “Where did he come from? Did the Moors leave him behind?”

“The Moors?” Papa’s brows rise. “No, no. They abandoned this isle long before he was whelped.” He hesitates, frowning. “’Tis true, I have my suspicions, child, but I should never have spoken of them in your presence. It is not speculation fit for one of your tender years, and they may yet prove unfounded. It is as likely that the boy is a simple peasant cast adrift by superstitious kin for his lack of wits and foul mien, washed up on this isle and finding a primordial penchant for survival.”

“Then what has he to do with the spirit in the pine tree?” The question slips out before I have a chance to weigh the merits of asking it.

The look on Papa’s face is like a door closing. “Enough,” he says firmly. “Do not plague me with questions the true nature of which you cannot possibly understand.” He fetches the slate and a lump of ochre and sets them before me. “I want to see a fair copy of the alphabet in your best hand ere I finish readying the hen for plucking.”

I bow my head to the task. It is difficult to write out the alphabet without smudging.

While I make my letters, Papa fetches Bianca from the larder. He has left the cooking-pot hanging from the spit to boil. He throws Bianca’s head into the pail for the midden, stretches out her wings and examines her tail-feathers, plucking out several for ink-quills before grasping her legs and plunging her headless body into the boiling water. Her scaly feet stick over the edge of the pot, clawed nails curling.

I concentrate.

L, M, O … no, L, M, N, O …

I keep going. The heel of my hand smudges T. I wipe the slate carefully with the edge of my sleeve.

Papa hoists Bianca’s body dripping from the pot by the feet. He shakes the hot water from her feathers and lays her limp, bedraggled form on the shelf.

X, Y, and Z.

I put down my ochre. Papa inspects my work and pronounces it good, then bids me to make tidy the kitchen and complete my chores. Today, that includes plucking Bianca. Since I do not wish to do it, I save it for last.

I should not be ungracious. There are a good many chores that Papa or I should have to do were there no household spirits at his command. Each serves in accordance with their element. The airy sylphs sweep away the ever-present dust and breathe life into embers burning low when Papa tends the fire. The watery undines make the fountains flow and fill the wells. The gnomish earth elementals empty chamber-pots and till the gardens with ordure to render them fertile.

But they cannot make journey-cakes of acorn meal. They cannot mash tubers or cook greens or fry fish in a pan. And they cannot pluck a hen.

It is a long chore. I sit on a three-legged stool beside the midden and pretend I am petting Bianca one last time.

When it is done, I return her body to the larder. In the midden-pail, her discarded head gazes at me, bright black eyes turned filmy. Since I cannot bear it, I take Bianca’s head into the garden, where I dig a hole and bury it deep beneath a fig tree where she loved to scratch the dirt and peck at insects.

I have just finished when I hear the howling begin. For a moment, I think it is the spirit in the pine, but no. This sound is different. It is mortal and scared and angry, and I think it can only mean one thing.