Miranda and Caliban(8)

The wild boy is awake and he is very, very unhappy.





FOUR

I hurry through the palace, back to the gallery above the wild boy’s cell. Papa is already there, his hands resting on the balustrade as he frowns at the spectacle below.

The wild boy is flinging himself around the cell in a fury. He claws at the stone blocks sealing the door to the garden, but they are too heavy for him to move and he howls in despair. He claws at the planks of the door and yanks in vain on the handle. He leaps high, higher than I would have thought possible, clinging to the tiled wall with ragged, filthy nails and seeking to reach the windows, but he cannot get enough purchase to climb and falls to the floor with another howl. He has overturned the water basin and trampled the food that Papa left for him.

It frightens me, yet I feel sympathy for him, too. I think mayhap the wild boy is more frightened than I am. He does not seem aware of our presence. I should like to call out to him, but I dare not.

“He is more savage than I reckoned,” Papa murmurs.

“Can you not do something to soothe his fears, Papa?” I whisper.

Papa continues to frown. “Yes, of course, but there is much to be learned in observation. I had hoped to discern in him the faculty of reason. Thus far, I am not encouraged.”

The wild boy pauses in his efforts. His attention turns to the cloth knotted around his waist. He tugs at it with a whine, then claws frantically at it, spinning in a circle as the breech-cloth shifts around his waist.

Papa sighs. “No, not encouraged at all.”

I say nothing.

The wild boy sees us and lets out a hoarse bark. Behind the hair that hangs over his broad brow, his eyes are stretched wide enough to show the whites all around.

“I shall go to him,” Papa says.

I watch from the gallery as Papa descends to the lower level of the palace. There is a moment when it is just the two of us watching each other; the wild boy below and me above. Squatting on his haunches and looking up at me, he pauses in his efforts and cocks his head.

I cock mine in reply. It seems to me that there is a glimmer of understanding in him; but then Papa turns the key in the lock and enters his cell. The wild boy leaps backward, his narrow shoulders hunching uncertainly.

“Peace,” Papa says in a deep, calm voice, holding out one hand in a soothing gesture. “Be at ease, lad.”

The wild boy hesitates, then bares his teeth and swats at Papa’s outreached hand. It is not much of a blow, but it is enough to invoke the binding spell that Papa has laid upon him. Straightaway the wild boy falls writhing to the floor, howling in pain. I see the muscles twitch and jump beneath his skin of their own accord as they cramp in knots. The wild boy curls into a tight ball. Only his hands move of their own volition, fists beating against his thighs.

Papa shakes his head. “Ah, lad! Even a singed cur learns to fear the flame. I pray you may prove at least as wise.”

I think that Papa will likely make the wild boy sleep again, but he doesn’t. He simply leaves him there, and bids me descend from the gallery. The wild boy’s howling fades to a low keening sound that follows us through the empty halls and colonnades of the palace.

That evening Papa and I dine on chicken stewed with tubers from the garden. Although it is rich and good, my portion is seasoned with tears.

In the days that follow, at first I am hopeful. Never again does the wild boy raise his hand against Papa when he enters his cell, but cringes warily, wrapping his arms around his head. When no torments are forthcoming, bit by bit, he eases from his defensive crouch and lowers his arms. Now Papa shows him nothing but kindness. He seeks to teach the wild boy by example, speaking all the while in a calm and soothing manner. He cups his hand and drinks water from the basin, saying the words drink and water over and over. He picks bits of journey-cake from the tray and mimes eating, saying the words eat and food. After a time, the wild boy learns to mimic Papa’s actions; although when he eats, he shoves whole journey-cakes in his mouth and gobbles them down in great gulps, crumbs of meal spraying. And when he drinks, he shoves his face into the basin and laps at the water like a beast.

But alas, there his progress halts.

No matter how much Papa plies him with words, no matter how gently he coaxes, the wild boy does not repeat them, only barks or grunts.

And when left alone, he continues to howl and rage against his confinement.

The wild boy’s fingers and toes grow bloody, his ragged nails ripped from their beds in his vain efforts to scale the tiled walls. His breech-cloth hangs from his waist in bloodstained shreds, and if he could undo the tight knot, he would doubtless discard it altogether. Disdaining the unfamiliar chamber-pot, he makes waste in the corners of his cell. Sometimes in his fury, he smears the walls with his own ordure.

Despite the efforts of the earth elementals, whom he regards incuriously, the cell begins to stink.

When the wild boy has exhausted himself, he crouches on the floor of his cell and rocks back and forth on his haunches, keening softly and biting at the knuckles of his hands. After the first day, he does not look in my direction when Papa allows me to observe from the gallery.

Torn between pity and disgust, I do not know what to feel.

“I fear that my endeavor has failed, Miranda,” Papa says gravely to me over supper. Some twenty days have passed since he summoned the wild boy. “Either the lad is so far sunk into savagery that he is beyond the reach of civilization’s influence, or there is naught of humanity in him to be reached.”