Miranda and Caliban(9)

I look up from my trencher. “Will you set him free, then?”

Papa hesitates. “’Tis that, or bind him tighter. It means relinquishing the hope that the lad might hold a key to a particular mystery, but he may yet be of service to us on a smaller scale. Although I must give the matter further study, I do believe that there are ways it may be done. It would deprive the lad of will and reason, but since the latter appears nonexistent, mayhap the former would be no loss worth mourning.” He lets out a mirthless chuckle. “Should it prove a success, mayhap I’ll work a similar charm on that troublesome goat of yours.”

Outside, a hot summer wind has sprung up. It sighs through the archways of the palace and skirls about the kitchen. The embers in the fireplace stir and glow. In the courtyard, the spirit in the great pine tree gives a long, plaintive wail that sounds like Ahhhhhhh! The wild boy in his cell barks in angry response.

I gaze at Papa.

Why?

It is the question I want to ask him, a question that breaches the pent-up dam of a hundred other questions. Why, why, why? Why not grant the wild boy the freedom he craves? Why do I dream of a time before the isle? Where is the house with stone walls that I half-remember? Who were the ladies who put slippers on my feet in the morning and kissed my cheek and sang me to sleep in the evening? Where did we come from and why are we here? Where did the wild boy come from? Who do you suspect were his mother and father? Who was my mother? What is the spirit in the pine, and what has the wild boy to do with it?

Why do they matter to you, Papa? Do I matter to you? What is it you seek and why do you seek it?

Why do you tell me so very, very little?

I say none of this, because I do not wish to grieve him. I know that I am only a foolish child, and if Papa keeps things from me, it is for the best. Still, it is hard when the questions crash like waves inside my head.

The next morning, Papa does not give me a lesson after we break our fast, but goes straightaway to his sanctum, warning me not to disturb him.

I do not, of course; and yet, and yet. I am restless, plagued by a spirit of willfulness. Mayhap it is born of the many unanswered questions I have swallowed. When the midday’s heat is at its worst, I climb the stairs to the upper story of the palace and venture into the gallery even though I do not have Papa’s permission to do so.

Below me, the wild boy sleeps on his pallet. He lies on his side, knees drawn tight to his chest, hands fisted under his chin. He twitches and shivers in his sleep as though stung by biting flies.

I watch him.

I think about how he leaned his head against Papa’s hand on the day he was summoned, as though there was a deep yearning for kindness and companionship in him. I think about how he glanced at me that first day, a glance like a shared secret. I wonder if mayhap we might yet understand one another, the wild boy and I. If we might yet be friends.

If Papa bespells him a second time, I shall never know.

My bare feet carry me down the stairs, along the colonnade that leads to the wild boy’s cell. I gaze at the stout wooden door, the haft of the iron key protruding from the lock. It would be wrong for me to enter the wild boy’s cell alone; and yet, Papa has never forbidden it, has he?

No, he has not. He has told me not to enter the gallery without permission, but he said naught of the cell itself. Like as not, it is because Papa never imagined I would dare such folly. But the wild boy cannot harm me. Papa’s magic has made certain of it. And if I am swift, Papa will never know.

Reaching up, I grasp the haft of the key and turn it in its lock. There are clicking sounds, after which the wooden door gapes open a crack.

My heart thuds in my chest.

I push the door.

It opens with a creak and I slip inside, closing it behind me. The sound awakens the wild boy. He leaps from his pallet and lands in a crouch. Behind his thatch of coarse black hair, his eyes widen in surprise.

My heart continues to beat hard and fast. The wild boy’s cell is hot and it stinks like a chamber-pot left to stand unemptied for days on end. Not a single whisper of air stirs in it.

“Hello,” I say. My voice sounds high and strange to my ears and my chest feels tight. I draw a deeper breath of hot, stinking air and make another attempt. “Hello!” The wild boy stares uncomprehending at me. I cock my head at him, but he does not cock his in reply this time. Daring greatly, I take a step forward. The wild boy retreats a step, his knuckles brushing the tiled floor. I hold out my hands in a pleading gesture. “Don’t be afraid! I won’t harm you. No one will harm you. I only want to be your friend.”

The wild boy’s gaze darts uncertainly around the room. I think about the unlocked door behind me and fear takes root in me, my skin prickling. If the wild boy escapes, Papa will be in a fury.

But no, the wild boy makes no move toward the door. I think he must not know what a lock is.

“Friends,” I say softly, clasping my hands together in an effort to show him the meaning of the word. “Can we not be friends, you and I? Surely you must be lonely.” My voice trembles a little. “I am. I know you cannot understand the words I speak, but can you not try to understand? Because I should very much like to be your friend, and I do not know how else to ask.”

The wild boy hunches his shoulders and lets out a hoarse bark.

And all at once, a wave of despair washes over me. It is too much, all of it. The blanketing heat, the enduring stench, the wild boy’s unteachable savagery, Papa’s endless absences, and my own unbearable loneliness.