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.”
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.