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.
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.