The Book of Boy

  “Hello, Saint Peter,” I whispered. The blank glass eyes stared.

  A monk poked an old woman. “Move along; you’re blocking the line. Move, boy.”

  He did not call me hunchback! The washerwomen had folded me well.

  So we were pushed along, Secundus and I, two corks in an ocean of pilgrims, and we made it back outside, past the doors as big as a barn.

  Secundus found a quiet shadow, and sat with a sigh. “So many people.”

  “Yes, milord. But luckily you have a plan.” However did those doors close?

  “I did not expect such crowds.”

  “What does your book say?”

  “My book says naught,” he snapped. “I’m not a magician. I’ve my wits and my key—that is all.”

  We stared at the Mother of All the Churches, its blackened columns holding up air. Peddlers sold wine and bread and roasted meats, and pilgrims sang songs both pious and naughty, and a racket of birds heralded nightfall.

  “Perhaps you could get a dog to steal us the head,” Secundus suggested.

  “I could not! Besides, a dog couldn’t reach it.”

  “Hmph. Never mind.”

  Eat, eat! shrieked the birds. To nest—to nest!

  Pilgrims passed, whispering as they looked at me. No signs of protection, but still . . .

  “Don’t hunch,” said Secundus.

  “But they’re staring.” Oh, I did not like that sensation. My skin prickled.

  “They’re not staring, they’re looking.” Secundus shut his eyes. “They’ve been stuck in some flea-bitten village since the day they were born. This is their one chance for adventure.” He snorted. “Looking at us . . . How in the name of heaven will we get that skull?”

  “Do not lose faith. Saint Peter wants us to have it.”

  “He does, does he?”

  “Of course.” I patted the pack. “Or he wouldn’t have given us five of his relics.”

  A swallow swooped past: Eat, eat! Nest, nest!

  Secundus sighed, eyes still closed. “You’re right. We’ll simply walk in and take it.”

  Night comes, it comes! the birds called.

  I frowned, thinking. “Milord? I might have an idea.”

  28 Skull, the Sixth

  Dawn broke. Above the blackened church, the night sky softened to rose.

  Inside the church I stood, in a crowd of pilgrims. Secundus was somewhere outside. “Keep him safe,” I murmured to the pack on my back. “And me, too,” I added. “Please.”

  Around me pilgrims gossiped or prayed, and slowly we approached the altar. I squeezed my eyes shut, whispering words that were almost a prayer. Show me, I whispered. I am a fledgling. Show me how to fly. These words I sent up to the sky.

  A voice reached my ears: What, what? An earth crawler speaks!

  Another: Look: A fledgling, a fledgling!

  Others joined in: What, what? A fledging? No! No!

  Yes, yes! the voice answered. Let us show him, friends. Come, friends. Let us show!

  I opened my eyes.

  A swallow flew over me, skimming my curls. Not so close, I laughed. We’ll get caught. I was so near to the altar that I almost could touch its bars—

  A starling swooped by. Only one? asked I. Surely Rome has more than one starling.

  Just wait! snapped the starling. Just wait—you’ll see.

  I was at the altar, the head of Saint Peter an arm’s length away.

  “Move along,” droned the monk. “Move along, boy.” And then: “Goodness me . . .”

  “Look!” whispered a pilgrim, and another. “Look up!”

  Show me, friends, I smiled. Show me what happiness means.

  You see? You see? the starling chirped. A dozen starlings. More starlings than stars.

  Swallows swooped through the sky. Fledgling, fledgling! We fly! We fly!

  I see, I answered. ’Tis glorious.

  A flock of doves soared like a smooth gray cloud. Crows swooped, cawing: Watch, fledgling, how tough we are! Sparrows flew in their little jerks. Any crumbs? Any crumbs? they twittered to each other, their eyes searching, always searching. . . .

  But ’twas the starlings that captured the morn. The morn, and the attention of every soul in that church. Up they swirled, filling the sky, and in a spiral they soared from one end of the church to the other. They billowed and whirled, a thick wave, a thin line. Envy us, earth crawlers! they chortled, spiraling around the black columns.

  The pilgrims stared and gaped at them, and wonder marked every face.

  All day I could watch the starlings. The starlings and swallows and sparrows and crows, the doves and larks, the geese arriving now, the swans with strong beats. The terns. Three hawks high above. Flying, they were, with their wings.

  I had wings. . . .

  You’re a fool, I scolded myself, dragging my gaze down to the earth crawlers. There is work to be done. I looked about—I sensed eyes on me. But no one seemed to be watching. Even the monks gawked at the birds.

  I slipped my hand forward, easing my arm betwixt the bars.

  We fly, we fly! the birds sang—

  My fingers met the wax head, and something warm beneath the wax . . .

  Watch! The starlings swooped, writing a poem across the heavens that only God could read.

  The wax covered a fragment of bone—but the fragment came loose as I touched it. A fragment of skull it was—a fragment missing one tooth. Of course: the tooth rested in my pack, safe and warm.

  See us, see us, cried the starlings—

  A shriek from the far end of the church. “Thief!” screamed a man. “A thief’s over here!”

  Quickly I lifted the fragment of skull—did the monks see? No!—and pulled it between the bars. I dived between pilgrims.

  “Thief!” screamed the voice. “The thief is beside me!”

  The monks peered over the crowd, searching for the man who screamed thief.

  “Thief!” bellowed the man, for his belly was filled with wine and bread, and his purse with Secundus’s coins. Beggars are loud, yes, but bribed beggars are even louder. “He’s right here!”

  I burrowed between pilgrims’ legs.

  “Thief!” cried the monks, repeating the cry.

  “Thief!” cried the pilgrims, shoving.

  I ducked through the crowd. Everywhere pilgrims blocked me: pilgrims with boots, pilgrims with sandals, pilgrims with thick yellow nails. Pilgrims as broad as bulls, and skinny pilgrims standing together as close as the weaves of a basket. I wiggled and pushed and crawled. . . .

  At last, at last, I reached the threshold. I dashed out of the church—past doors as big as a barn—into the square. The square almost as crowded, and busy with the business of pilgriming.

  “Hurry!” cried Secundus, struggling with the great church doors, his face flushed. “You there,” he called to a cobbler. “We must seal the church against thieves!”

  “Thieves?” The cobbler jumped up from his bench. “I won’t stand for thieving.” He pushed, and Secundus pushed, and the great doors slammed shut.

  With a show of bustle Secundus locked the doors with his key, ignoring the pounding inside. “Thank goodness—and thanks to you, good cobbler. Now the church is safe.” Away he strode, leaning on his staff.

  I followed. I followed him past the stalls of butchers and the stalls of bloodletters, past piles of horse muck swarming with flies, past ruins higher than trees. Above my head the starlings laughed. But the swallows were gone, and already the crows mobbed the hawks.

  How brave the crows were, attacking—

  Don’t think about birds, I scolded myself.

  Secundus drew to a halt. He mopped his brow, and gasped for air. “Well?”

  Cautiously—no one must see!—I showed him the fragment.

  “Ah,” he exhaled. “Rib tooth thumb toe dust skull.”

  “Rib tooth thumb toe dust skull.” I slipped the skull in my pack. “Now we only need home.”

  Secundus laughed as he set off
. “Tomb, Boy. Not home. Forever you make that mistake. We need only reach the tomb of Saint Peter. Naught will thwart us now!” But his laughter turned to coughing, and he walked like a very old man.

  I took his arm, and looked around, and looked behind us, and looked behind us again, and coaxed him to walk faster. Someone—I knew it—was watching.

  29 Brigands and Wolves

  And so we trudged the broken road. Secundus stumbled, and I caught him.

  He chuckled. “You saved me, Boy.”

  Dark, this road was, even in daylight. Overgrown. Again my skin prickled. . . .

  “Do you hear?” he repeated. “You saved me. For a thousand years I thought only of my own pain. You reminded me what it means to be human.”

  I pondered his words. “You have saved me, too. Before I met you, people threw stones.”

  “Hmph. They threw stones because you hunched. You don’t hunch anymore—”

  A terrible sound hit my ears: wolves, howling in the distance!

  “Hurry!” whispered Secundus.

  “Hurry!” I said, at the same time.

  But alas, my master could only plod.

  We reached the crest of a hill, gasping . . . but gasping in awe as well as fright, for before us spread a valley filled with ruins, and beyond it a crowded, rickety, smoke-covered town. “All this,” Secundus wheezed, “was once the great city of Rome. From here to the walls. A million people! Now it has barely enough souls to fill a church.”

  We descended, Secundus murmuring of palaces and courts and statues. I tried to shush him: he must save his breath, and the wolves might hear us. . . .

  Howls reached us—closer. Brothers! Sisters! the wolves cried. Blood kill!

  “Milord,” I whispered, horrified, “I can understand them!”

  “What do they say?” He saw my face. “Ah. Nothing good.”

  The howls turned to barks: Brothers, sisters—to scent! A man! A small one!

  “Run, Boy!” Secundus pushed me.

  “I cannot leave you—” I’m so scared!

  The crashing of underbrush. Sisters! Brothers! Blood kill!

  A yelp of surprise: The small one—it speaks!

  A wolf burst onto the road—a huge white she-wolf. She crouched, blocking our way.

  I froze. Secundus froze. I tried not to exhale.

  She lunged at us, sniffing. You’re not human.

  I . . . I gulped. I’m an angel. I think.

  “Are you talking to it?” Secundus whispered, not moving his mouth.

  Silence! The wolf stepped closer. What is that one?

  He’s my master.

  Is he kin?

  Without warning, a sob caught in my throat. Yes. He is all the family I have.

  The wolf stared at Secundus with her cold yellow eyes. . . .

  She slipped back into the weeds. Sisters, she called. Brothers. We hunt elsewhere.

  She was gone.

  Clutching his chest, Secundus sat on a fallen column. His cheeks were gray, and his lips.

  “That was right terrifying,” I gasped.

  “I am not sure . . . I can . . . continue.”

  “You must! We are so close. Rib tooth thumb toe dust skull—you should cross out the word skull!”

  He did not take out his book, however, but stared into space. “What chance do I have. Me? In heaven?”

  “Milord, you must have faith.”

  He snorted. “Delusion, more like it.”

  I shook him—that is how angry I was! “I know—I know as truly as I know the sun shines—that if we make it to the tomb, you will be saved, and I’ll be saved, too.”

  “You? You don’t need saving.”

  “I do. I must become a boy.”

  “What?” He blinked.

  “I know Saint Peter will grant my prayer. We need only reach his tomb—”

  A noise—

  I sprang up. Secundus turned.

  A figure climbed out of the brush—a small figure with bare feet and black hair and red ribbons. ’Twas the girl who called herself wicked! The girl who threw stones.

  “Oh, no,” I whispered.

  She strolled to us, laughing. “You two almost got eaten! A waste of my time that’d have been.” She looked at Secundus. “I’ll give you twenty florins for your servant and his pack.”

  With effort he stood. “Neither is for sale.”

  “I figured as much. What of a partnership? With that pack, the two of us could own this city.”

  He snorted. “The pack is worthless.”

  “Worthless, eh? Not if it holds the skull of Saint Peter.” She chuckled as I flinched. “Oh, I watched you take it. Quite a trick that was with the birds. But then, you’re an angel.” She grinned. “Climbing out of Saint Paul’s with wings on your back . . . and me thinking you were a girl.”

  “You are mad,” Secundus told her. Gripping my elbow, he walked.

  “I wouldn’t travel that way,” the girl called. “You’re better off going with me.”

  Secundus’s breath rasped, but his voice remained strong: “Ignore her.”

  “Fine,” she called. “We’ll just sell his feathers and tears . . . Imagine: angel tears! I could buy all the silk in Rome. . . .”

  Step by step, Secundus walked through the wasteland. I walked beside him.

  A flash of black as she darted past—

  She blocked the road, knife in hand. “I told you: this way’s not safe.”

  Secundus swung his staff, smacking her hand aside.

  Oh, was I awed. Many times I’d seen my master brave, but never so brave as this, for I knew the effort it cost him.

  The girl hissed a curse, but she ducked away, and spat at our feet as we passed. “You’ll regret this!” She continued to shout, but I focused on holding Secundus for he swayed like a reed, and together we tramped past swamp-filled temples and enormous white marble buildings.

  “I shan’t offer again,” the girl yelled.

  We approached a fortress—a fortress that once had been a great arch covered in statues but was now topped with battlements, its great arch filled in.

  Behind us, the girl whistled—

  Figures emerged from the fortress. Swordsmen, and a sharp-faced man:

  The steward!

  “I told you this route was unsafe.” The girl smirked at us. She held out her palm to the steward. “I brought them to you as I promised. Now pay me.”

  The steward turned to the swordsmen. “Kill her. Kill the pilgrim. Keep the servant.”

  The swordsmen lunged—without warning Secundus was knocked to the ground. He lay motionless, his hat in the dirt—

  “Secundus!” I cried—

  “Shut up,” the girl hissed, her knife at my throat. “I’ve caught your prize bird!” she yelled to the steward. “Send off your men or I’ll kill him. Then I’ll gut you like the French pig you are.”

  I began to cry—I could not help it. We had been so close!

  “Stop wasting your tears!” Her knife pricked my neck.

  Help, thought I, helplessly.

  The steward glared at the girl. His swordsmen stepped back. . . .

  “Hold your ground!” he shouted at them.

  Still the swordsmen backed away. With a clang, they dropped their weapons.

  The steward stared at us, his face ashen. He stared past us.

  The swordsmen turned and fled.

  “Wolves!” the steward screamed. He ran.

  The girl spun—

  A pack of wolves pounded toward us. The white wolf leaped for me—

  The wolf sank her teeth into the girl’s wrist, wrenching her sideways.

  I stumbled away—

  Secundus stirred.

  “Milord!” I crawled to him.

  The steward ran—oh, he ran fast. Three wolves behind him . . .

  The white wolf tossed the girl to the ground. Blood kill! I shall rip out her throat—

  No! I cried.

  The wolf stared at me, her claws on the
girl’s neck. You called for help.

  I know. I shook Secundus. “Wake, milord, please.” Blood ran from a wound on his forehead.

  She would not be missed, the wolf growled.

  Perhaps not. But ’tis enough that you saved me. I gathered Secundus’s hat and staff. “Come, milord. Can you walk, do you think?”

  “Ah, my head hurts.” Secundus struggled to sit.

  “We haven’t much farther. . . .” I looked up to the wolf: Thank you—

  But the white wolf was gone.

  The girl lay in the dirt. Disbelief filled her face. Disbelief, and something more: fear. “That beast was going to kill me,” she whispered.

  I turned to Secundus. “Lean on me. . . .”

  She said something I could not make out. “Answer me!” she shouted.

  “Answer you what?” I hadn’t time for her chatter.

  “You stopped that wolf—I know you did. Why?”

  “Because I am good.” I adjusted Secundus’s arm on my shoulder. “One step—well done.” I could sense the girl’s eyes on me, but I ignored her. “You are doing brilliantly, milord . . .”

  I had not killed her, no. And the girl was too feared to follow me, I could tell. But she’d almost killed me. She’d stalked me all the way across Rome. Stalked me like I was prey . . .

  Oh, I needed to reach the tomb of Saint Peter. Then I never again would know fear. At the tomb of Saint Peter, my troubles would end.

  30 Tomb, the Seventh

  On we plodded. Chipped columns rose between weeds. Buildings lay in pieces, or stood with their windows barricaded by rubble. Like termites, Romans now were.

  “This once was the Forum.” Secundus mopped at the blood on his forehead. “Now it’s buried by a thousand years of ashes and filth.” He stared at a cow pat.

  I put my arm around his waist. “Come, milord.”

  Still we walked. I pleaded for help from pilgrims camping in this wasteland, and from Romans living amid collapsed houses. But as one they ignored us.

  The smells worsened: sweat and piss pots and pigs. We were in the city itself now, cracked towers looming over cramped streets. Secundus peered around, each breath wracking his frame. “I feel,” he gasped, “a thousand years old. . . .”

  “Move, I say!” A well-fed pilgrim rode a donkey toward us. The pilgrim’s rings twinkled in the sunshine as he beat the donkey’s flanks.