The Book of Boy

  Recover? I did not like the sound of that word. “Milord, I do not wish to steal.”

  “The shin of Saint Peter belongs at his tomb in Rome. We must return it.”

  That sounded better. Return is what you do with things that are lost.

  Our boat drifted toward the forest of masts. Secundus steered with his oars. “Stay close to me,” he warned. “Do not get . . . found.”

  Do not get found. . . . I shivered.

  Our boat bumped against a pier. “I have met more souls from this place than I can count,” Secundus murmured, and with that he leaped ashore.

  I followed him. Into Avignon, to return the shin of Saint Peter.

  What a city it was. What a cesspit. Tall buildings made narrow streets even tighter, and hammering assaulted the sky. Palaces rose from the ruins of houses. The streets were clogged with beggars, and finely dressed women, and servants clothed from the wealth of their masters. Men wore strange and foreign caps and helmets. Perfumes battled with stench, the smell worsened by piss pots emptied from windows, by candle smiths boiling tallow, by the spent grain of brewers being gobbled by pigs.

  “Hurry, Boy. I have men to bribe. ’Twill take time to locate the man with the dog.”

  A rich man clothed in red strode toward us, guards clearing his path—

  Around the man’s neck hung a pendant displaying a fragment of bone.

  I hunched, quaking with fright. What if that man thinks I’m an angel? I will be chopped into one thousand pieces! My teeth will be pulled from my head, and my fingers ripped off. . . .

  “Move!” Secundus followed my gaze. “Ah.”

  The man in red drew closer. His guards were almost upon us.

  With a hiss Secundus dragged me into an inn. “I should like a room for this one,” he announced to the inn wife scrubbing the hearth.

  The inn wife snorted. “You’ll not find a bed in all this town. The whole world comes to the pope.”

  Secundus displayed a fistful of coins. Coins he’d stolen, no doubt, but I was in no state to object. “I said I should like a room.”

  “Well now.” The inn wife wiped her hands. “I’ve an attic. . . . It’s small, mind you.”

  “So is he.” Secundus jingled the coins. “He need only be safe.”

  Her eyes on the coins, the inn wife led us up stairs smelling of onions, and other stairs smelling of cats. She stopped at a rough door with a rusted padlock that she unhooked to reveal a dark attic cluttered with broken benches and a chest.

  “There’s bedding”—she nodded to the chest—“and a piss pot. I’ll bring dinner—”

  “Do not worry yourself.” Secundus touched the rusty padlock.

  “We’ve lost the key, I’m afraid—”

  “’Tis perfect. In with you, Boy.” He dropped coins into the inn wife’s hand.

  She eyed me—my curls and pack and ripped tunic. Quick I ducked away from her prying.

  The door shut behind me. “I will come for you,” Secundus called, “when I need you.” The padlock snicked shut.

  “What’s that?” The inn wife’s voice rose. “How do you have a key to this lock?”

  Footfalls: Secundus walking away.

  “I said, how do you have a key? Answer me. Answer me, pilgrim!”

  I took a deep breath. “I will be safe here,” I whispered into the darkness. “I’ll be safe.”

  Safe from men craving relics, perhaps . . . but would I be safe from the thoughts inside me?

  19 Newly Hatched Chick

  The attic was not totally dark, for light leaked through a broad gap below the door. Standing on the least broken of the benches, I opened a shutter that revealed naught but a wall. Open was better than closed, however, even in the dusk, and it aired the attic. The chest revealed ancient bedding that I spread on the floor, stacking the benches to one side. The piss pot I left. All my life I’d been baffled by men’s pissing and squatting. That is one mystery solved, said the voice in my head: Everyone pisses but angels.

  Hush! I scolded—but had not time to think more, for something was scratching its way under the door.

  The something turned out to be a cat, mottled in gray and orange. She purred when I stroked her, and curled up on the bedding. ’Twas quite like the goat shed, this attic, though I had blankets here instead of straw, and a cat to chat with instead of goats.

  We talked of mice, the cat and I, and of the importance of napping. When it became too dark to see, I sealed the shutter. I said my prayers, praying that Saint Peter protect me from harm, from Ox’s stones and Cook’s scolding, from the sharp-faced steward who called me a thing. . . . I shivered.

  The cat kneaded my arm. Mmm, come. Let us rest. I settled beside her soft furry body, the pack of Saint Peter warm on my back, and her purring lulled me to sleep.

  The steward was looming above me. He clinked his fingers together—fingers now made out of knives. “Angelus,” he hissed, gold eyes glittering. “Monster. Thing . . .”

  I jerked awake. “No!” I cried. “I am not any of those—”

  The cat curled against me. Mmm, said she. Come back to sleep. . . .

  Her purring woke me the next morn—that, and an odd gurgle outside.

  Cautiously I opened the shutter. A stream of rain fell past, from a gutter carved into the shape of a monster.

  “I am not a monster,” I whispered, remembering my dream. But the gutter monster did not care, nor did the cat. The steward was far away. I need not fear his knife fingers.

  I watched the gutter spewing rain. I had naught else to do.

  Cat? I asked. She flicked an ear. When I petted her, she turned away. Play with me, I begged, but she answered mmm and kept sleeping.

  I poked at the benches too broken to fix, even if I’d had skill and tools.

  Avignon, thought I, is not at all interesting.

  My hump itched.

  Had my hump ever itched me before? I could not recall. Although I could never recall being so idle. No dogs, no goats, no Father Petrus, no Secundus. No Ox, even, hurling insults and stones. I missed Cook! She’d at least find me something to do.

  The bells of terce rang for mid-morning, the finest bells I ever had heard.

  Now I must wait for the church bells at noon.

  Noise wafted up from the street—laughter, and someone selling something I couldn’t quite hear.

  My hump itched.

  “Stop itching,” I grumbled. “You have never itched before. I cannot scratch you.”

  And why not?

  Because never reveal yourself.

  But I had revealed myself—the huntsman had revealed me for that one awful moment (don’t think of that, Boy). I must keep myself covered or I’d be chopped into bits (don’t think of that, either).

  My hump itched. Oh!

  What exactly is your hump? my mind asked me. I’m curious.

  ’Tis not to be touched, I answered. But oh, it itched, and now my mind itched, too—naughty curiosity! This attic was safe, and I was alone. No one could see me through the window. The empty hours loomed before me.

  So—shameful me—I determined to discover the truth of my hump.

  With guilty fingers I untied the knots of the pack, and set it aside.

  The ripped tunic fell from my frame. I stood naked but for my hose.

  With a deep breath, I reached for my hump. I scratched it. I felt it.

  Soft the hump was, with bones inside the softness, small bones that tucked this way and that. Pinfeathers covered my skin, like the wings of a newly hatched chick.

  “I am not an angel,” I whispered. But again I reached, and again I touched feathers and bones. Muscles I never had known moved in my chest. Muscles along my spine.

  With great courage I grabbed at the hump and stretched it. From the corner of my eye I could see the feathers all greasy and limp, each feather as short as my fingers.

  The cat yawned and stretched and settled herself. I held out my hand. She sniffed it, and wrinkled her nose.
r />   The wings—I mean, things—did not smell . . . did they? What if men could smell them, and find me?

  I must clean my hump! But how? How did one clean wings—er, hump—when one hadn’t a beak? I did not even have a bucket or bowl—

  The piss pot!

  Gagging, I held the chipped piss pot under the rainspout. Soon enough I had a pot of fresh water. I found a rag in the chest, and went to work.

  Oh, was it hard, for my arms were in front and the hump in back, and my wings—my whatever they were—had no strength at all.

  Perhaps angels groomed each other, like a cat with her kittens . . .

  I offered my back to the cat, but she turned away. Cats.

  I dumped the piss pot out the window, and filled it again and again, scrubbing my hump that had never been touched. Soon the room stank of wet fowl.

  Angels can be quite revolting.

  I scrubbed and rinsed till I shook with exhaustion. How I felt for wee chicks just out of their eggs.

  A noise touched my ears—someone was coming! “I’m sorry, dear boy,” called the inn wife. “We’ve been so busy—you must be starved.” She pushed a bowl of stew under the door.

  “Um, thank you. You are too kind.”

  I fed the stew to the cat who curled her tail around her toes as she nibbled, and I collapsed onto the bedding, as sore as though I’d been haying. I pressed the warm pack of Saint Peter to my hump. The two things were damp. How to dry them? Birds dried their wings by flapping. Perhaps . . .

  My chest spasmed, and my back.

  Angels are useless, I thought—and immediately I’m not an angel!

  I am not an angel, I repeated as I worked the things attached to my shoulders. But every time I moved them and washed them, the word crept closer, till by twilight I called them by name. I have wings, I thought as the vespers bells rang. I have wings, and I even can flap them. And I could, though every movement made my chest burn. Exhaustion slapped me harder than Ox ever had, and with great effort I sealed the shutter and fell into bed.

  Cook opened the attic door, and strode in scowling. “What a mess you’ve made,” she snapped. “Look at you lying about.” She reached for the covers.

  “No!” I cried, pulling them tighter—

  But she yanked at the bedding. “What are you hiding, you lazy thing?”

  “I’m not hiding anything,” I lied—

  “I’m not—!” I cried, jerking awake. Was Cook here—?

  Of course not. ’Twas only a dream.

  I curled, catching my breath. What if Cook saw my wings?

  Mmm, the cat murmured. Stop moving. . . .

  I awoke the next morning aching like a very old man. My wings—oh! they were larger, and every feather fuller. Every time I moved them, it seemed, they grew, and whilst I could now extend them somewhat, I could not draw them in. Not enough. What if someone saw me? Not Cook to be sure—she was far away, and so was the steward. But others had eyes. The inn wife, for example . . .

  So I tore the washrag to ribbons, and with much grunting tied my wings down, feeling quite like a trussed chicken. It hurt, but my pain was better than others’ attention, and with time (I hoped) I would notice less the pinching and tightness.

  My wings could scarce bear it, however, and they ached as legs ache when one crouches too long.

  When the inn wife brought food again, I begged for a thread and a needle, and repaired as best I could my ripped tunic, and donned it over my wings. Then, when I could stand it no more, I removed my tunic and untied the rag ribbons. Such relief! My wings spread as wide as my elbows. How fine it felt to stretch them.

  Mmm, said the cat. You flutter, but you’re too big to eat. She went back to sleep.

  At dusk I sealed the shutter, and tied my wings down. However much they loved to be free, I could not risk exposure. What if someone came in whilst I slept? I wept at the pain, and put on my tunic, and tied on the pack of Saint Peter. The warmth of Saint Peter at least helped the ache.

  I nestled beside the cat, who stretched, making room. Mmm. You look silly, she said.

  I hope I don’t. I hope that I look like a boy. I petted her, and she purred. But I was not a boy, and would not be till I reached Rome. I had wings I must hide or they’d cost me my life.

  I sighed.

  Mmm. The cat curled her tail over her nose. What is it?

  O cat! I swallowed. I must confess it: I think I’m an angel.

  20 Kicked in the Shin

  A shock of cold air—Cook tugging my bedding—

  “Wake up!” A light blinded me—

  Secundus stood over me. “What have you done, you dumb pail of milk? Your hump is bigger!”

  “I am sorry, milord!” I nigh wept in shame, tugging at my hose and tunic and pack.

  “Come. Hurry.” He strode out of the attic. I hurried to follow.

  The cat curled up in the spot I had left. Who’ll be my bed warmer, mmm? she asked.

  You’ll be fine, cat—and I’m certain she was. She at least did not have to tiptoe through the inn, and wince as Secundus unlocked the front door. A cough racked his body, and in the lantern light I could see his flushed cheeks. In three days he’d visibly sickened.

  He jerked his head at me: Hurry.

  ’Twas the depths of night. Avignon’s streets were as quiet as tombs, and as dark. Secundus shielded the lantern. “We meet the man with the dog. You can control the dog, yes?”

  Control? I talked to dogs. Sometimes I made requests and they agreed, but that was not controlling. I could barely get the cat to wake up. “I’ll try.”

  “You’ll succeed. And you may have to climb into a pit . . . don’t shiver.”

  But I could not help it.

  We climbed cobbled streets. Before us rose a palace as big as a mountain, with a gate as high as a tree. Cook would swallow her tongue! Through the gate came a carriage with four horses, with guards fore and aft, and a messenger running behind.

  Secundus led me through the gate into the largest courtyard I ever had seen. He slid through a shadowed doorway into a corridor, handing me his lantern. He redoubled his grip on his staff. “Ah. Here he comes, with his hellhound.”

  A man approached, a man with a face like a vulture, dressed half in black and half in red, with shoes twice the length of his feet. Behind him paced a dog the size of a pony. His pink eyes drooped, and his massive jaw hung loose.

  The dog is not from hell, I reassured myself. He does not smell of brimstone. But oh, was the dog frightening. Hello, I tried, the lantern trembling in my hands.

  The dog curled his lip, revealing long teeth.

  “Pilgrim,” greeted the man—Lord Vulture, I shall call him. Wickedness flowed from him like a very bad odor. He sneered at my hunchback beneath the pack. “Come.”

  We walked. Behind us slinked the dog.

  Hello, dog. I have friends like you back at home.

  The dog sniffed at the pack of Saint Peter, his breath chilling my neck.

  The lantern sent awful shadows dancing against the walls. Hello, dog . . .

  No answer.

  Laughter drifted toward us. “You are missing a fine party, my lord,” said Secundus.

  “They are too drunk to notice my absence.” Lord Vulture seemed to float in his long shoes. The dog’s nails clicked on the stone.

  We reached a door.

  Lord Vulture looked at Secundus, and at the door’s lock. “You have the key?”

  Secundus nodded, not moving.

  With a sigh of disgust Lord Vulture turned his back.

  Secundus unlocked the door—so quick that I barely smelled the brimstone, though the dog growled. He stepped back so Lord Vulture might lead.

  The room within—oh, ’twas fine. Tapestries hung on the walls, and three candles (three! in a room that was empty!) set twinkling the stars painted on the blue ceiling.

  “Guard him,” Lord Vulture ordered the dog, nodding at me.

  The huge dog circled me, sniffing.

  He
llo, dog, I tried again. Why won’t you talk to me?

  Lord Vulture gestured to the bed: “Beneath that.” And then: “You are not even pushing,” for it took all of his strength and all of Secundus’s to move the heavy oak.

  All the while the dog sniffed me. His jaw brushed my bare toes, leaving a trail of cold saliva. I tried not to tremble.

  At last the bed was moved.

  Secundus counted the stones on the floor, and set his staff into a crack. He pried up a long stone, and Lord Vulture propped the stone up with his sword.

  The dog sniffed my hand.

  That is cat, I explained. But I feared that what the dog smelled was angel.

  Secundus nodded to a pit in the floor—a pit half as deep as me. It held small bulging sacks, and a small chest sheathed in gold. “In with you, Boy. Get the shin.”

  Lord Vulture rubbed his hands.

  I eased myself in. ’Twas like a grave, that pit. The dog watched, drooling, and Lord Vulture seemed almost to be drooling, too.

  “Hurry,” prodded Secundus.

  I reached for the chest. ’Twas cold to the touch. Cold . . . I shot a look at Secundus. A look—naught more. But that look was enough.

  “Hand it to me.” Secundus took the chest without a wince. “Get out,” he ordered.

  With great relief I did so.

  “Back in with you!” Lord Vulture shrieked. “The sacks!” The dog snarled.

  “It is fake!” cried Secundus, hurling the chest aside. He kicked the sword free, and the stone crashed down.

  Lord Vulture leaped back—but the dog was behind him so he could not leap far, and the heavy stone fell down, down . . . onto the tips of his too-long shoes.

  “Kill them,” screamed Lord Vulture. “Kill them both.”

  Secundus snatched up the sword. “The relic is fake, you swine!”

  The dog snarled, and snapped at the air.

  “Attack,” cried Lord Vulture, struggling to move his feet. But he was right stuck. By his vanity was he pinned to the floor. “You stupid beast, tear out their throats!”