The Book of Boy

by Catherine Gilbert Murdock

  3 Rib Tooth Thumb Shin Dust Skull Tomb

  No sooner was I descending the hill, clutching cup and pack and pole, than I regretted my gesture. Ox had a small mind but a long memory. Six days was not enough for him to forget.

  The goats trailed us, bleating. “Go!” barked Secundus. “Off with you.”

  They glared at him. He glared back and shook his staff.

  Go, goats, I told them. I will return in six days.

  Bah, they snorted. Who will entertain us whilst you’re gone?

  I could not but smile. You will have to entertain yourselves.

  Bah. That’s not an answer. One by one, however, they trotted off, flicking their tails.

  Good-bye, goats. May the saints keep you safe.

  Bah! You silly creature: of course we’ll be safe. We’re goats.

  And so I was alone, following the pilgrim. I must be ready to obey, or flee. . . .

  The manor grew small behind me, then disappeared behind weeds. Those weeds should be cut, they should. Sir Jacques would never allow such disorder—

  Secundus halted, hand out. “Give me the cup.”

  I should not let him touch it. Cook ordered me so.

  His eyebrows rose. “I said give me the cup, Boy.”

  Ever so reluctantly, I passed him Sir Jacques’s treasure. How weak I was.

  The cup disappeared into a pocket in his robe. Out came a length of cord. “Hold the pack on your back,” he ordered. Right quick he tied the pack over my hump and shaggy goatskin. He did not, I noticed, touch the pack. “If you try to open this, I will see you hanged.” He said this as he said all his words, to the air and not to me. “Also if you run away.”

  I shivered.

  “’Tis good you are scared. Fear will make you careful.” He tested the knots on my chest, then recommenced walking. “Put that pole to use as a walking stick. And hurry.”

  I did as I was told, reluctant at first, but the pole developed into a sweet-tempered companion, and my pace quickened with a stick to aid me. The cords pulled across my chest, but the pack felt gentler than I would have imagined. Indeed, it warmed my hump, even through the goatskin I wore.

  We reached the crossroads. The pilgrim paused.

  “Saint-Peter’s-Step is this way,” I offered, pointing straight. “And that road”—I pointed right—“goes all the way to a sea that tastes of salt. A traveler told me so.”

  “Is that a fact?” he asked with an odd smile so that I decided ’twas wisest not to speak more.

  We came to the field of Michel the plowman. After pestilence took his son, Michel gave me his son’s boots, which were the boots I wore now, stuffed with wool so they fit me, and his son’s hose that I held up with string, and his red hood so my head should never be cold. Then Michel left because the manor held naught but sadness for him, and now his field was empty.

  We came to the furthest place I had ever been: a beech tree broader than two men. Three years back, before the pestilence, Sir Jacques had ridden off to a tourney, and milady wanted to see him well fêted when he returned. So she gave me a flask of wine and sent me all the way to this tree to greet him. The sun crossed the sky till I grew right fearful, but at last he appeared with a token and a bag of coins because he always won till his very last tourney, and he lifted me onto his charger so that I might ride with him back to the manor. And he told me his horse had never been so calm as with me upon him, and perchance I should switch from goats to horses because a boy who can calm a horse is worth the price of five good dogs.

  We passed the beech tree, the pilgrim and I, and then I was walking on a road I did not know, but my head was so full of memories that my fear had to move over like a child on a bench and make room.

  All day the pilgrim strode, and I did my best to keep up. We passed empty villages where doorways gaped like mouths without teeth, and dark tangles of weeds where wicked things might hide, and glad I was to hurry. As the sun settled, our shadows stretched before us. Still the pilgrim did not stop.

  “Milord?” I whispered, my voice trembling, and my legs. He coughed but did not answer.

  At last we came to a clearing marked with a circle of ashes. Secundus peered about, and nodded to himself, and dropped his staff and hat.

  “We sleep here?” I could not keep the fear from my voice. What if outlaws found us, or brigands, or wolves? I shivered at the thought of the darkness surrounding us, and glint-eyed wolves creeping through the night. . . .

  “It would appear so.” He stepped into the bushes. I followed. “Can a man have no privacy?” he snapped, and I scuttled away, though not far. I, too, squatted as men do, trying not to be fearful.

  The pilgrim offered me dried meat from his purse, which I took because I must accept food when it’s offered, though I took only a small piece so as not to waste it. He set to work building a fire.

  I wished I could sit near him because the ground was so cold and the dark so frightening. But I was feared to approach. I thought of removing the pack tied to my back, but I was feared to ask permission, and in truth the pack warmed me, which was a comfort. I said my prayers, praying for poor Sir Jacques who had lost his mind to the kick of a horse, and for the souls of milady and her three sweet babies, and for Father Petrus whom God had taken before pestilence came. I prayed that Ox would forget I’d stuck out my tongue. I prayed wolves would not find me. I did not pray for Cook—I’d pray for her at Saint-Peter’s-Step.

  I curled up with my hose and goatskin, and pulled my hood close around my neck. The fire was barely more than kindling, but still I held my hands to its warmth.

  Secundus produced a book. A book! A small book, quite battered with scuffs and grime. The edges were black as though they’d been burned. The book too stank sour.

  “You can read, milord?”

  “Ah. Yes. ’Tis a liability of my occupation.”

  “Of pilgriming?”

  He barked a laugh. “I once was a lawyer.”

  I did not say anything because I was so amazed to meet a man who could read, which even Father Petrus could not do, and also I did not know that word.

  “I studied law—you know laws? I advised men.” He stared at the fire. “Very powerful men.”

  “And now you go on pilgrimage.” I should say something, I felt.

  “Ah. Yes. I am on a quest, Boy. A quest for seven objects. Seven relics as precious as anything on this earth. Seven relics that will save me.” He held the book so I could see a page of writing. “Rib tooth thumb shin,” he recited. “Dust skull tomb.”

  “Rib tooth thumb shin dust skull home,” I whispered to myself. How grand these words sounded. Like a prayer.

  “Tooth is my next task, and challenging it will be. But I am more optimistic, now that I have a boy who can climb.” He slipped the book into his robe. “The first task I’ve already accomplished. Do you know the story of Peter, Boy?”

  “Of Saint Peter?” Indeed I did, from Father Petrus. “Peter was a simple fisherman but he became the very first pope of Rome, and now he minds the gates of heaven.”

  The pilgrim nodded. “You’ve been taught well. Guard that pack, Boy. Guard it as you would your life. For within that pack rests one of Saint Peter’s ribs.”

  4 Pestilence

  Curled in the crook of a tree: that is my second memory. Curled and scared, for boys surrounded the tree and threw stones. “We caught a monster,” they cried, and shouted that the priest would soon arrive to destroy me. I ducked the stones as best I could, and covered my face with my hands, and I wept.

  A red-faced old man came puffing up, leaning on his stick to catch his breath. A boy cocked his arm to throw a stone, and Father Petrus thwacked him—the father was keen on thwacking, he was—and informed the boys that they were as stupid as fleas. He sent them away and settled himself, muttering.

  I crept from the tree so that I might better listen. The old man spoke to me, and offered a blanket as I had no clothes, and took me to his room behind the church, and let me sweep
for him and run his errands, and taught me the words of his muttering, which turned out to be prayers.

  He knew of my hump and my secrets. “Never reveal yourself!” he would thunder, and when I chanced to remove my tunic due to itching or heat, he’d thwack me till I knew in my marrow that I must never reveal myself, not even in bed when all good men sleep naked. I must never show myself nor touch my hump for my hump was wicked and made me a monster—that, and my other secret. When folk commented on my hump or my monstrousness, he thwacked them.

  So Father Petrus tended to me and clothed me and showed me his name Petrus in the Bible, for he knew those letters at least. I cared for him greatly, and even when I served Sir Jacques and milady, still I brought him goat’s milk that he loved, till he died, but such is God’s grace that He took Father Petrus before the pestilence so the kind priest would not know that horror.

  That is my second memory, and all the other memories that grew from it. But my first memory is of sleeping in a flock of doves, soft warm wings all about me, and murmuring, and darkness. Only this time the doves were pecking. Gently at first, and then ouch—

  “What is the meaning of this!”

  Sharpness woke me—sharp words in my ears and a sharp poke in my ribs. I blinked at the bright light filling the goat shed, and the sounds I had never heard a goat speak.

  But wait—I was not in the goat shed at all. I was outside, in a forest. Around me goats curled, bleating. Again I was poked—a staff, a man . . . Secundus.

  At once I was awake, struggling to free myself from this strange pile of goats.

  “You brought them here?” he asked, furious.

  These were goats, yes, but their coats were matted with brambles, and the pack included a billy with great horns and a glorious stink. Naught stinks quite like a billy goat.

  “N-no, milord.”

  “They simply appeared in the night?”

  “These are not my goats.”

  “Hmph,” said Secundus.

  The biggest nanny glared at him. She was missing half a horn and looked to be tougher than flint. She hauled herself upright and passed a great stream of water that steamed on the cold ground.

  Secundus watched, his mouth twisting. He turned away. “Is my pack secure?”

  “Yes, milord.” Last night’s conversation flooded my mind. I carried a rib of Saint Peter, the first pope of Rome—me, a humble goatherd!

  “Come, Boy.” He strode away. The goats trotted in the other direction.

  Good-bye, goats. Thank you for warming me. I shuddered to think how I would have survived the chilled night without them. If I would have survived.

  They flicked their tails: Bah. We do not think much of your master. Goats never think much of people.

  Secundus offered me a drink from his flask but I said no thank you, for flask water tastes right awful, though I took a piece of meat because I must accept food when it’s offered. I said my prayers, praying that God forgive me for praying on foot, but tarrying did not sit well with this pilgrim.

  I prayed for milady and Sir Jacques as always, and Father Petrus, and I added a prayer to Saint Peter, thanking him for letting me bear him. No wonder the pack warmed me so. Rib tooth thumb thumb thumb thumb home . . . No, that was not it. Rib tooth thumb something something something home . . . Well, seven relics there were, even if I could not remember them all. And I bore the rib upon my back!

  All that morning we walked, rabbits dashing away. The crows warned the forest of our presence, and foxes screamed. Once I heard the howl of a wolf, which sent my heart beating, but I did not hear it again.

  The trees thinned out, and praise Saint Peter, we were back in the land of man.

  “Do you ever talk?”

  I jumped. “Me?”

  “No, I am addressing that puddle. . . . Of course I mean you.”

  “Oh. Yes, milord.” I could sense him studying me.

  “Tell me of your master, Boy, for I suspect it is a story worth hearing.”

  “Sir Jacques? The story is terribly sad.”

  “I do not doubt. But the road is long, and words are sometimes better than silence.”

  “Yes, milord.” I pondered. “Sir Jacques is—was—a great fighter, and went to war when the English invaded French lands, and the good king of France rewarded him with the manor you saw. Sir Jacques was a fine master but fighting never left his blood, and he could not bear mention of a tournament but that he should go and best other men as he’d bested the English. He brought back many a token and many a purse, and one day he brought back milady, who was pious and kind and who taught me to serve and cut my hair. She begged Sir Jacques to stop jousting, and begged him all the more after his son was born, and two little daughters. But Sir Jacques said he was not a farmer and went off on his great black charger.” Which once I rode to the manor with Sir Jacques himself, I added to myself, remembering that glorious day.

  “Yes?” Secundus prodded.

  “So . . . so all was right with the world till two springs ago when Sir Jacques rode off but did not come back, and did not come back the next day, either, so that milady wept with worry and held her babies close. On the third day Sir Jacques returned. He returned lying in a wagon, which a knight never would do. A horse had kicked his helmet and sent a piece of iron right into his skull. A priest administered last rites because everyone knew he’d soon perish. But he did not.” I paused. “Instead other men sickened with black sores where their limbs met their bodies, and the stableboys, and the three sweet babies still with their milk teeth. Milady tended to them till she sickened, too, and then . . . they died. Many people died.”

  “Many people died. Yes.” He sighed. “But not Sir Jacques. Not the cook.”

  “No. But her name is no longer Cook. Now people call her milady because the first milady is gone.”

  “Ah. So this knight has a wife who is not noble born. I figured that was her sin.”

  “No!” How odd he should think that. Every soul needs a mate—Father Petrus said so. Cook had not sinned by marrying Sir Jacques. Indeed, some greedy nobleman would have claimed the manor had she not wed him, what with all his uncles perished. . . . I pondered, frowning. Memories bubbled inside me like bad dreams. “Milord?”

  “Ah. You still have a tongue.”

  “When milady sickened, she begged for a priest so that she might confess before she died.”

  “Ah. But your cook did not send for the priest.”

  “No.” I began to weep. “Milady did not have last rites. So now she burns in hell!”

  “Hmph. Dry your eyes, Boy,” he ordered, his voice hard. “Your precious lady is not there.”

  My head came up. “Truly, milord?”

  “I vow it on my—” His face was grim. “I vow it on my life. Hell is for sinners. Believe me.”

  “But she did not confess—”

  “What of it? That woman could in no way be a sinner.” His face softened. “She cut your hair.”

  And so gladness touched my heart because this man who knew so much promised that milady was safe. But my spirits sank, too, for this talk of pestilence had opened a door within my mind, and all manner of memories flooded out. Memories of people now passed. Be kind to them, Saint Peter. Please take them into paradise.

  Secundus was as lost in his thoughts as I in mine, his face solemn. He did not respond when a plowman called a greeting—he did not even nod. When we came to a crossroad marked with a pile of stones, he pulled out his book to study it, and led us off to the right. He studied his book again when we crested a hill, and before us spread green hills and plowed valleys, and snow-covered mountains. He peered at the view, and turned his book to examine a drawing, but even as he nodded he frowned.

  We came upon an orchard, the trees as wild and unpruned as the orchard back home; it looked like a field filled with madmen. Poor trees. Folk had died in this place too. . . .

  Words are sometimes better than silence, Secundus said. But I could think of no words to say, for my m
emories of the dead took all the life from me.

  In silence we strode till dusk overtook us.

  5 The Stone Bridge

  We came to a hayfield with a haystack yet left from winter, and there Secundus made camp, on the lee side out of the wind. He built a small fire, and by its flickering light studied his wee stinky book. “Saint-Peter’s-Step possesses a relic of great value,” he said, more to himself. “It is guarded, every minute.”

  “The tooth?”

  He looked up. “What did you say?”

  “The tooth. ‘Rib tooth thumb something something something home.’ I’m sorry; I can’t remember.”

  “You have a quicker mind than I supposed. Yes, the tooth: rib tooth thumb shin dust skull tomb. But I need something else first.” He tapped his book. “I happen to know that on the day of the feast of Saint-Peter’s-Step, a party of monks will attempt to steal the town’s relic.”

  “No!”

  “Yes, sadly. A monk from the monastery of Saint-Peter’s-Mount told me this only a short time ago. He was quite . . . distressed. You and I must protect it.”

  “I shall, milord. I shall protect it as I protect the rib of Saint Peter!”

  “What a companion I have found. . . .” He settled himself into the hay. “Do you want to hear the story of the rib?”

  “Oh, please, yes.” Everyone likes a good story.

  He poked at the fire. “I have traveled a long way, Boy. For a very long time. At last I arrived in Paris—”

  “You’ve been to Paris, milord?”

  “Yes, Boy.”

  “You traveled all the way from Paris to here?”

  “Yes. May I continue? I arrived in Paris very tired—tired, and overwhelmed. ’Twas so unlike the place I’d left. The smells. The cold. To my fortune, the king was away.”

  “The king of France?” I could not help myself.

  “The king of France. I saw his palace, which is in the style of barbarians—the whole city is. The whole world. No one respects proportion or order. All that is beautiful has been lost. . . .” With effort he composed himself. “So. I found the palace. I found the holy chapel within, where the kings of France store their most valued relics. And it—never have I been more surprised—the chapel was lovely. In the style of barbarians, and yet . . . Moonlight streaming through the chapel’s walls—walls of colored glass. ’Twas like standing in the heart of a jewel.”