The Book of Boy

by Catherine Gilbert Murdock

  Oh, donkey, I cried. How awful it is that he whips you.

  The donkey’s ears pricked. A talker—haw! His nose curled. Your man stinks of farts.

  “Move, you stupid beast!” The pilgrim hit his mount.

  “Excuse me,” I tried, “but perhaps if you did not beat him—”

  “’Tis not your business!”

  I’m so sorry, I said to the donkey. On I toiled, Secundus leaning on me, his forehead oozing.

  A mob pressed around a wheelbarrow with a leaky barrel of wine, men elbowing each other, cups in hand. We edged past this mob, barely, but the gold-ringed pilgrim could not. His shouts rose over the hubbub: “Make way, I say!”

  Secundus looked about, frowning. “Ah, Boy, the city is so different. . . .”

  “I say!” screamed the gold-ringed pilgrim.

  I looked back—just in time to see the donkey toss the pilgrim off his back. Haw! declared the donkey. I’ve better humans to carry. He kicked his hooves and scrambled through the mob as though the men were no more than boulders. He trotted up to Secundus. Get on me, you stinker.

  Oh, donkey, I cried—

  Haw! I hate manners. And then, as Secundus hauled himself into the saddle: Your master sits like a bagful of beans.

  Thank you, I whispered to Saint Peter. This donkey was nigh a miracle.

  Off we set, the donkey and Secundus and I. Secundus’s breathing eased, and his color improved. . . .

  Ahead of us, metal glinted above the crowd: pikes. Soldiers approached!

  The donkey eyed me: What’s wrong, you? You’re panting.

  What if the soldiers were hunting for us? I hunched—I should not hunch—

  “Make way,” A soldier cried. He peered at Secundus. “Is that blood?” His horse eyed us—

  Haw! snarled the donkey. Look elsewhere, you overfed pony.

  The horse jerked, almost unsaddling the soldier. Distracted, the soldier rode on.

  Thank you, donkey, I breathed.

  Haw. I hate show-offs.

  One by one the soldiers passed us, their horses shying from the donkey’s teeth.

  Secundus blinked. “Are those . . . horsemen?” He swayed.

  “Do not worry. We are safe.” Safe, at least, for the moment.

  Still the crowds grew: porters bearing charcoal and flour and hay. Errand boys. Noblemen. Rag pickers. Jugglers and acrobats. Nuns. Innkeepers bawling their fees. And pilgrims everywhere, pushing.

  A stench of wet and rot and sewage. “Ah,” sighed Secundus. “The river.”

  We crossed a bridge crammed with food stalls and shrines. Step aside! cried the donkey, gleefully nipping at pilgrims.

  And then we were there. At the steps of the church of the tomb of Saint Peter. The biggest church in all the world, and the most important—so important that pilgrims climbed the steps on their knees. Businesses crowded these steps: money changers with benches of coins, merchants displaying bolts of fine silk, spice dealers with sacks of rare spices, tooth pullers wielding pliers . . .

  “I saw this when first ’twas built.” Secundus gazed at the church. “The steps . . . we called them the steps to paradise.”

  Up we climbed, the donkey’s hooves ringing on the marble. I marveled at the church’s great bronze gates, and the masses of pilgrims—more pilgrims and merchants than ever I’d seen.

  We reached the threshold. A stout priest blocked our path. “Here now, you can’t bring a donkey inside.”

  I bit back a cry of frustration. “Please, Father. Please help us.”

  “I’d like to, but . . .” He stared at Secundus. “Why, this one’s bleeding.”

  I clasped his hands. “We’ve come so far! Please, Father—we must get to the tomb!”

  “Ah, you look so desperate . . .” The priest scratched his jaw. “How tame is this creature?”

  “He is always behaved, Father. See?” Please, donkey. Give me a kiss.

  The donkey twitched his ears . . . but he gave my fingers a nibble, and rubbed against me.

  “You won’t be long, will you?”

  “No, Father!” I hugged him, and nigh skipped across the threshold. We were inside the church of the tomb of Saint Peter! I could scarce shut my mouth, I was so awed. A thousand candles burned. The sound of hymns and prayers mingled with the scents of incense and beeswax. Even Secundus gaped.

  The donkey’s hooves slipped on the marble floor. Haw, ’tis too loud for me.

  I am sorry, donkey. You are so kind to carry—

  Haw. More blather.

  Secundus reached for me. “We did it, Boy.”

  “Yes, milord.” I squeezed his scarred hand. “Soon you will be in heaven.”

  “And you will be a boy.” He managed a chuckle. “Until you’re an angel again.”

  “You are right.” I blinked back tears. “Perhaps we shall meet in paradise.”

  “I should . . . like that.” He wiped his fever-bright eyes, and gestured to a staircase beneath the altar. “Down there is the tomb.”

  I coaxed the donkey down the steps. How much longer? he asked as we shuffled along a crowded passageway.

  Not long, I think— “Milord? Are you ready?”

  He smiled. “Yes, Lucius.”

  “I am not—” How fine for him to think of his son. Soon enough he would see him!

  We rounded a curve. “The tomb!” cried pilgrims, kneeling at a gate in the passageway’s wall. They reached out their hands: “The tomb!”

  A silk-robed clergyman hauled up the pilgrims. “You’ve seen enough. Move along.”

  Closer we drew, closer to this gate. Suddenly I realized: “Milord, the tomb is too far away! We can’t touch it!”

  Secundus blinked. “Yes . . . The gate . . . is locked. . . .”

  Behind us, pilgrims pushed and jostled—

  The donkey’s ears twitched. Haw! ’Tis too loud!

  “Milord, what is your plan?”

  “Plan? We must open . . .” He tried to focus on his book. “I can’t find . . . the page. . . .”

  “Move along!” the clergyman bawled.

  What’s wrong? cried the donkey. You’re panting again!

  The clergyman caught sight of the donkey. “A beast? In my church?”

  Beast, is it? Haw! The donkey bared his teeth.

  “Come, milord.” I helped Secundus dismount. We’d get as close as we could.

  “Shoo!” cried the clergyman, flapping his hands.

  Don’t flap at me! brayed the donkey, kicking.

  Secundus reached for the gate. “Lucius . . . Flavia . . .”

  “Run!” shouted the pilgrims. “The donkey’s gone mad!” They shoved each other, panicking.

  “Stop shouting!” shouted the clergyman.

  Secundus reached between the bars toward the tomb out of reach.

  “Shoo, you asinine creature!” The clergyman slapped the donkey’s nose—

  How rude! The donkey snapped his teeth—and ripped off the clergyman’s robe! Never insult a donkey! He galloped down the passageway, the fine silk robe flapping. Haw!

  The clergyman chased him, clad only in his undershirt, followed by the rest of the pilgrims.

  “The Lord,” murmured Secundus, “works in . . . mysterious ways.”

  Silence. The passageway stood empty. “Quick, milord! The key!”

  “The key? Ah . . .” He fumbled at his robe. “My fingers . . .”

  “I have it, milord.” Oh, the key stank. But it slipped into the lock. The gate opened.

  The tomb lay before us.

  “Take my arm.” Three strides we’d need, perhaps, to reach it.

  “The tomb . . .” Secundus breathed. “Seven . . . relics . . . I must . . . gather. . . .”

  “Milord!” I tore at the cords on my chest. “Rib tooth thumb toe dust skull home—no!” I laughed. “Tomb, not home. I always get the last one wrong.”

  “Perhaps ’tis not the tomb you seek.” He smiled. “Good-bye, angel. I love you.”

  “I love you,
too, milord. For always.”

  He took the pack of Saint Peter. He reached—I reached—

  We touched the tomb wall.

  I shivered in delight. How warm it felt . . .

  “What are you doing? Get out of there!” The clergyman charged toward us!

  I spun to look—I spun back—

  On the floor lay a tatter of brown pilgrim cloth, and dust, and a few withered bones. Bones that looked to be one thousand years old.

  Secundus was gone.

  31 Boyhood

  “Off with you!” screeched the clergyman, pounding toward me.

  “The tomb is open!” shouted pilgrims, rushing the gate.

  “Saint Peter,” I prayed, my hands on the tomb, “please make me a—”

  The clergyman grabbed me. “Don’t touch that! Where’d the tall pilgrim go?” He dragged me through the pilgrims, snapping that everyone must leave at once.

  “Saint Peter!” I cried. “Secundus!” But I did not struggle much, for I could yet feel wings beneath my tunic, and I feared that the clergyman would feel them, too.

  So I was yanked away, the clergyman bawling that I was a thief, and two burly pilgrims carried me through the church whilst everyone glared. How grief filled me! I peered up through the windows to the blue sky beyond. Secundus was in heaven—he accomplished his quest! But oh, I missed him. “Help me, Secundus,” I whispered. “Help me, now that you are in paradise.”

  But no help came. The two burly pilgrims kept their grip on my arms, and the crowd hissed its displeasure.

  They dumped me at the church gates. “Be thankful you’re not suffering worse,” snapped one, brushing dust from his hands.

  “You!” A stout priest strode over—the priest who had allowed in the donkey. He gestured down the steps. “Look!”

  I looked down at the sellers of books and badges and cloths and fruit . . . but the fruit sellers’ baskets were toppled, with apples and apricots everywhere, and bunches of grapes sprawled like drunkards. . . .

  “Your donkey did that!” cried the priest.

  “I’m sorry, but—” I turned back. I must reach the tomb—

  “Go!” cried the priest, balling his fists. “Go before I have you flogged!”

  So I ran. I ran past the baskets and pilgrims and merchants, for I did not want to be flogged!

  I ran till I found myself in a rank alleyway with a broken-down staircase, and no one in sight but a skinny brown dog.

  I tucked myself beneath the stair. Slowly I reached . . .

  My heart sank. I still had wings, most definitely. Folded, yes, but wings.

  I had made it to Rome. I’d touched the very tomb of Saint Peter! Yet still I was not a boy. I must finish my prayer at the tomb . . . but how?

  A woman appeared, her face as wrinkled as an old apple. “What are you up to?”

  “I’m sorry, I was resting—”

  “Away with you, boy!” She flapped her apron—so like Cook that I jumped. Cook who flapped her apron when she scolded me for not working.

  The old woman creaked up the stairs. “Useless boy. You’ll steal my hens, I’m sure. . . .” She slammed the door behind her.

  I don’t steal hens, I wanted to say. I did not speak, however. But neither did I move, for I had nowhere to go. Hello, I greeted the skinny brown dog.

  The dog scratched her neck.

  Dog? I called. How strange that she did not answer. . . .

  Three swallows swooped through the alley. Eat, eat, they cried. How they soared! Watching them, my wings prickled—

  Stop, wings! I scolded myself.

  And then . . . a voice came to me:

  Why?

  I jumped: “Secundus!”

  But the voice did not come from the alley. It came from inside my head. Why? asked the voice in that tone I knew—the tone Secundus used to turn my mind into knots and make me think wrong was right. Although sometimes wrong was actually right. . . . Why can’t your wings move? asked the voice.

  Because—oh, ’twas important how I answered. Because folk will see I’m an angel.

  The brown dog paused her scratching. Eh? said she. Did somebody speak?

  Above me the door slammed open: the old woman emptying a piss pot. “Away, boy, I said!” She slammed the door shut.

  Did somebody speak? the dog repeated. With effort she stood. Her tail wagged.

  I sat with a plop, for I had no strength to stand. My head spun with notions and thoughts. . . .

  The old woman called me a boy! came one thought. She didn’t call me hunchback or monster. The pilgrims in Saint Peter had glared, yes. But none made the sign of protection. I might have wings, but thanks to the washerwomen, my tunic lay smooth on my back. My hump was right gone.

  A second thought: Oh, ’tis grand to speak to creatures.

  A third: My, but piss stinks! Which I’d thought before, as does anyone who visits a city, but at this moment it struck me. If I were a boy, I’d have to piss. And eat, and drink, and squat—every day! What a tremendous waste of time. What a stench. Perhaps being a boy had its drawbacks.

  My fourth thought was the face of Saint Peter, frowning at me over his beard. Are you an angel, he had asked, or a boy? Right now I did not know the answer!

  And my last thought, loudest of all, was a word. The word fly.

  The dog plodded over.

  I scratched her ears. What am I, dog? An angel, or a boy?

  Eh? The dog panted. What’s the question again?

  You are both, came a voice—the voice in my head. The voice that’d been taught by Secundus. You are a boy to folk who would harm you. But in your heart, you’re an angel.

  Above my head, the door slammed again: the old woman snapping a dust cloth. “No help at all . . .” So like Cook: muttering. Scolding. Always putting others to work. Cook had not even called for a priest. She’d had time to scurry, yes, during the pestilence, but not time enough to save the soul of milady—

  Oh. I realized, at last, the truth:

  Cook hadn’t time to be good. She was too busy tending the sick. Too busy keeping the manor alive.

  Dazed, I rose to my feet. Under my tunic, my wings shifted, folding themselves—

  My wings. I had wings.

  Did it matter if I lacked parts? Not if I remained clothed!

  The old woman struggled down the stairs with a basket of linens. “Ne’er-do-wells, the lot of them . . .”

  I squared my shoulders. I could no longer hide. “Excuse me. Might I help?”

  She scowled at me. “You’ll not steal this, you naughty boy!”

  “I won’t, I promise. But I could carry the basket for you.”

  Her wrinkled-apple face tightened. “I can’t pay you.”

  “Of course not.” Gently I took the basket from her grip.

  The dog followed us, wagging her tail.

  “Why are you doing this?” the old woman snapped.

  Because a saint told me to, I wanted to say. Because inside I’m an angel, and angels are good. “Because there is work. I like helping.”

  Her scowl shifted, a little. “Well.” She tucked a hair under her cap. “’Tis the least you can do.” So like Cook . . .

  I grinned. There was gratitude there somewhere, if you had the sense to sniff it out.

  Three swallows swooped down the alley. Fledgling! Fledgling! Come fly! Come fly!

  My wings prickled, aching to open . . . That night on the ship when I stretched them, the air warm all around my feathers . . .

  “You’re walking too fast. I’m not a spring chicken, you know.”

  I dragged my eyes earthward. “My apologies.”

  She grunted. “For a boy, you’re not too ill-mannered . . . you have curls like an angel.”

  I grinned—I could not help it. “So I’ve been told.” I nodded to the basket. “Where would you like me to take this?”

  “Don’t be so impatient. And get away, you.” She flapped her apron at the dog.

  What? asked the dog. What�
�d I do?

  Nothing, dog . . . “She’s fine, I’m sure. Perhaps you might have a bone?”

  “A bone? For a stray?” The old woman grimaced—no, wait. A hint of a smile.

  There’s a bone in your future, I whispered to the dog.

  The dog’s ears perked up. A bone? What’s future?

  And so I strolled at the old woman’s pace, the basket on my hip, the dog wagging behind us. The sun warmed my curls (curls like an angel!), and my bare dirty toes, and the tunic that covered my wings.

  Swallows swooped past, their wings brushing my ears. You’ve feathers, fledgling! Come fly!

  I shall, I answered. But not yet. There is work. “There is work. . . .”

  The woman’s face softened as she watched the swallows lift and dive, and for a moment her eyes shone like a child’s. “What’s that, boy?”

  “Something a wise man once told me.” Saint Paul, in fact. “He said there was work to be done.” And joy in the labor. Such joy, if you knew how to find it.

  32 Rib Tooth Thumb Toe Dust Skull Home

  How small the manor looked, sitting on its hill. The manor that had once been my world . . .

  I passed an empty hut with a makeshift door. For a moment my heart beat: had pestilence returned? But a pig lolled in the pigsty, which reassured me. The pigsty fence was well tended. Someone took care of this pig.

  Hello, pig.

  I’m hungry, complained the pig.

  You’re always hungry. I laughed, for hunger is the nature of pigs. Enjoy this sunshine.

  On I walked. The pig would not know sunshine much longer. Autumn meant harvest, and soon enough the pig would become sausage and hams. Poor pig . . . though the creature seemed content enough, and the September sun was fine.

  In the distance stood the orchard. Last March the trees had been crowded with too many branches, but now fat apples dangled from the pruned limbs. The trees were as well cared for as the pig.

  I am as different as those trees. I smiled, smoothing my tunic. Between my shoulders lay my well-folded wings. Each night I stretched them, feeling the air, and then settled them like two hands at prayer. Not yet, wings, I promised. But soon.

  My toes met the path up the hill, each pebble as familiar as teeth. Hello, manor—