Son of Secrets Page 11

  Tuscany, Italy

  5 BC

  I.

  THROUGHOUT MY CHILDHOOD I had often heard the story of the blue-eyed boy. They called him a demon, the magical son of secrets. As a child, I was warned about the bad spirits in the woods and told not to venture further than Fiesole’s high walls, or the witches and winged monsters would get me. But, even at that young age, I knew it was impossible for there to be anything worse beyond those stone walls than what already resided within.

  The first time I saw him was a hot day. The kind of day that made the insides of my thighs stick and chafe, forcing me to tuck the rough fabric of my tunic between my legs so I could walk without the sting. The air was dead; nothing moved. Even the flies no longer buzzed. Days like those were the longest kind. The sharp, dry grasses scratched my legs as I picked my way through the outskirts of town. I’d made that journey many times before, but this time I didn’t intend to turn back. This time I wasn’t seeking excitement—I was fleeing from it.

  There was a section of the city wall that had been damaged in a storm and was missing some stones. It was easy enough to climb as long as I pulled my skirt up above my thighs and pushed my toes through the gaps in the fallen rubble. I used the elbow of my left arm to hoist myself up, gripping tightly with my right hand. I had long forgotten that I wasn’t normal, quickly growing used to the pitying stares and the way other children in my street would flinch when they saw my gnarled, twisted hand. I had been that way since birth.

  ‘You were jinxed by your father’s lover,’ my mother told me one night after too much wine. ‘My punishment for loving that cheating rat was to give birth to a useless daughter.’

  I reached the top of the wall and sat astride it to catch my breath. Perhaps I was imagining it, but the air felt cooler up there, like there was the possibility of hope and freedom that I was yet to experience. Reaching for the cloth sack around my waist I pulled out a chunk of bread and a tough piece of rabbit my mother had cooked three days before. She never asked me where I found the animals, and I never told her, although they were rarely fat enough to feed her and my younger brother for more than a day or two.

  I chewed slowly, wishing I’d brought some water with me, and kicked the heels of my feet against the wall. The houses on this side of town were made from straw and wood, built out of the very land that sustained them. There were a few stone buildings and walls that jutted out of the ground, but it was mainly round huts with thatched roofs. There was no one to be seen. Most women had already left for the market or were resting inside their homes after lunch away from the heat, preparing themselves for an afternoon’s work. Even the fields, normally busy with farmhands, were unusually empty. My mouth was so dry it was a struggle to swallow my bread. I clambered off the wall and headed toward a run-down shepherd’s hut, hoping to find a well nearby. In the distance, I could hear goats bleating, but the thick blanket of sunshine beating down upon my aching head was too blinding to allow me a good view of what lay beyond the small holding. I followed the sound of the animals, hoping they would lead me to a stream.

  Instead they led me to my destiny.

  The scent of wild jasmine clung to my clothes as I pushed through shrubs and ducked under a wooden fence toward the dilapidated hut. Sitting on the ground with his back against its rough wall was a boy chewing on a piece of straw that bobbed up and down between his lips. He was a little older than me, perhaps eighteen or twenty; I wasn’t very good at telling people’s ages. I didn’t even know my own age, but I had started my bleeds three winters ago, so I knew I was already a woman.

  I crouched behind a large lavender plant and stared at him, my heart hammering inside my ribcage. I recognised him straightaway as the one the townsfolk spoke of, the demon boy. Even though he was at least ten meters away, I could see his eyes shining like moonlight on still water—the eyes I’d heard didn’t belong to any man. He was sitting against the low stone building, moving his head from side to side as he hummed a tune, the sunlight making those feared eyes of his glitter a sapphire blue. As he hummed, he moved his hands up and down as if he were instructing the grasses, the birds and the trees to join in with his song. I followed the line of his bare arm to his fingertips and up to the clear skies. And that’s when I saw them—flying goats. Five of them, with mottled brown on white markings, hovering high above the ground. Their hooves paddled in tiny motions, up and down, searching for the dry grass that belonged beneath their feet. They looked down at the ground far below them in disbelief, their straight mouths moving from side to side as they chewed and pondered their predicament.

  I gasped. The boy turned his head in the direction of the lavender bush, and immediately the goats plummeted to the ground. Realising his error, he lifted them up with a swipe of his hand moments before they hit the ground, and then he set them down gently on the grass. As soon as their hooves touched the ground, they ran bleating in the opposite direction, their spindly legs shaking and slipping beneath them.

  I held my breath and waited for the boy to settle back down again and continue watching his herd. Instead he stood up with a frown, brushed the red earth from his behind, and looked around him. His shoulders were broad, and his rough tunic had ripped a little beneath his arms where he’d outgrown it. His hair, lightly curled and already damp from the midday heat, stopped just above his shoulders, and his bare arms and legs were strong and brown from the sun. He took a step closer to the fence and stood towering over me, casting a shadow over the lavender bush and bathing me in ice. My face was now level with his waist. He wore a leather belt that held a small knife and a money pouch. The pouch was empty. His hands were working man’s hands, large and calloused, but his nails were cut neatly. On his wrist, he wore a frayed bracelet made from knotted cloth.

  I still hadn’t taken a breath, and my head felt so light it threatened to float away from my shoulders. What would he do if he caught me? Would he throw me through the air like his flying goats?

  I watched as his face softened, his eyes widened, and a small smile played on his lips. Satisfied, he returned to the hut wall, placed another piece of straw in his mouth and sat down to resume his humming. The goats were now huddled at the back of the field beneath an olive tree, glancing at him warily with their yellow sideways eyes. He reached beneath a woollen rug at his side, took out a bottle made of animal skin and drank from it.

  ‘Want some?’ he said, staring straight ahead.

  Who was he talking to? His animals? I’d never much liked goats, with their strange mouths and demonic eyes. There was no one around but the boy and I—we were completely alone. My breaths came in shallow bursts barely deep enough to fill my lungs. I wanted to run away but I couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, and I couldn’t take my eyes off the blue-eyed demon.

  He turned his head in my direction and spoke again.

  ‘Are you thirsty?’

  I tried to swallow but my throat was too dry and my tongue, which seemed to have swollen to double its size, felt like it was made of wood. He began pouring water into his mouth from a great height, letting it dribble down the side of his jaw until it disappeared down his neck and into his hair. Was he teasing me? I still didn’t dare move.

  ‘Come! Stop hiding behind that plant and join me. I know you need water.’

  Would he hurt me if I didn’t obey? I stood up slowly, squinting as the sun hit me in the face. I shielded my eyes with my good hand, my sack of belongings hanging off the crook of my other arm. I kept my gaze fixed on my broken sandals and focused on the flapping sound they made upon the parched earth until I reached him.

  ‘Sit, it’s shady here. You’re tired.’ He passed me the bottle without looking at me and then reached back under his blanket and produced a green pear, which he rolled along the ground until it hit my foot. ‘Sit.’

  I did as I was told and brought the animal skin to my lips, groaning with pleasure as the cool water worked its way down into my stomach. I then bit into the pear, savouring the crunching sound i
t made, not even stopping to wipe away the sticky juices that dribbled down my chin. I’d eaten nothing but stale bread and a handful of cold rabbit in three days, and the sweetness of the fruit was almost too much to bear. I mumbled my thanks but kept my eyes focused on the goats at the end of the field. I dared not look at him. I’d seen the magic he could do, and I’d heard of the dangerous things that could happen if you made eye contact with him.

  Legend had it that the boy had been born to a witch; a beautiful, evil woman who would entice the villagers’ husbands with her beguiling ways. They said she possessed healing powers that people would pay all their gold to receive. She’d been both feared and revered, as was her illegitimate child. He was never allowed to play with the other children and had remained by his mother’s side, or firmly clasped to her bosom, day and night. The story I’d heard was that the two lived an undisturbed life, alone in the woods, until one day a giant winged god arrived and whisked the witch away, leaving behind her bastard demon child. The boy had walked the town for days, crying and begging for food, searching for his mother, until an elderly shepherd who had no family of his own took pity on him and gave him shelter. And there the boy stayed, wandering the countryside with his goats years after the shepherd had died, never once venturing into town.

  I wasn’t one for fantastical fables—but I wasn’t one for taking risks either.

  ‘Why are you scared?’ he asked.

  I could see out of the corner of my eye that he was facing me, but I directed my gaze at what was left of the pear in my hand.

  ‘I’m…I…no, I’m fine. Thank you.’

  He placed his hand on my arm and I jumped, my breaths shuddering in my chest. I screwed up my eyes and waited for the magic. My teeth squeaked as I clenched my jaw and tensed my body, preparing to take flight.

  ‘Look at me, please. I won’t hurt you.’

  His voice was barely a whisper, both soft and strong. I opened my eyes and glanced at his hand on my arm. It felt warm and heavy, not the touch one would expect from a demon. I took a deep breath and turned to him. His eyes travelled all over my face, as if searching for the source of my fear and pain. As my breathing returned to normal and my jaw slackened, his gaze finally met mine and a look of relief appeared on his face, making his eyes go from sparkling indigo to the colour of a summer sky. I returned his smile, and he placed his hand back onto his own lap.

  ‘That wasn’t so bad, was it?’

  I shrugged and smiled again.

  ‘I’m Zadkiel.’

  He waited for me to reply, but now that I had finally found the courage to look his way, I was too captivated by him to speak. His face was immaculate. Yes, it was handsome, but it was more than that. It was rare for anyone to reach adulthood without a broken nose, a missing tooth, or at least a scar or two—especially a man who worked the land and lived such a poor life—but Zadkiel’s entire body, including his arms and legs, was perfect. Not a mark on him. He was as flawless as one of the bathhouse’s frescos of men with perfectly straight noses, olive skin, and wine-red lips. He looked like a god. I could see why women feared him.

  ‘What’s your name?’ he asked.

  I gave my head a little shake.

  ‘Can you tell me why you are here, then?’

  I swallowed and tried to find my voice.

  ‘Arabella. My name is Arabella, and I am running away.’

  ‘Where are you going, Arabella?’

  I shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I only planned as far as climbing the city wall, and then I got thirsty and I saw you. I haven’t given it much thought beyond this point.’

  He nodded, glanced quickly at my lap where my crippled fist lay, and then stared straight ahead. I hid my hand behind my back and followed his gaze over the fields. Some of the braver goats were beginning to leave the shelter of the trees and gingerly make their way back toward us. Zadkiel ignored them and continued to look out over the hazy horizon made up of nothing but red earth, olive trees, and small wooden houses as far as the eye could see. He squinted and stared, the piece of straw bobbing up and down in his mouth, and we stayed like that for a few minutes. Perhaps it was hours. I occasionally took a sip from his bottle and looked over at him. Once or twice our eyes met, but I quickly turned back to the goats. The air began to cool, vibrating with the chatter of cicadas as the day neared to evening.

  ‘I must go,’ I said, standing up.

  ‘Where to?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  I sat back down. Zadkiel turned his head to one side, his face stony in concentration.

  ‘You can stay here until morning. There is enough hay to sleep on, and I’ll make sure you are safe.’

  I looked at the hut behind me, the floor littered with goat pellets and its rough walls coated in cobwebs. Then I thought of my own warm bed that I shared with my mother and brother. I thought of the stories I told him every night to help him sleep, stories about powerful beings and winged horses. I thought of the fireplace where I cooked every morning and evening, and the small garden where I tended my vegetables. It was a tedious life, one I was tired of living, but did I hate it enough to abandon those I loved?

  ‘I think I’ll go home.’

  Zadkiel nodded and returned to staring out over the fields. I stood up again, taking my time collecting my sack and making sure nothing had fallen out. There was so much I wanted to ask him about the legend that was his childhood—about the magic I’d watched him perform with the goats and the strange colour of his eyes and why he kept himself hidden—but I didn’t dare. As I turned away, he reached out for my arm and I jumped.

  ‘Arabella, will you return?’

  His tunic was the same colour as the earth on which he sat. Zadkiel was as much a part of the landscape as the dry fields, the stones, and the trees. He was dark and still; only his bright blue eyes remained incongruous, too unnatural to belong in the arid Tuscan hills. I crouched down so we were level again.

  ‘Zadkiel, are you always here on your own?’

  He nodded. ‘Some days I take the goats to new pastures and spend a few weeks roaming, but this is where I return. There’s also a man that I sell the goats’ milk to; he makes cheese and sometimes takes a young goat or two for meat, but this is my life. It’s very peaceful.’ He cocked his head to the side. ‘I’m sensing you may need some peace in your life.’

  I watched his beautiful mouth as he spoke, his words soft and gentle like the rustle of the tall grasses around us. He was right. Running away wouldn’t have helped me—I just needed to breathe again. I needed to be able to empty my mind and not worry about when we would next eat, what our neighbours were saying about my mother, or what would become of my brother if I had to go away to work.

  ‘I do,’ I said.

  I felt shy suddenly, more so than when we’d met hours earlier. He nodded and looked away, but he was smiling—a large smile that lit up his whole face and made the evening seem like morning again.

  I ran all the way home, my steps lighter and my limbs like liquid, vowing that as soon as it was light the next day, I would escape back to the blue-eyed boy.

  II.

  As I clambered back over the wall and ran through the dark streets leading me home, I constructed a story about where I’d been and why I was late. I repeated it like a mantra in my head until I was certain I could say it with conviction.

  I’ve been out hunting. I followed a large hare, but I got lost. I fell asleep, and when I awoke it was already dark and the hare had gone.

  I wasn’t sure my mother would believe me, but I had no choice. If I told her the truth about running away and spending the day doing nothing, I’d be beaten. Neither did I want her nor anyone else knowing about Zadkiel. He was my special secret. My private escape.

  Home was one of many stone dwellings in a cobbled street on the outskirts of town. There was no moon that night, and I had to feel my way along the narrow alleyways until I reached the front door. I expected my house to also be in darkness, but a candle burne
d in the bedroom, a dull orange glow like a beacon…or a warning.

  I let myself in and stumbled over something in the doorway. My brother, curled up in a tight ball on the sandy floor, covered in an old tunic of mine. It was a humid night and the remains of some stale bread and a half-eaten apple laid beside him. He mumbled in his sleep and rolled over as I moved him away from the door. I headed for the bedroom we all shared, but my mother wasn’t alone. Before I reached the door, I heard soft thuds followed by the telltale grunts that had haunted my dreams for years. Bile rose in my throat and I swallowed it down, sharp and bitter. I’d told her she didn’t have to do that anymore, that I’d find us food and work. I should have tried harder; I shouldn’t have been standing there empty-handed. The grunts got louder and faster and were followed by her cries and gasps, as familiar to me as the gentle snore of my little brother, who thankfully never awoke when mother had visitors. I stepped back outside and sat with my back against the house to wait. It never took long.

  Whoever the man was didn’t see me as he erupted out of the front door and into the warm night air. He held out his arm to steady himself against the wall as he headed in the direction of town and the taverns that never closed. I could tell by his sway that he was already drunk and, now that he’d got one need out of the way, he was on his way to satisfy another type of hunger.

  ‘Mamá?’

  She was crouched in the corner of our bedroom with an earthenware pot at her feet filled with water, using the hem of her dress to wipe down her body. Her small, drooping breasts shone creamy white in the dull glow of the candle. She kept her eyes down and continued to scrub in the same place, red blotches appearing on her thighs and chest.

  ‘Mamá.’ I stood in front of her and she looked up. Her eyes were void of any light. She had been drinking, too, and the tops of her arms and her buttocks were dark red and turning purple. ‘Not again! What did he do to you?’