This new home was enormous, and that was just the portion of the palace where he was allowed to walk unattended.
The very important boy ruled one big room while the old-man teacher lived behind the next door. The very important man lived at the end of the long hallway, and entering his quarters only brought trouble. The giant with two mouths lived somewhere else inside the palace, and the orphans occupied two nearby rooms. There was a big rich-smelling kitchen and a small dining room to be shared by everybody, plus toilet rooms and playrooms, and there was one long room filled with fancy glass boxes and warm machines and huge cages where dumb animals lived and every kind of book—what he thought of as word-cakes—perched on the shelves. There was also space where three students could sit in their desks while the teacher stood before them, talking for half of the day at a time, saying very little that made sense.
The very important boy was owned. The man with the gray beard and dead wives was one of the owners. There was no disputing that fact. Ownership brought certain duties and obligations, including sharing a bed with the boy. The habit of sleeping together survived after they arrived in this place, but nothing was the same as before. The gray-beard was better than the boy about forgetting the past, but he couldn’t forget that wicked time when the boy shoved him inside a dark sack, which was horrible. And more important, the boy was growing older. He had never smelled human, but as the days passed, he was acquiring the odor of a genuine man.
Grown men didn’t sleep together. That rule was too old to measure.
Every creature had its rank, some distinct measure of worth and respectability, and that man-boy was becoming a potential rival. Snarls and curses were perfectly fine means to coax an enemy off the bed. A pair of fingers got eaten, but they didn’t mean anything to the man-boy. It was the teacher who put a long arm over his favorite student’s shoulder, explaining with words what teeth and violence had not made clear.
“You can’t sleep with Good anymore,” the teacher said.
The boy was sad before that news, and he was sad afterwards. Nothing had changed.
“You’re going to have to find another bed,” the teacher said to the other man in the room.
Stealing more fingers would cause useless trouble. The gray-beard surrendered the ugly bed to the stupid, ungrateful man-boy. But where would he sleep now?
One of the orphans used to be a boy, but he had grown up tall and thin as a stick, and his beard was finally coming in, giving him his own harsh, threatening stink. The other orphan was more woman than girl, and her scent was very pleasant, yes. But she didn’t appreciate his odor or his honest manners, and that’s why he was banished to a playroom, given a bed of cushions in the corner between bare walls—a space where a thoughtful man could lose his gaze in the middle of a long sad night.
The world was sad, and the world was very angry.
Every bad thing was blamed on the war. The war was everywhere and it seemed old and sure to last forever. Every visitor talked about battles and the big fires happening in far-off places. That kind of talk only made the sadness worse. Didn’t they understand? The fire and fights happened in other places. This new home was strong, and there were soldiers here to keep it strong. The palace was at the heart of the world, and while there used to be gunfire and explosions, that was hundreds of days ago. Even miserable people agreed that the fighting was not as awful as it used to be, and the gray-beard understood that what became small often vanished, and that was what gave him hope.
Many nights were spent inside the playroom, but he didn’t sleep well.
To claim that he grieved for his dead family was to miss the truth. Every wife had to die, and being his child meant that life would surely find its end.
Death was no mystery to a smart man like him.
His grief—the deep ache in his bones—was the irreparable loss of his fine, well-deserved life. Each day used to hold the promise of new women and the familiar blackwood tree and the sounds of being outside and the feel of wind and the endless easy joy that came with pissing into the morning sun. But this new life was lived indoors, more than not. And what was outside was not a happy realm for his kind.
The two-mouthed giant was a frequent visitor. He was called the man-boy’s brother, except he looked and smelled like nothing else in the world. People plainly did not understand what the word “brother” meant, which showed how stupid they were. But a creature like him might make a good companion for the man. One day the giant came to the boy’s room. He wanted to talk about the sister that nobody else ever saw. It was just the two of them and the tiny man with the fine old beard and the deep wise eyes, and that seemed like a good time to climb onto one of those slick armored shoulders, biting the first fingers that reached up to brush him aside.
The man’s meaning was misinterpreted.
Thrown into the hallway, he decided to never try to claim any giant for himself. They weren’t worth the bother.
A second door stood across from the boy’s room. The door was closed, as usual, but it wasn’t locked that day.
He eased the door open and peered inside.
The boy’s mother was sitting on the edge of her bed. She had always been old, but she was badly hurt before coming here and she seemed much older now. Her wounds had healed, but what remained was tired and quiet. She often slept longer than anyone else, including her sad son, but she was awake just then, dressed and sitting on her bed, looking at the floor in the same staring fashion that he used during the longest nights.
Something in her posture and her eyes touched the little man.
He approached slowly.
The woman had never approved of him. Never once had she shown him more than grudging tolerance. But when she saw his face, she said, “Hello.”
She didn’t smile, but her expression wasn’t as sorrowful.
“Haddi,” he said.
That was her name.
“Good,” she said.
That wasn’t his name. The boy heard him say that word several times, and he misunderstood its meaning. “Good” meant good, nothing more, and his true name could only be spoken by the tongue of orange-headed men.
Once again, he said, “Haddi.”
She thought of making the man leave. He could tell from her mouth and how the eyes got cold for a moment.
Without words, he jumped up on the bed, avoiding her reach while starting to pull gently at the softest blanket. Maybe if he were quiet and careful, she wouldn’t notice his presence.
The old woman decided to say nothing about the interruption.
She stood slowly and did nothing, deciding what to do. Then she walked to a big box filled with little boxes. On top of the big box was a picture of her dead husband. The clearest, brightest pictures of Merit were lost with their home, but the very important man who lived down the hallways had found this picture. He had brought it to Haddi as a gift, and despite its age and the yellowing paper, she had squeezed the picture under glass surrounded by a frame.
The orange-headed man understood pictures, and better than some of his kind, he respected the magic people saw in such things.
“Sad face,” he said.
Haddi didn’t react. She didn’t seem to hear him. But she picked up the frame, pulling the dust off with a fingertip, and then turning to him, she quietly asked, “Are you tired?”
It was still morning, and he was making a nest in her bed. Yes, he was tired, and saying so wouldn’t lighten his burdens.
Haddi opened her mouth, golden teeth glowing. Something less than a smile broke out, and she asked him, “Do you ever think about our old tree?”
There were more important matters to think about than one lost tree. But the little man didn’t have the energy or focus to explain even a portion of his busy mind. Instead he made one small and very mournful sound, hunkering down against the blanket, wishing for the chance to nap.