(no subject)
Prologue
The boy sobbed as the boat rocked back and forth in the violent waves. His wrists were tied behind him, the rope digging into huge red cuts up and down his forearms. Blood seeped through the bandages and stitches holding his skin together. He could barely move his hands.
Two men sat in the boat with him. One had a revolver at the crying boy’s back, the other wrestled with the oars. The boat lurched and dipped its way to a dark island, a spot of pure black in the oppressing weight of night. There were no stars or moon. The only sound was the howling wind, the slap of the waves, and the boy’s sobs.
When the boat was near enough to the island, the two men grabbed the boy, cut his ties, and pushed him over the side. He shrieked and flailed and scrabbled at the gunwale, but the man with the revolver smacked his fingers with the weapon’s club.
“Git on boy!” the man shouted. “Swim fer the island, mebbe you’ll live!”
The men laughed, and the boy stared at them hopelessly, splashing in the water. He struggled to keep his head above the waves that whirled around him. The men turned the boat back out into the water and the boy turned desperately to the island.
He was not a strong swimmer, and the cuts on his arms stung with every movement. His fingers wouldn’t cup together into flippers no matter how hard he tried to make them. Instead sparks leapt from the bloody bandages around his arms and streaked through the water. One errant spark hit a fish and killed it. Another cracked a floating log in two. The boy, still sobbing, swam frantically toward the island.
Eventually his feet dragged against sand and rocks and he stumbled out of the water to a cold beach. He collapsed with his legs still in the water and spent several minutes regaining his breath. Pitiful cries choked his throat. Webs of electricity leaked from the wounds in his arms and jumped all around him like a split-second cage.
When his breathing was even and his sobs ceased, he lifted his head from the sand and looked around the beach. It was deserted. He crawled completely out of the water and crouched on the sand, hugging his arms to his chest and resting his forehead on his knees.
The wind screamed and the waves crashed. The boy shivered. He rolled over on his side and curled into a little ball and fell asleep.
When he woke up the winds were gone but the sky was gray. He couldn’t tell if it was morning or afternoon. Driftwood and weeds littered the beach. In the light he could see the start of a forest further inland. There would be others there, and they would all want to kill him.
He lay on the beach a long time. He didn’t move. He dozed again.
When he woke up there was someone there.
He started in surprise and nearly rolled backwards into the waves. There was a man only a few feet from him, old and rough and so dirty he looked covered in mold. His odor was intense and putrid, his eyes wild and dark. His body was skeleton thin and what remained of his clothes hung on him in rags.
The man smiled. Most of his teeth were missing. The boy cringed.
“Such a young one,” the man wheezed. “Young and smooth and soft.” He lifted a hand and beckoned at the boy. His fingernails were long and curled and yellow. “Come young one. Let me touch that young skin.” The hand turned from beckoning to grabbing. “I haven’t touched young soft skin in ages.”
The boy backed away until his feet were in the water. He then started edging his way along the shore, but the skeleton man followed him.
“Please,” the man begged in a voice unused for years. “Let me touch it. Beautiful and soft and warm.”
The boy glanced around the beach but it was still deserted. The man took a lurching step in his direction and the boy scrambled back into the water. The waves lapped his shins.
“Let me touch it,” the man pleaded, reaching out at the boy with both hands.
The boy shook his head. “No,” he croaked.
The man stopped at the sound and tilted his head. “No?”
“No,” the boy said again.
The skeleton man lunged at the boy with a snarl and they both fell into the water. The boy cried out and scrambled to get his head above the waves, but the old man held his neck against the sand.
“No!” the man growled. “No no no!”
The boy flailed and kicked but the blows had no effect on the skeleton man. Fear took root in the boy’s stomach and a second later lightning exploded from his hands. As soon as it hit the water, the water bubbled and shrank away. A little pool of air formed around the suffocating boy, and then another spark sent the man stumbling back onto the beach.
“Ow!” the man moaned, looking at his smoking hands. “What did you do, young one?”
The boy coughed and crawled back to the dry beach. He tried to stand and run but his legs wouldn’t move and his arms couldn’t push him up. He fell onto the sand.
The man stumbled over, turned the boy on his back, and slapped him across the face. The boy cried out but was too exhausted to fight back.
“You are such a bad one, young one!” the man spat. He slapped the boy again. “Bad!” Then he took the boy’s face in one of his dirty skeleton hands. “But still soft and smooth and warm. I will punish you after-”
He looked up in horror, cowered and covered his face, then a large branch pummeled him to the sand. The boy rolled away, crying and gasping, and looked up to see another man. This one was tall and broad and healthy. He held the branch like a club over the skeleton man’s writhing form. The skeleton man pleaded and begged, but the tall man took the branch and hit him on the head. Again and again and again.
The boy couldn’t look away. When the tall man stopped, there was blood on the beach and the skeleton man’s body did not move. The tall man turned around and looked at the boy. He looked young in the face, but aged by lines of anguish.
“I’m sorry,” the man said.
The boy stared at him, then edged backwards on his hands and knees. He didn’t take his eyes off the bloody club.
The man noticed his gaze and dropped the branch. He held up his hands. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
The boy shook his head, then scrambled to his feet and ran away. The man called after him but the boy sprinted for the trees. He was a few yards away when a woman stepped from between two trunks and caught the child in her arms.
They both tumbled to the ground. The boy fought to escape but the woman held him tight.
“Let me go! Let me go!” the boy screamed.
“It’s all right,” the woman whispered. “Calm down, it’s all right. I’ve got you. It’s all right.”
The boy gave up his struggling and sobbed against the woman’s chest. She held him close and stroked his hair, repeating her words. Eventually he did calm down. When he opened his eyes he saw the tall man had joined them. The boy tensed.
“It’s all right,” the tall man sad. “I’m sorry you had to see that, but I had to stop him.”
The boy stared. The man sat on the ground next to the woman. He was strong and big like a bolder. She was beautiful, even with the grime of the island on her skin.
“What’s your name?” she gently asked.
“Ignatius,” said the boy.
“I’m Madeline,” the woman said. She gestured at the man. “This is my husband, Derek.”
The boy looked at the man again, then bowed his head. “Thank you.”
The woman gently took one of the boy’s hands and turned over his arm. “Oh god,” she gasped. She showed the soaked bandages and bloody skin to her husband. “Look at this.”
The man scowled as he looked at the wounds. “What happened to you?”
The boy pulled his arms back and hugged them against his chest. “I’m so tired,” he whispered.
Derek and Madeline took him further into the forest and cared for him. The boy told them what happened to him.
The boy sobbed as the boat rocked back and forth in the violent waves. His wrists were tied behind him, the rope digging into huge red cuts up and down his forearms. Blood seeped through the bandages and stitches holding his skin together. He could barely move his hands.
Two men sat in the boat with him. One had a revolver at the crying boy’s back, the other wrestled with the oars. The boat lurched and dipped its way to a dark island, a spot of pure black in the oppressing weight of night. There were no stars or moon. The only sound was the howling wind, the slap of the waves, and the boy’s sobs.
When the boat was near enough to the island, the two men grabbed the boy, cut his ties, and pushed him over the side. He shrieked and flailed and scrabbled at the gunwale, but the man with the revolver smacked his fingers with the weapon’s club.
“Git on boy!” the man shouted. “Swim fer the island, mebbe you’ll live!”
The men laughed, and the boy stared at them hopelessly, splashing in the water. He struggled to keep his head above the waves that whirled around him. The men turned the boat back out into the water and the boy turned desperately to the island.
He was not a strong swimmer, and the cuts on his arms stung with every movement. His fingers wouldn’t cup together into flippers no matter how hard he tried to make them. Instead sparks leapt from the bloody bandages around his arms and streaked through the water. One errant spark hit a fish and killed it. Another cracked a floating log in two. The boy, still sobbing, swam frantically toward the island.
Eventually his feet dragged against sand and rocks and he stumbled out of the water to a cold beach. He collapsed with his legs still in the water and spent several minutes regaining his breath. Pitiful cries choked his throat. Webs of electricity leaked from the wounds in his arms and jumped all around him like a split-second cage.
When his breathing was even and his sobs ceased, he lifted his head from the sand and looked around the beach. It was deserted. He crawled completely out of the water and crouched on the sand, hugging his arms to his chest and resting his forehead on his knees.
The wind screamed and the waves crashed. The boy shivered. He rolled over on his side and curled into a little ball and fell asleep.
When he woke up the winds were gone but the sky was gray. He couldn’t tell if it was morning or afternoon. Driftwood and weeds littered the beach. In the light he could see the start of a forest further inland. There would be others there, and they would all want to kill him.
He lay on the beach a long time. He didn’t move. He dozed again.
When he woke up there was someone there.
He started in surprise and nearly rolled backwards into the waves. There was a man only a few feet from him, old and rough and so dirty he looked covered in mold. His odor was intense and putrid, his eyes wild and dark. His body was skeleton thin and what remained of his clothes hung on him in rags.
The man smiled. Most of his teeth were missing. The boy cringed.
“Such a young one,” the man wheezed. “Young and smooth and soft.” He lifted a hand and beckoned at the boy. His fingernails were long and curled and yellow. “Come young one. Let me touch that young skin.” The hand turned from beckoning to grabbing. “I haven’t touched young soft skin in ages.”
The boy backed away until his feet were in the water. He then started edging his way along the shore, but the skeleton man followed him.
“Please,” the man begged in a voice unused for years. “Let me touch it. Beautiful and soft and warm.”
The boy glanced around the beach but it was still deserted. The man took a lurching step in his direction and the boy scrambled back into the water. The waves lapped his shins.
“Let me touch it,” the man pleaded, reaching out at the boy with both hands.
The boy shook his head. “No,” he croaked.
The man stopped at the sound and tilted his head. “No?”
“No,” the boy said again.
The skeleton man lunged at the boy with a snarl and they both fell into the water. The boy cried out and scrambled to get his head above the waves, but the old man held his neck against the sand.
“No!” the man growled. “No no no!”
The boy flailed and kicked but the blows had no effect on the skeleton man. Fear took root in the boy’s stomach and a second later lightning exploded from his hands. As soon as it hit the water, the water bubbled and shrank away. A little pool of air formed around the suffocating boy, and then another spark sent the man stumbling back onto the beach.
“Ow!” the man moaned, looking at his smoking hands. “What did you do, young one?”
The boy coughed and crawled back to the dry beach. He tried to stand and run but his legs wouldn’t move and his arms couldn’t push him up. He fell onto the sand.
The man stumbled over, turned the boy on his back, and slapped him across the face. The boy cried out but was too exhausted to fight back.
“You are such a bad one, young one!” the man spat. He slapped the boy again. “Bad!” Then he took the boy’s face in one of his dirty skeleton hands. “But still soft and smooth and warm. I will punish you after-”
He looked up in horror, cowered and covered his face, then a large branch pummeled him to the sand. The boy rolled away, crying and gasping, and looked up to see another man. This one was tall and broad and healthy. He held the branch like a club over the skeleton man’s writhing form. The skeleton man pleaded and begged, but the tall man took the branch and hit him on the head. Again and again and again.
The boy couldn’t look away. When the tall man stopped, there was blood on the beach and the skeleton man’s body did not move. The tall man turned around and looked at the boy. He looked young in the face, but aged by lines of anguish.
“I’m sorry,” the man said.
The boy stared at him, then edged backwards on his hands and knees. He didn’t take his eyes off the bloody club.
The man noticed his gaze and dropped the branch. He held up his hands. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
The boy shook his head, then scrambled to his feet and ran away. The man called after him but the boy sprinted for the trees. He was a few yards away when a woman stepped from between two trunks and caught the child in her arms.
They both tumbled to the ground. The boy fought to escape but the woman held him tight.
“Let me go! Let me go!” the boy screamed.
“It’s all right,” the woman whispered. “Calm down, it’s all right. I’ve got you. It’s all right.”
The boy gave up his struggling and sobbed against the woman’s chest. She held him close and stroked his hair, repeating her words. Eventually he did calm down. When he opened his eyes he saw the tall man had joined them. The boy tensed.
“It’s all right,” the tall man sad. “I’m sorry you had to see that, but I had to stop him.”
The boy stared. The man sat on the ground next to the woman. He was strong and big like a bolder. She was beautiful, even with the grime of the island on her skin.
“What’s your name?” she gently asked.
“Ignatius,” said the boy.
“I’m Madeline,” the woman said. She gestured at the man. “This is my husband, Derek.”
The boy looked at the man again, then bowed his head. “Thank you.”
The woman gently took one of the boy’s hands and turned over his arm. “Oh god,” she gasped. She showed the soaked bandages and bloody skin to her husband. “Look at this.”
The man scowled as he looked at the wounds. “What happened to you?”
The boy pulled his arms back and hugged them against his chest. “I’m so tired,” he whispered.
Derek and Madeline took him further into the forest and cared for him. The boy told them what happened to him.