The truly special stable boy
I am Ferdinand, son of Sr. Richard, son of Sr. Symore. I am a knight in training and this is the story of my first adventure. This story is not about slaying dragons, though those creatures do appear in it, or exploring new lands. This story is of my journey into a much harsher landscape: my own soul.
My story begins on the grounds of the castle Rowinback, in the country of Keb. This is where I was squire to Sr. Harrison the third. He was training me to be a knight, and was almost done too, at about the time when this tale begins.
The castle Rowinback was not huge; in fact, it was more of a fort than anything. Its inhabitants were Sr. Harrison, his wife, his three newborn children, and the servants and slaves that were bound to them. But usually this was not all those who inhabited the castle, for Sr. Harrison was a bit of a party animal. He would frequently have friends, colleagues, or even enemies over for dinner and a drink (or many).
These guests frequently stayed the night, but I was glad that none ever stole my bed. I slept in the attic. I had a small room between the ceilings of the rooms downstairs, and the thatch of the roof above. Yes, sometimes it leaked, and yes it would get mighty hot in the summer, but it was mine.
There were bats that lived in one corner of the roof, and I had made them my pets. They had had babies one summer and I had splinted up one's wing when it fell before it was ready to fly. I brought them food and straw for their corner, to block the drafty spots in the winter. They had taken a liking to me and would hang from my finger and make little noises at me before they went out to hunt every night. They were my closest friends in those many years.
The next closest were Gail and her husband Carron. Gail was the cook, a large lady of about forty years. Whenever I was beaten and bruised from practice, she would wrap me in a blanket and give me a steaming bowl of her chicken broth. Carron was grounds keeper and kind of head-stable-boy. He was the first to tell me of the stable boy when I arrived. I was twelve, that was a good six years ago now, and had just been told to roam the grounds and get my bearings.
I was walking out into the courtyard, a square of particularly muddy ground walled in on three sides by the castle buildings, and on the forth by the pastures. I spotted the stables and, with my love for horses, started making my way towards their closed wooden doors. I was about half way across the courtyard when a man of about thirty-five years (keep in mind this was six years ago) hobbled up to me.
"Where yea goin' lil' one?" He looked kindly and yet threatening at the same time. However it was less threatening than worried. It was hard to make out his facial expressions because he wore a patch over one eye.
"To the stables, sir." He closed his eyes and shook his head.
"No yer not lil' one." I was really confused at this point.
"I'm not?" He smiled, the corner of his eye crinkling.
"No, no 'ne goes in tha stables, 'cept the stable boy, tha' is." I had heard of knights that only trusted their horses to one or two people because they were very posesive of them.
"I promise I won't hurt them. I love horses." He smiled and wrapped an arm around my shoulders, turning me around.
"I'm sure yea woudn't, boy, but that's not why yea canna go in there." I looked up at him.
"Well, why then?" He smiled at me again and looked ahead.
"'tis tha stable boy. He's deformed, possessed some say. He really taint, but some treat him bad like. Sr. 'arrison lets him work wi' tha 'orses, an feeds 'im, but no'ne goes in tha stable. Sr. 'arrison tells me wen he wan's 'is 'orse, an I call i' in through tha stable window. Quarter o' an 'our later, thar's 'is 'orse, as beautiful as ca' be, 'itched ouside." We were well to the other side of the courtyard, headed to the end of the buildings.
That was six years ago, when I was fresh and new. My curiosity was peaked by the deformed stable boy, of course. But out of respect, I never went in the stable, and never tried to coax him out. I did, however try to spy him whenever Sr. Harrison called for his horse. I never did see him.
By my second year there, when I was fourteen, I was riding almost more than Sr. Harrison himself. I would go for a ride every day, never favoring any one horse, but never touching Thunder, Sr. Harrison's steed. I became well acquainted with all the horses, and they seemed all the better for the exercise. I hoped the phantom stable boy was happy for the horses, I was sure he wanted to ride them himself, I just hoped he wasn't jealous, or didn't hate me.
I did catch a glimpse of him, once. It was a rainy day in the fourth spring of my apprentiship. I was sitting at the window in my little room, holding the bat that had broken its wing. It was sleeping as I stroked the fur on the top of its head; just between it's ears. I was staring out into the rain and my eyes wandered back to the stables. The hay loft window was open and a figure was sitting just inside, looking out into the distance. It was the boy! His outlines were blurred by the rain, but I could tell that he was wearing brown breeches, probably wool, and nothing else. His torso was tan, not what I was expecting of a boy who never left the stable. I watched him watch the rain. He bent forward and put his arms on his crossed legs. There was something different about his back, it was too big, like he was hunch-backed or something, then the flesh on his back moved. I could make out ridges and crevices, long curved lines that seemed to stretch from points above his shoulders, down to below his butt and further. They shifted again, fluttered, and I gasped. I looked down at the sleeping form in my hand. I slowly turned it over to look at its back. There, my bat's folded wings. That was what I was looking at through the rain. I looked back and he was gone. A boy with wings. A boy with bat wings. I looked down at my friend and stroked his furry stomach. I saw why he was shunned. I will not shun you, winged one.
That was when I was sixteen, two years before the story really gets going.
