The Ferals

I sit on the stool with a particularly fat hen clucking in my lap. The bird becomes flustered when she realizes that I am not letting loose my grip around her leathery neck. With one firm twist of my hand, the hen is dead. I use her lifeless feet to create tracks leading to the fence, then into the shrubs beyond. Father will blame its absence on a coyote or fox, and of course I always agree. No one ever assumes I'm the sly fox.

The hen is soon hung on the slip of my apron, and I am on my way through the prickly field to Mr. Allen's house. It takes quite a while to reach my neighbor's cabin, and when I do, I know there is no rest for me here. It is well after bed time, yet unfortunately Mr. Allen is still awake. A bright candle flickers through one of his open windows – I believe I can make out his shadowy face in the flame, but I cannot be certain. I will simply have to be mindful of any noise. I raise my skirts high off the dusty earth and hold the hen motionless as I sneak low around the back where I know there are no windows besides the one that is heavily boarded. I will have to climb a bit to reach it, so I stack a few logs from the meager kindling pile and hoist myself up to the window's ledge. The hen feels heavy against my thigh, still warm and soft.

It takes only a nudge to remove the first board from the window; I made sure the nails were loosened some time ago. The second board slides out with a bit more difficulty. By the time I have carefully set the boards against the windowsill, my face is set in concentration and my forehead is beaded with sweat. I pull myself through the gaping hole, the slight rustling of fabric the only sign I was ever there.

The room on the other side is square and plain, too small for a proper bedroom and too large to be a storing closet. There is nothing decorating the walls besides rows of long, ugly scratches. They are barely concealed with heavy paint, even in the minimal light that the moon provides. The only piece of furniture is a tiny bed that is never used. Nathaniel refuses to sleep on the bed, but instead seems to prefer sleeping underneath it. He is like a dog.

He is like my dog. And oh, how I spoil him.

Nathaniel doesn't come out from under the bed, even when I carefully set the dead hen down a few paces in front of it. I know he hates it when I get too close, so I immediately slide over to the opposite corner and sit down with my sweaty hands wrapped around my knees. It takes longer than usual for him to venture out. I can only hope that Mr. Allen hasn't beaten him again, even if it seems like the only way to give Nathaniel some sort of sense at times. When he does crawl out, I can see that he is free of bruises and welts. This makes me curious.

Nathaniel scowls at the hen. His scowl is so fierce that I can nearly see the battle going on in his head. He dislikes eating food that has been killed by someone else, but he dislikes eating food that has been cooked even more. He has this same inner battle every time I bring him raw meat. I would bring him a live hen if I could, but the noise and the trouble would make it impossible. Nathaniel creates enough of a mess with the feathers already, and I think even he knows how much I detest cleaning.

Eventually he slowly grasps the hen and pushes aside a few feathers, sinking his teeth and ripping apart a chunk of speckled flesh. The lower half of his face and neck are soon stained with blood. It is a good thing he never wears a shirt, because I am sure that it would be dreadfully stained as well.

Despite always looking like he is deranged with starvation – his ribs jutting out and his face long and pointed – Nathaniel eats slowly. He takes his time with his food. And even though he doesn't chew any of it – I still don't know how he manages this – he treats the bird like a fancy supper. I suppose it is somewhat of a delicacy to him, the way Mr. Allen force-feeds him nasty things like fluffed buns and steaming potatoes. I've seen how he can't help vomiting them up later; these foods are not meant for a boy like Nathaniel. He was raised on the milk of the forest and nothing else, this I am sure.

After what feels like hours, he is finished with everything but a scattered mess of bones and plumage. This is when I begin to relax – because I can feel him relaxing.

“Nathaniel?” I whisper gently.

He tenses. His dark eyes dart over to me. He never meets my eyes, but only stares at my chest. I know he doesn't do it for the same reasons as some of the boys in town stare at my chest; he does it because he is afraid to look at my face. His eyes are so dark that often times they do not even appear to be human. This is one of those times. His face is the most wild part about him, but I have seen it dim over the years. I think he has given up hope for himself.

“Nathaniel, don't give up,” I say, my voice firm but still very soft. I know that he does not understand anything I am saying. He does not even recognize his name. I know he only stares at me because I am producing noise and am probably making him uncomfortable. Nathaniel ignores me unless I speak or move enough to catch his attention. It is as if he would rather not admit to himself that I am there.

It surprises me when he tilts his head forward, nodding slightly. He goes back to sucking on a thin bone and avoiding me when I do not speak again for several moments. Could he have actually nodded, or was I simply imagining it that way?

When Nathaniel finishes sucking the bones, he crawls back underneath the bed and watches from the blackness as I collect the plumage and wipe away the blood with the back of my handkerchief. His eyes glow in the shadow, strangely animal-like and yet somehow very sane. Nathaniel is not a crazed beast. He is simply pining for his freedom.

Just when I am swinging one leg out the window to return home, I catch the faint sound of shuffling feet in the hallway. Mr. Allen is coming to check on Nathaniel. I should hurry, but I can't seem to make myself move. I'll surely get caught if I jump from the window. Instead, I bring my leg back inside. I have to hide, but the only hiding spot is already occupied.

The shuffling has stopped. I can almost see the doorknob turn, the hinges creak. I dive beneath the bed before I can think things through; there's just no time to think.

The first thing I process is the smell, the scent of human flesh and sweat and waste. It's sickening, but I force myself not to gag. Mr. Allen is walking through the door. He's wearing his boots inside the house; thick, black boots that I suspect he stole off one of the soldiers. The old birch floorboards creak and groan, as if they too are detesting my neighbor's presence. Nathaniel's breath speeds up beside me in the musty shadow.

“Nathaniel!” Mr. Allen barks. His large boots halt right in front of my nose. I hurry to scoot myself closer to the wall, until I am pressed up against it and struggling to breathe in the nauseating air. My heart pounds like it has never pounded before. I watch with wide eyes as Nathaniel slowly crawls in front of me. He does not crawl on his knees like a young child might, but on the bottoms of his feet and palms. The odd posture makes his bones appear to jut out even further, his back curved and spiny, his lips pulled back in a defensive curl. I can tell that he is very much afraid, even though I cannot see his features clearly. When Mr. Allen grabs him by the roots of his dark hair, I just manage to stifle a gasp.

“What is this?” Mr. Allen's voice has gone quieter, and for a heartbeat, I believe that he has seen me. But then he begins to drag Nathaniel upright. “There's blood on your face again, boy. You're best to stop gnawing on things you shouldn't – your gums'll bleed themselves raw.”

I think Mr. Allen likes to pretend that Nathaniel can understand what he is saying, just as I like to pretend at times. It shows how he cares. Yet Mr. Allen also likes to pretend that Nathaniel can speak back, and when he doesn't, Mr. Allen becomes angry. He often tilts on the edge of madness. His obsession for taming Nathaniel has drained him of his sanity. He will not give up no matter what happens or how often father knocks on his door to remind him of the virtues.

“Now, you ought to have learned to stay put when I tell you to stay put.” He throws Nathaniel to the floor, but Nathaniel doesn't get up again. His eyes lock with mine, begging me to help him. My heart reaches out, but my arms cannot. There is nothing I can do.

“How many times have I told you to sleep atop the bed, not beneath it?”

Nathaniel growls in response.

“How many times!”

His growl slowly morphs into a whimper, and then a single syllable; “Mah.” It makes no sense, but still I am surprised that he has managed to say that much. Mr. Allen's boots creak against the floor two more times as he reaches to grab Nathaniel once again, then sets him upon the bed. The mattress sinks downward, squeezing me closer to the floor until I can barely breathe. “Now stay,” Mr. Allen commands, his voice firm. At last, he leaves. The door is shut and locked. The patter of footsteps drifts away.

I hurry to scramble out from under the mattress' suffocating pressure, guiding myself towards the window. It is then that I realize I have made a mistake. The window is not boarded up as it should be; the first three boards are still stacked on the sill. It is a wonder Mr. Allen did not notice.

I turn to glance at Nathaniel before I leave. He is huddled in a fetal position, not looking at me or anything else in particular. I do not feel guilt or pity for him as I suppose I should. Instead, I feel a twinge of anger, of betrayal. Nathaniel spoke. It does not matter that it was not a proper word – he spoke regardless. In an earlier time, I might have rejoiced at such an improvement. But that's just the thing. It doesn't feel like an improvement at all – it feels like a horrible, wrong thing.

How can something as innocent as one word feel so unbearably destructive?