Wild Boy

by Rob Lloyd Jones

  Wild Boy messed his hair up again, hiding the marks. He hadn’t meant to shout at Sir Oswald. He just didn’t like being touched, and those scars were the reason. Dark memories came creeping from the place at the back of his mind where he kept them hidden. But he forced them back again and sniffed.

  “They ain’t nothing,” he said.

  Sir Oswald looked at him, the wrinkles on his face easing away. “Master Wild,” he said softly, “I apologize.”

  “They ain’t nothing, Sir Oswald. Besides, I’m a monster, remember?”

  Sir Oswald smiled although his eyes stayed sad. Wild Boy could tell that his friend wanted to ask more about the scars and his past life in the workhouse. But it wasn’t a subject that he wanted to speak about. He couldn’t.

  Eager to change the subject, he forced a smile of his own and stepped closer. “You say I ain’t a monster, eh? How about this, then . . . ?”

  Alarm flashed across Sir Oswald’s face. “No, Master Wild! Don’t —”

  Grabbing him under the armpits, Wild Boy lifted him into the air. “Raaaa!” he joked. “I’m a savage monster! I’m half boy, half bear, and half wolf an’ all! I already ate your legs and now I’ll have the rest of you!”

  Sir Oswald wriggled in his grasp, trying to fight a grin. “Master Wild, if you do not unhand me this instant I shall be forced to clip your ear.”

  Wild Boy set him carefully back on the stage. He knew that Sir Oswald wasn’t really angry. His friend understood what it was like to look different from other people. Years ago Sir Oswald had been the star of Finch’s freak show. Billed as “Little Lord Handyman,” he’d performed tricks on his hands as he told stories of how he’d lost his legs at the Battle of Waterloo. But since then people had lost their appetite for heroes. Now they had a taste for monsters.

  Sir Oswald looked through a hole in the stage curtain. “Here they come,” he warned.

  The caravan door opened and Augustus Finch led an audience inside. The showman moved among them, listening to their coins clink into his tin. Six clinks. Finch’s face cracked into a satisfied sneer. He slicked back his greasy black and white hair to show off his collection of scars.

  “Ladies and Gentlemen,” he began. “The tale I’m about to tell is truly shocking. . . .”

  No, it ain’t, Wild Boy thought. The only shocking thing was how long Finch had been telling it. The showman gave the same patter before every show, a tale about the “creature Wild Boy,” who was raised in a forest by bears. But Wild Boy didn’t mind the story — after all, it sounded like a nicer way to grow up than in his old workhouse. And besides, it gave him a few minutes to spy on the audience.

  He peered through the curtain hole, his sharp eyes taking in every detail.

  “See anything interesting?” Sir Oswald whispered.

  “Don’t see nothing,” Wild Boy said.

  “Poppycock! You see everything, Master Wild.”

  Although he pretended not to understand, Wild Boy knew he did see things differently from others. All those hours he’d spent staring through his workhouse window, searching for clues to the world outside, the world he dreamed of being part of. From tiny details on people’s faces and clothes, he’d learned to paint whole pictures of their lives. It had become instinctive. He read people like code.

  Not that there was much to see about this mob. Steam rose from their thick coats, and even from behind the curtain he could smell the booze on their breath. One man had bruised knuckles. One woman had sick on her chin. Except . . .

  “The priest,” Wild Boy whispered.

  At the back of the audience was a priest. That wasn’t unusual — priests often visited fairs to preach to people about their sins. Only, Wild Boy could tell immediately that this man was an impostor.

  He closed his eyes and thought about the priests he’d watched around the camps. Sometimes, when he remembered things, it was as if the images were frozen in his head. He could study them like they were paintings framed on a wall. He visualized one priest, then another. Both men had scuffs on their trouser knees from praying, and soot on their fingers from snuffing out candles. This man, though, had neither of these things. He did have a dog collar that looked like it was made of newspaper (specifically the Morning Chronicle), a Bible that had barely been opened, judging from the lack of wear on the spine, and a sheen of nervous sweat glistening above his upper lip.

  What kind of man pretends to be a priest in a crowd? Wild Boy wondered.

  The answer revealed itself a second later, when he saw the man’s hand dip into a lady’s shawl and — fast as a flash — remove a purse. He was a pickpocket!

  “Positions, Master Wild!” Sir Oswald said as he hid behind the propped-up bed next to the stage. “Here we go.”

  A crazy idea entered Wild Boy’s head. He tried to push it away but it wormed its way back, growing fat with possibility. What if he saved one of these people from the thief? Would they thank him? Better still, would they take him away from this place, to a new life? Maybe. . . . Maybe it wasn’t such a fantasy.

  “Master Wild?” Sir Oswald whispered. “Are you quite well? You are shaking.”

  Wild Boy turned, wide eyes staring at his friend. “Sir Oswald, do you think people like us could be anything else?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean . . . Something other than freaks.”

  Sir Oswald slid from behind the bed, although his face remained hidden in shadow. He lowered his voice — Wild Boy had never heard him sound so serious. “Master Wild, I do. I do think that. But whatever makes you ask me this now?”

  “I . . . It’s nothing. You’d better hide.”

  Sir Oswald looked reluctant to abandon the conversation. But he heard the showman’s speech coming to an end, and he disappeared back behind the bed.

  “Gather in close!” Finch cried. “Gather in and get a good gawp. Prepare yourselves for the most hideous, most revolting, most sickeningest sight in all of England. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you The Savage Spectacle of Wild Boy!”

  With a flourish of his hand, the showman yanked away the curtain.

  The act had been the same ever since Wild Boy joined the freak show, and they performed it up to twenty times a day at these larger fairs, so he knew it well. As the curtain fell he should have been snarling like a dog and chewing an old bone at the side of the stage. But, this time, he just stood staring, lost in increasingly excited thoughts.

  The crowd didn’t care — they’d just come to see a freak, and Wild Boy certainly fitted that description. The group huddled closer, their mouths puckered in delighted disgust.

  “Ugly bugger,” one of them said.

  “Looks like a baby werewolf.”

  “Or a stinking armpit!”

  Wild Boy tried not to listen. He heard the same jokes every day, and dozens much more cruel. At the workhouse, he’d always fought back against boys who teased him, which meant he’d gotten into a lot of fights. Eventually, he’d been locked up alone in that cell. When he’d joined the traveling show, he’d done the same — leaping from the stage, punching and spitting at anyone who yelled abuse. But these weren’t boys in a workhouse. Here, the bullies were a lot tougher. Most nights during those first few months, Wild Boy hadn’t been able to sleep from the pain of his bruises. He’d been lucky, though — plenty of punters at fairs carried knives, clubs, and even garroting wires. It wouldn’t have been long before he punched the wrong person.

  So he’d made a new rule. As long as no one touched him, he’d put up with the teasing. This was a freak show, and he was a freak, after all. He hoped that, eventually, he’d become numb to the names, or not even hear them. But he still did. And, even after all this time, they still stung.

  That afternoon, though, his attention was focused entirely on the thief, as he watched the man swipe another purse and then a pocket watch from a fob. There was only one person he hadn’t yet robbed, an old man at the front of the small group.

  Wild Boy studied the man
and, in seconds, knew that he was a retired soldier, an opium addict, was heavily in debt, and that he had come to the fair to gamble the last of his pennies at the card tables. The clues were obvious enough to him: The red-brown tinge to the man’s teeth caused by smoke from the opium pipe and the slight tremble of his hands from withdrawal were clear indications of the man’s addiction. The sprig of heather in his pocket suggested that he’d visited one of the gypsies at the park gates, a sign of both desperation and concern for his immediate fortunes. And as for the man’s military past and current debt problem, Wild Boy could see that he’d once worn medals on his coat — the darker patch on his lapel, unfaded by the sun, showed where they’d been displayed. But the pinholes didn’t look torn, so the medals hadn’t been ripped off by thieves. More likely they’d been sold, and only the most desperate of men would trade the trophies he’d once worn so proudly.

  All of this was brilliant news to Wild Boy. Surely the man would be even more grateful than most were he to have his last pennies saved from the fingers of a pickpocket. Wild Boy wondered if the man would give him a job. He’d happily work for the man for free, as a servant. Maybe he could have a real name, something like a normal life. Eventually, perhaps the old gentleman would adopt him as a son, like in the plays they staged at some of the fairs. . . .

  By now Wild Boy was so excited that he forgot to breathe, and he coughed.

  The old gentleman stepped back, closer to the thief’s probing hand.

  How could Wild Boy warn him? He had to be polite, he decided, to show the man that he wasn’t a monster. He’d learned a few posh words from Sir Oswald that might do the trick. But he needed to act fast, before the pickpocket struck. . . .

  Now!

  He jumped from the stage and landed with a thump beside the old man. “Good sir!” he said. “May I be so bold as to offer a word of —”

  “MONSTER!”

  The old man screamed in fright, stepped back, and thrashed Wild Boy with his cane. Wild Boy reacted without thinking — first punching the man in the nose, and then shoving him back into the pickpocket. “Don’t you bloody touch me!” he yelled.

  In a rush of panic he tried to scramble up onto the stage, but the old man grabbed his long hair and yanked him back. Wild Boy turned and lashed out again, swearing and whirling his fists. But now the others joined in against him too. A woman kicked his shin. Someone else punched his jaw.

  “Get off me!” he cried. “There’s a thief!”

  “He says he’s a thief!”

  “Get him to the ground!”

  “Bloody freaks!”

  One of them stamped on Wild Boy’s bare foot and he tumbled over. He curled up as they surrounded him, raining blows.

  Augustus Finch hopped excitedly around the scene. “One penny for a kick!” he cried. “Pay up, pay up! Anyone that kicks him owes me a penny!”

  And then they were gone, a crush of limbs squeezing through the door. The showman skipped behind them, calling to the punters who had gathered outside. “Hear what they say! Hear what they say about Wild Boy! He’s wild! He’s wonderful! You can kick him for a penny!”

  Wild Boy rolled over, groaning and muttering obscenities. Every part of his body ached. But more than that, he felt angry. Not at the old gentleman, but at himself.

  “Idiot . . .” he muttered. Then he yelled so loud that it shook the ceiling lamp on its hook. “BLOODY IDIOT FREAK!”

  He lay on the floor, anger coursing through his veins. He wanted to scream even louder, to burst up and kick the caravan walls until he’d smashed this whole van into pieces. But he knew it would do no good. This was his life. If not this freak show then another one.

  Sir Oswald appeared from behind the bed. “Whatever was that about, old chap?”

  “Nothing,” Wild Boy muttered. “Just a stupid idea.”

  They looked at each other for a moment, and he knew that Sir Oswald understood. His friend smiled at him sadly as he helped him up from the floor. “Come on,” he said. “Better get ready for the next lot.”

  That night a wind rose across the camp, creaking the van like a ship in a storm. Wild Boy pulled his coat tighter around him and nestled in the bundle of sacks that formed his bed. Wherever the traveling fair pitched, the freak shows always closed by sundown. Even the most desperate showmen weren’t prepared to spend all evening throwing out drunks and breaking up fights. Because at night the fairground turned savage.

  Wild Boy knew the scenes well. Naphtha lights and oil lamps lit grinning, sweaty faces, as drunken crowds danced through a haze of steam and tobacco smoke. Some people shrieked from behind carnival masks — black-feathered monsters, or eerie white faces with long, crooked noses. Others propped up booze stalls, swigging from pots of beer and pints of gin. The dancing booths rocked and pounded to the sound of violins, while gangs of ruffians prowled the path, knocking off hats and shrieking, “Haw-haw! Haw-haw!”

  Often Wild Boy sat for hours, watching it all through a crack in the wall. It was the only time he ever relaxed — forgetting about his own life, and exploring those of others. He sometimes felt as if he were floating through the crack and in among the scenes outside, seeing everything. . . .

  But that night, he couldn’t calm down. It wasn’t just the fight in the show, it was this place too. Greenwich was not far from Southwark, and his old workhouse. The memories were still painful, of all those times that strangers had come to see him in his room. His heart had surged with the hope that they’d come to take him away to a different life, a normal life. But really, they’d just paid Master Bledlow to see the freak. And today he’d gotten carried away again in that same stupid fantasy. He should’ve known better by now. He’d never be anything other than the Savage Spectacle of Wild Boy.

  He slid across the van and spied through another hole, hoping he’d see something to take his mind off things among the backstage jumble of prop carts and supply wagons that spread behind the path. Nearby, two other freak-show performers — the Human Colossus and the Living Skeleton — were fighting with tent pegs. The Oldest Woman in the World, the Bearded Lady, and Mr. Peculiar crowded around, goading them and gambling on the result.

  Wild Boy’s eyes widened as he watched the scene. His breaths grew deeper, rustling the hair on his cheeks. . . .

  “Hey, mutt! Ugly mutt!”

  Augustus Finch sat on the edge of his camp bed, greasy black and white hair hanging down over his face. He picked mud from the hobnails on his boots and drank deeply from his third bottle of beer. Drinking was Finch’s favorite activity. After dark it was his only activity.

  “Get me another beer, mutt.”

  Wild Boy shoved a bottle into the showman’s hand, fighting the urge to throw it at his face. He glanced up at the deep-red birthmark that stained the cheek beneath the showman’s scars. That mark, Wild Boy knew, was why Finch’s father had beaten him — because his son had looked different from other people.

  “What are you gawping at?” Finch snarled. The showman put a hand against his birthmarked cheek. “I said, what are you looking at, mutt?”

  “Nothing,” Wild Boy said. “Ain’t looking at nothing.”

  The door opened and a sack of firewood thumped into the entrance. Sir Oswald followed it, pulling his legless body up the steps and into the van. “Evening, all,” he puffed.

  Wild Boy rushed to help, although Sir Oswald’s arms were so strong he had no trouble lifting the sack. The man spent half of his life fixing up this van, screwing springs to the axles or bolting pipes to the walls. Beneath the banners, the wooden walls were crisscrossed with tubes, like the scars on Finch’s face.

  “Extraordinary ventilation!” Sir Oswald often explained. “Incredible new heating system! Wait until you feel the suspension, Master Wild. You will think we are gliding over ice!”

  As far as Wild Boy could tell, none of the repairs had made any difference — the van was still cold, it still stank, and it rattled terribly as they traveled over country roads between the fairs.
Rather, he thought that Sir Oswald kept working simply because he had to. Like him, he had no other place to go.

  That was just a guess, though. Wild Boy had a harder time reading Sir Oswald than he did anyone else at the fair. His friend had streaks of gray in his hair, and wrinkles on his face, but he moved as fast on his hands as any young man on his feet. He called himself Sir Oswald, but Wild Boy had no idea if the title was real. He kept an old clothes chest in his corner of the van, but he didn’t store much in it. So eventually, Wild Boy gave up searching for clues. He was just happy that Sir Oswald was his friend, the first and only friend he’d ever had.

  “Watching the fight, eh?” Sir Oswald said. He peered through the crack in the wood. “The Colossus versus the Skeleton? Not much of a contest there. Used to box a little myself, you know, back when I had pins. Mind you, never against a brute the size of the Colossus.”

  “The Living Skeleton will win,” Wild Boy said.

  “Poppycock! The man is so thin I can count his ribs through his vest.”

  “He was in the army.”

  “I have never heard him say that.”

  Wild Boy doubted that anyone had. Few of the freaks spoke of their past. Some found it too depressing to speak of happier times. Others, like him, simply had no happier times to speak of.

  Sir Oswald leaned closer to the crack, studying the Skeleton curiously. “Master Wild, how could you possibly know that he was in the army?”

  “See the white bits of his eyes?” Wild Boy said.

  “Barely!”

  “They got black specks in them. They’re powder burns from musket fire. You see the same on soldiers about the fair.”

  “Perhaps you do, Master Wild. . . .”

  “And look how he folded his coat, and that old tattoo on his arm. Army bloke, no doubt about it. Watch this, now. . . .”

  Outside, the Living Skeleton swung a fist. The Human Colossus fell to the mud with a splash and a mighty thump.