Boy on the Edge

by Fridrik Erlings

  I didn’t know that I would ever tell this story. Not because I thought people wouldn’t be interested in reading it, but because it was too close to my heart to write it. The years went by and the distance between the memories and myself grew wider, until they had at last all but vanished.

  I hadn’t visited my native country for almost two decades. I had immersed myself in work, moving from one university to the next, giving lectures, studying, writing books, becoming known in a small circle of history professors, sometimes even appearing on television, talking about Emperor Henry IV and the Investiture Controversy, William the Conqueror, Richard the Lionheart or Charlemagne and the Saxon Wars. I knew everything about them that there was to know. They were my closest friends. That’s how lost and lonely I was. My closest companions in life were people long since dead and gone.

  I had but one real friend, who wrote me several letters every year. They were always addressed to the university where I had begun my studies, and the office took great care to find my new location and send them onward. After a while I stopped reading them, and placed them unopened in a drawer.

  His letters stirred up the guilt I was trying so hard to forget, guilt for moving away. His handwriting, the large clumsy letters, written with a crude pencil, were curiously connected to his voice somehow, so I could almost hear the deep growl in his throat while reading them.

  And I never wrote back. What was I to write? I didn’t understand what he was telling me, or why: the letters were like solitary pieces of a puzzle, abstract and disconnected.

  Strangely enough, his name was Henry William Richard Charles: he was the very namesake of my dead friends, the ancient heroes I admired so much. But the truth is that he was a greater hero than any of them, although I hadn’t realized that at the time. He was noble, brave, and loyal.

  I spoke my native language, Icelandic, but once a year, when I called Emily, our foster mother. Her tender voice made me feel like the little boy I once was. Cuddled in her warm embrace, I’d felt secure from all the evils of this world. She always asked if I wanted to have a word or two with Henry. But I always replied: Not now, I’ll call again soon. But I never did.

  I thought he would always be there, just as he always had been.

  I had become an empty shell in the present, desperately seeking fulfillment in the long-gone, past stories of dead heroes. But fate had decided to give me one last chance to save my life; or rather Henry came to my rescue. His final heroic deed was to tell me a truly fulfilling story: our own.

  I received a message from Emily informing me that Henry had passed away in his sleep. The funeral would take place in a week’s time.

  I canceled everything and took a plane home to Iceland.

  The funeral was held in a small country church, close to the farm where he and Emily lived, the farm she had bought when the three of us had become a family. It was a solemn ritual, simple and to the point, just as Henry would have liked it. It was the first time I met his mother. She was in a wheelchair, crumbling with age, and the young nurse who accompanied her told me she hadn’t spoken a word for more than fifteen years. I squeezed her hand lightly: she didn’t react. But when the coffin sank slowly into the grave she moved her hand to wipe away the tears. She must have remembered the little child she’d once held in her arms, before the cruel world tore their lives apart.

  It was early spring, Henry’s favorite time of the year. I stayed with Emily the whole summer, helping her out during lambing season, milking the cows and then herding them, mowing the field on the old tractor, like Henry and I used to do before I moved away. I had forgotten how the Icelandic summer is like a never-ending day, for at night the sun barely goes below the horizon. It’s a very different world from the dark and cold winter months; it’s a world full of hope and ethereal beauty. I rode Henry’s graceful mare in the bright summer night, following the river to the ocean, and then along the beach that stretched far into the distance.

  Henry’s room was the same as it had always been, except for one thing: it was full of books. There were stacks on the floor, and every shelf was crammed right up to the ceiling. There was a double row of books on the windowsill, and twice as many on the table. Under his bed were more boxes full of books. It was like entering a tiny library or a monk’s cell, fortified with the finest literature in the world.

  Emily smiled when she saw my wonder. “Henry loved to read,” she said. Then she patted me on the shoulder and added, “All thanks to you.”

  I didn’t know what she meant by that. “I believe he told you the story in one of his letters,” she said.

  “When? Which one?” I asked, trying to hide my guilt over the unopened letters. “Some might have gone astray,” I tried to explain. “I’ve been moving a lot, you know.”

  Then Emily showed me a box full of black notebooks. They were Henry’s. He had written a little every day, Emily told me, drafting his letters to me by filling each book with his thoughts and memories, working hard to find the right words to describe his feelings, pouring his heart out, page after page. I felt ashamed for having left so many of his letters unopened. But whatever he had wanted to tell me I would now find in the notebooks.

  Autumn came and I began to read, trying to get to know my friend Henry William Richard Charles, my only brother in the world. And reading, I began to put the pieces of the puzzle together, to know and understand. I heard to his deep growling voice whispering to me through his clumsy handwriting and memories started flowing, bursting forth in my mind like vivid scenes in a movie, some bright and happy, others dark and fearful.

  Henry had lovingly preserved the past, not for himself, but for me.

  Once I finished reading all of his notebooks, my heart knew what to do. It was not a decision made in my mind, not something I brooded over for a long time before I came to a conclusion. It was just something I knew I had to do, not for any reward, not for myself or anyone else, but for Henry alone. I would write his story.

  I knew I would have to stay in my home country, gather more information, search through the files of all the institutions, as well as the files of the police. Emily was happy that I had decided to stay, and we had long talks during the dark winter nights that followed. She told me about her past and I began, at last, to untangle the strange web of events that had brought the three of us together all those years ago.

  My research revealed more than I could have imagined: newspaper clippings, reports, and the like, but also some unexpected pieces of information, especially when I traveled through the bleak countryside where the Home of Lesser Brethren had once stood in the midst of the lava field. The people in the district were more than willing to tell their stories about the home, where troubled boys from the city were sent. The home run by the neurotic Reverend Oswald and his charming wife, Emily. A home on the edge of the world, where the massive cliffs at Lands End were battered relentlessly by the furious waves of the North Atlantic.

  The information gave me a good overview of the period, as well as the background for many of the things that happened. But the bulk and the heart of the story come from Henry. All I’ve done, really, is put everything together in a continuous narrative.

  Henry would never have dreamed that anyone would find his life worthy of becoming a story in a book; on a shelf in a “proper home” read by “proper people,” as he would have put it. But here it is, Henry.

  Wherever you are now, dear brother, I hope you enjoy this. The boy who was once lost and alone at the edge of the world is now in the center, in a proper book, telling his own story.

  Once again, a book open in front of him, a sea of letters floating before his eyes, the sweat forming on his brow, the pain in his stomach like he’s being punched from the inside. And the whol
e class around him, holding their breath, waiting for him to read out loud, waiting to burst out laughing. But he’s not going to read. Not now or ever. He’s going to wait, like the last time and the time before that, like in the last school and the school before that. He’s going to stay silent.

  “Henry, we’re waiting,” the teacher says impatiently, a hint of threat in his voice.

  He’s not sure how this teacher will react to his silence. Shout? Wait? Sometimes they sent him out of the classroom. That’s what he’s hoping for now; that’s all he wants. To leave, so he can be alone. No more people, no more words.

  Was this school number six or seven? He wasn’t sure. Soon enough Mom would lose her job, or the apartment, and they would move again.

  Maybe it was all because of the way he looked. His tiny eyes and big nose, his small mouth with crooked teeth, his big head with a tuft of coarse red hair. And then there was his clubfoot, crumbling under his weight, as if he was falling over with every step. He had never seen anyone as ugly as himself. Nor had anybody else, it seemed.

  The kids never talked to him; they shouted. But he could never reply. And then their words turned cruel. In every school a fresh crowd of pretty boys appeared, with their sweet mouths full of wicked words. Schools taught him nothing but wicked words, to keep his mouth shut, and eventually to fight back.

  In the beginning, though, he hadn’t fought back. He took the punches and the kicks and the wicked words. He’d kept his mouth shut and his fists clenched. And he learned very quickly to hate himself, even more than everyone else seemed to hate him.

  “Where did you get that head of yours? What small eyes you’ve got! Is your mother a pig? Hey, Dog-face! Pig-face! Rat-face! What’s with your leg, Limpy?”

  No, he couldn’t fight back with words. Talking had never been easy, because he stuttered, fighting the same letter for an eternity. His tongue tripped up sounds as they made their way out.

  Back in the classroom he would wait in silence until the teacher got mad or threw him out. No matter how hard they tried, no teacher had managed to get him to utter a single word from a book, not that he could remember anyway.

  Besides, he couldn’t read. The letters swam before his eyes, changing their places in the lines, so he had to chase them around the page while his heart punched hard against his chest and sweat poured down his face. He knew them, of course, and the sounds they were supposed to make, but from his mouth they sounded wrong. His writing was clumsy and full of mistakes too, but it didn’t matter to him.

  And there would always be a new school anyway. What was the point? A fresh start, his mother called it, but it was the same for him everywhere. There was never a fresh start for him, because he couldn’t change.

  And here he was again in a new school. This time it wasn’t because Mom had lost her job or the apartment, but because he’d finally snapped. And it had made him feel better than he’d ever felt in his whole life.

  He’d been sitting alone as usual when it happened, in the corner of the playground, by the concrete wall, which was hidden from the school. The kids called it the “swear-wall” because it was covered in rude graffiti. Large, bright letters spelled out the worst words the kids could think of. Sitting here he almost felt invisible, and therefore secure, watching the kids run around the playground.

  It had been a Friday, but this Friday was different from the others, for it was his birthday. Of course nobody knew that except him. It didn’t make him feel happy, but it made him somehow softer on the inside. He remembered some good times with his mother. When she’d looked much younger, almost beautiful, and how she had smiled when she’d handed him a present. How happy she’d been seeing him so excited. Now she didn’t smile anymore. And he knew it was his fault.

  The bell rang, but he was slow to get up.

  Suddenly the playground was empty, except for a group of older boys inching toward him, laughing mockingly, looking forward to their little game with him, right behind that concrete wall, where the teachers in the staff room wouldn’t be able to see them.

  He tried to quicken his pace, but his clubfoot slowed him down. They pushed him around, mocking him. Oh, how they longed for him to cry and beg for mercy. But he swallowed the lump of fright in his throat; his eyes were dry and his mouth was shut. Even when they pulled the tuft of red hair on his monstrous head, nothing happened. He just clenched his fists and took the kicks.

  But then one of them said something about his mom. Later he couldn’t even remember what the boy had said, he just remembered this one thought, this powerful emotion rushing through him: attack!

  He rose up screaming like an animal and pounded his clenched fists into the face closest to him. He felt jawbone smashing under his thick knuckles. The boy fell to the ground, and Henry kicked him hard in the stomach, again and again with his heavy, specially made clubfoot shoe, all the time screaming at the top of his voice; a horrifying sound, like a crazy cartoon monster or a wild beast howling. The others backed away, suddenly terrified, then fled while Henry stood over his victim like a monster from hell set on devouring its prey. He felt immensely large and strong; his anger had the power of a bulldozer, his fists could go through walls.

  But the boy who he’d attacked had proper parents who demanded a meeting with the principal. Even with his jaw wired the pretty boy managed to describe in detail how Henry had attacked him for no reason at all, sweet tears streaming from his bright, innocent eyes. The other boys confirmed his story. Henry had nothing to say. He just felt extremely happy with his newfound strength. He didn’t have the rich vocabulary, the sober mind of a kid from a proper home with proper parents, to describe the event from his point of view. And he didn’t care. His fists had spoken. He smiled a little without meaning to, a feeling of contentment within, but it looked like a malicious grin to the principal and the parents. Henry was the guilty one. And it felt immensely good.

  After that they’d moved to another part of town. And now he was here, at another school, and he wasn’t going to give anyone the pleasure of mocking him because of his stuttering speech. No, he was going to endure in silence until the teacher threw him out.

  Then a day came when Henry really exploded, and did the most horrible thing.

  He was brought to an institution, a short-term center for young criminals, junkies and the like, for them to decide where to send him next. His room was locked at night and he spent his days in the psychologist’s office.

  Sitting for two hours every day with the psychologist was actually rather pleasant. Henry was relieved that the psychologist called him only by his first name, instead of using the whole row of names he was christened by, the names his mom had chosen for him to suffer under: Henry William Richard Charles.

  She’d said these were the names of his fathers, but even he knew that a person could only have one father. Maybe she wasn’t sure herself who his father was. There had been so many men: staying for a while, but then leaving suddenly. None of them kind, all of them ugly. Sometimes he hated her for her stupidity and ignorance, her vulnerability, her lack of strength, how fragile she was, how lonely and so utterly lost, sobbing quietly in her troubled dreams in the night, like a child that’s been unjustly punished.

  But when she was awake, she never shed a tear. When he was still small enough for her to scold him for something he’d done, she said that crying wouldn’t change a thing.

  “Life is as it is and crying won’t make it better,” she said. “Never let me see you cry again. It’s useless.”

  That’s about the only thing he learned from her: not to cry.

  But he didn’t tell the psychologist about that. The guy tried to be nice and friendly, but he was impatient: he wanted answers. When he asked Henry to explain why he did this or why he hadn’t done that, his voice was calm enough, but his eyes pressed him for an answer.

  “So, tell me, Henry; why did you attack your mother? Take your time. There’s no hurry.”

  It was such a simple question, but
there was no simple answer.

  She had been pleading with him to behave in school, never again to fight back. “I’m too tired to move again,” she’d said. “Soon I’ll be too old to get a decent job anywhere; you don’t want your mother to be a cleaner in her old age, now, do you?”

  He didn’t. So he promised to behave, no matter what, promised to take the beatings and the insults so they would never have to move again.

  At first he thought it would be easy; after all, that’s what he’d done most of his life. But now he had changed; he’d found his strength and experienced the joy of victory.

  When he lay still in the darkness of his room at night, he could hear their dark, threatening voices echo in his head, accompanied by the distant laughter and happy, playful sounds of the schoolyard in the background. He felt a pain in his stomach and an uncontrollable tingling in his legs, like he needed to run, very fast, very far.

  But he couldn’t run because of his clubfoot, and he couldn’t fight back because of his promise. Week by week, a dark power grew steadily inside him. And, slowly but surely, it began to turn against his mom.

  After all, she had denied him the pleasure of fighting back, now of all times, when he knew that he could crush his enemies. Now she made him promise to do nothing.

  Eventually, the evening came when she had to pay the price for bringing him into this world. Later he couldn’t recall what triggered it — her whining voice, her frail body hunched over the kitchen sink, the lousy food on the table in front of him. Maybe all of this and then some other things as well, darker things, distant memories from childhood, bottled up inside him, ready to explode.

  He remembered throwing the table over and smashing a wooden chair against the kitchen wall. He remembered the terror in her eyes. She tried to grab his hands to hold him still, push him into a chair; she shouted for him to stop it. But he caught her by the arm, twitching it hard so it snapped, fragile as a bird’s bone. She fell on the floor, screaming in pain, and then he was scared.