The Wilder (The Trouble with Magic Book 1) (2 page)

The boy called Grub was literally a mess. That he could be cleaned up, Symon had little doubt. He was also certain his wounds would heal, the superficial ones at any rate. Of any mental injury the boy might have incurred, Symon wasn’t so sure; only time would tell.

He ushered his young charge into the small, stone-flagged room at the foot of the tower stairs, then crouched down and dragged a large tin bath from the dark space beneath the staircase. The room was chill, and Symon was exceedingly grateful that Grub’s stink didn’t seem quite so ripe as it had done out in the afternoon sun.

He gestured towards the bath. “D’you know what this is?”

To Symon’s surprise, the boy grinned widely. “Yes sir, but it’s a while since I had chance to use one. Always had to make do with the river.”

Partly to conceal his own grin, Symon quickly ducked back under the stairs.

His muffled voice echoed off the wooden treads. “Good, because that’s about to change.”

He emerged with four large rope-handled leather buckets. Holding them up he peered at Grub. “D’you feel strong enough to help me fetch water?”

The boy didn’t reply, simply stepped forward, took two of the buckets out of Symon’s hands, and stood waiting. Not wishing to delay any longer than was absolutely necessary, Symon hurried outside and set off down the path that led to the well behind the tower, Grub safely upwind and shuffling rapidly along behind him. Symon intended to ensure the boy was in front on the return, unless of course, the wind changed.

The slow trudge back from the well gave Symon an opportunity to study a little of Grub’s physical make-up. The boy’s long limbs carried no spare flesh, and although the shackle sores on his ankles caused him to limp a little, he moved well, broad shoulders easily bearing the burden of two full buckets. At least a head taller than Symon, the little magician estimated that if Grub was only fifteen as he guessed, then he would easily reach six feet, possibly a little more, before he stopped growing.

Just short of the door, Symon told Grub to put the buckets down. “I’ll take those in and fill the bath. You stay out here, get your clothes off, and leave them in a pile. When you come in, you’ll find soap, towels and a robe. Get yourself clean, take as long as you like, and holler when you’ve done.”

He was about to turn away, then paused as something occurred to him. “Oh! and there’s some old clothes in that chest behind the door. You might find something that fits.”

When Symon stepped outside for the second pair of buckets, he found Grub had placed his scuffed, down-at-heel boots and torn tunic carefully to one side, and was gingerly removing his ragged and grubby grey shirt. Dark bruises and angry red welts covered his shoulders, upper arms and lower back. Symon scowled but said nothing.

Grub let the shirt fall to the ground as he spoke over his shoulder. “Aren’t you afraid I’ll run away?”

Folding his hands inside his sleeves, Symon moved round to face the boy. “Not half as much as you are of doing so.”

Grub’s dark eyes glinted. Clenching his fists, he banged them together in defiance. “I aren’t afraid of anything…nor anybody.”

A light frisson brushed Symon’s skin as boy and magician regarded each other for a long moment.

The magician’s mouth curved in a knowing smile. “Then you should be, young man. You should be.”

Grub’s answering smile was cold. “Right. Now, are you going to clear off so I can get out of these stinking drawers?”

Deciding to keep his thoughts to himself, Symon picked up the buckets and returned to filling the bath. When everything was to his satisfaction, he made his way upstairs. In his spotless little kitchen, he pulled the kettle onto the hob, then returned to his comfy fireside chair, filled his pipe and lit it. Smiling to himself he settled back to wait. He didn’t have to wait long. A chortle of delight echoed up the staircase, and Symon chuckled. It was such an easy spell, heating bathwater.

Some twenty minutes later Grub called up the stairs. “Where shall I throw this dirty water?”

Symon hurried down, stopping at the bottom of the staircase to appraise the young man who stood before him. It was a complete transformation. Grub’s shoulder-length hair which Symon had thought was black, was now a rich chestnut brown, tied into a neat queue at the nape of his neck. The absence of blood and grime revealed a rather square-jawed face, deeply tanned from long hours spent outdoors. A lively intelligence lit dark eyes above a potentially infectious grin, marred only by a small chip in one of his upper front teeth.

Holding his arms wide, Grub made a quick turn on the spot. “What d’you think?”

Symon rubbed his chin, nodding his approval at the dark trousers, blue tunic and rather well worn but serviceable leather jerkin. “I think you have good taste for one of such tender years.” His brow furrowed. “Did you put some of that salve on your cuts and bruises?”

Grub nodded. “Yes. Thank you. Look!” He pulled up each sleeve of the tunic in turn and showed Symon his wrists. The angry red weals inflicted by the chafing manacles had already faded to narrow bands of pink, still conspicuous against his tanned skin.

Symon smiled and stepped forward. “Good. Now, let’s get rid of this dirty water, then we can have a cup of tea, something to eat…” He reached down and grasped the handle at one end of the bathtub, while fixing Grub with a determined look. “…and a good … long…chat.”

Grub’s face took on a sullen cast as he grasped the other handle. “I don’t think it’ll take all that long.”

Lifting his end of the tub, he gave a startled little gasp as the murky water rushed down to Symon’s end, threatening to slop over the edge and soak his robe and feet. Just in time, Grub lowered his end a little, and the water rolled lazily back along the tub in a miniature tidal wave. They exchanged relieved glances. With Grub forced into a most uncomfortable looking crouch, the two carefully carried the tub outside into the early autumn sunshine and headed for the ditch.

The bathwater disposed of, Symon indicated the well. “Draw some water, rinse out the bath and put it back under the stairs. I have one more thing to take care of, then we’ll go up.”

Grub’s old discarded clothes made a pitiful bundle, lying against the tower’s grey wall. A few carefully uttered words and a simple gesture were sufficient to ignite the soiled and tattered garments. As the smoke began to drift towards him, Symon moved upwind, just as Grub emerged from the doorway. Skirting the little bonfire, he stood beside Symon and gave him a sheepish grin.

He wrinkled his nose and his lip curled. “Paugh! they do whiff a bit, don’t they?”

The little magician’s mouth made a wry curve as he gave Grub a sidelong glance. “Just a tad, my boy; just a tad”

When nothing remained but a little heap of ash for the autumn breeze to toy with, Symon moved towards the open door. “Come on in, Grub. We’ll go up and I’ll make some tea.”

He began to lead the way up the dog-legged stairs to his comfortable living quarters at the top of his tower. Grub was about to follow, when a grey cat sidled round the edge of the open door. It gazed up at him from large amethyst eyes, blinked slowly and began to rub its face against his ankles. Crouching down, Grub gently stroked the affectionate feline’s long silky coat. The cat pushed its face into his hand and began a deep reverberating purr.

Symon gazed intently at the little scene for a moment before giving a satisfied nod. “That’s good. She doesn’t take to everyone, you know.”

He turned to climb the stairs and Grub heard the old magician say to himself, “Good, good, an excellent start.”

Abruptly ceasing its display of affection, the cat bounded up after the magician, disappearing into the semi-darkness above, leaving Grub to bring up the rear.

Nothing in his imagination had prepared the boy for Symon’s rooms, and he felt a little deflated by the absence of the anticipated crystal balls, strange devices, tall candle-sticks or piles of dusty tomes. In fact, everything looked quite ordinary, although along one wall were three long shelves filled with books and scroll cases, all neatly arranged, with not a speck of dust to be seen. A welcoming fire burned merrily below a warm-coloured stone chimney breast, hung with a selection of watercolour sketches of flowers and birds, mounted in simple wooden frames. In the opposite wall a door stood open, revealing a tiny kitchen hung about with various utensils and bundles of herbs. An assortment of brightly coloured rugs lay on the well-scrubbed plain wooden floor, and deep blue curtains hung at the single spotlessly clean window, beneath which was a comfortably upholstered window seat with scatter cushions. From this vantage point the grey cat studied Grub for a moment, then settled down and began to devote all its attention to washing its paws.

Symon ushered his young guest to a large, comfortable armchair beside the fire, then began busying himself with cups and teapot. “Well, what do you think of my little place?”

At a loss as to what to say, Grub thought for a moment, before replying with a wistful little sigh. “It’s very nice. Very… er … homely!”

The little magician inclined his head in agreement. “And that is how it should be, don’t you think? Not all magicians lurk in dark dusty rooms, surrounded by unfathomable gadgets and muttering spells and incantations night and day.”

He handed Grub a cup of curiously scented tea, then flopped with a huge sigh into the chair opposite. “Try your tea. It’s very good.”

Grub took a tentative sip. Nodding in appreciation, he took a few more sips then put his cup and saucer on a small inlaid table that stood beside his chair. He squirmed a little, looked down at his hands for a moment, then glanced at Symon from under his eyebrows.

Leaning back in his chair, Symon clasped his hands under his chin and calmly regarded the boy. “So, tell me. How did you end up with a name like Grub? I’m sure it’s not your real name, is it?”

The boy shook his head. “It’s because of the way I live, I s’pose.”

Leaning forward, he rested his elbows on his knees and began to pick at a broken fingernail. Symon waited, a circle of aromatic blue pipe-smoke wreathing his own halo of thick white hair. Personal revelations were, in his opinion, nearly always forthcoming at the behest of the one making them. Except in very special circumstances, they were best not rushed.

After a few moments, Grub raised his head and looked Symon squarely in the eye. “If you must know, my only home is on the streets. I don’t steal, mind. I live off what I can cadge or catch.”

The corner of his mouth twitched with a vestigial smile. “It was when me and my mate weren’t much more than little tackers. We see this loaded apple-tree, so I go and ask the lady if we could have some. She waves her arms about and says ‘Get away from here, you grub.’ Anyroad, my mate heard her, and the name stuck. Now it’s the only name I go by.”

Symon gave Grub an understanding nod. “I can’t imagine that it was so long ago that you’ve forgotten your true name though.”

Grub’s mouth gave a grim twist. “Oh, I know that all right.”

He leaned back in his chair and began to gaze at the flames licking round the logs in the fireplace, as if memories had rushed in and stolen his train of thought.

Symon stood up. “When did you last eat?”

Grub pulled his gaze from the fire and frowned. “Eat? Let me see. Yes. That would be the pie I shared with Legs, but I’m not sure when that was. The chunk of mouldy bread they threw at me in the gaol, well, I left that for the rats.”

Without another word, Symon scurried off to his kitchen. A short while later he returned carrying a tray laden with cold pie, sliced meat, pickles, and bread and butter, plus plates and cutlery. Grub had abandoned the fireside, and now stood at the window, peering into the gathering dusk. Placing the tray on the table, Symon went round the room lighting lamps, noticing as he passed the hearth that Grub had put a couple more logs on the fire.

He laid out plates and cutlery then called across the room. “Come and eat.”

Grub strode across to stand at the end of the table, staring at the food. He looked at Symon, then back at the food. After some hesitation, he ran his tongue over his lips and sat down.

Symon sat opposite, and held up a finger. “Hungry as you may be, try and eat slowly. If your stomach’s that empty, you could make yourself very sick.”

With a brief nod, Grub folded his hands on the edge of the table. “I’ll try. Shall I say a grace?”

Caught a little off guard, Symon put down the knife he was about to use. A grace was always said when he dined at the palace, but he hadn’t expected it from a street urchin. His estimation of Grub went up a notch. He nodded briefly, and bowed his head.

The words Grub spoke held another surprise for him. “Beloved D’ta. Bless this food, bless those who eat it, and the place wherein we eat. Thank you.”

Symon ate very little, being too caught up in contemplating the day’s unusual events, and watching Grub work his way steadily through the food. The boy ate in silence, his entire being devoted to filling his, obviously very empty, belly.

Eventually, however, he pushed back his plate, downed a half tankard of water and sat back. “That’s the best meal I’ve had in years. Thanks.”

Symon smiled and nodded. “Good. So, now you’re clean and fed, perhaps you feel up to telling me your story.” He stood up and gestured to the things on the table. “I’ll clear these away later. A seat by the fire, a cup of tea and a pipe, is what’s called for now.”