Mastro / 45 years ago
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“Mama... mama…”
The four-year-old boy wanders through the house. Once, it must have been a beautiful Victorian building, but now it has been devoured by time, like a gnawed bone discarded by a giant dog. The wallpaper is peeling, the floorboards are broken or missing, and half of the staircase railing lies somewhere in the garden along with other broken furniture. “Mama, mama, Can I go and play outside?”
He climbs the stairs, carefully avoiding a hole in the landing, and tries to reach the short string dangling from the ceiling. He knows that pulling that string will open the trapdoor leading to the attic. But he’s not tall enough. He can’t reach it. He never can. The failure makes him feel discouraged and angry.
“Mama?!”
Finally, he hears slow, stumbling movements above his head, followed by the soft voice of his mother through the trapdoor.
“Sorry, Pooh-bear. I know this isn’t fun, but I can’t come down right now. I have to finish something. It will take a while, I’m afraid. Try to read something. You’re such a smart boy—so young and already reading books. Can you do that, Charlie? For me? But don’t go outside, dear. Stay in.” For a moment, he feels the urge to argue with her, but then his shoulders drop. "Okay, Mum."
He’s bored. He’s bored a lot. His mother has been locking herself away more and more these past months—sometimes for days at a time, sometimes four or five. She’s researching something, but she never tells him what. Something important—at least to her, he thinks wryly. On those days, he feels alone and abandoned, making his own sandwiches for dinner—if there’s even bread in the house.
Sometimes, he wants to tell her how much he misses her and that she should spend more time with him—maybe play a board game, or finally teach him chess like she promised months ago. But every time she climbs down from the attic, she looks so pale, frail and vulnerable that his plan to confront her dissolves like snow under the summer sun. Sometimes, she looks so worn out that he’s afraid she might break in two just from gravity pulling at her.
He knows he’s not supposed to see her like that, because as soon as she notices him, she immediately straightens her back and gives him such a brave smile that from that moment on all he wants to do is help her.
His mother is, without competition, the sweetest person in the whole world and he just can’t stand it when the kids in his class make fun of her. They don’t even know her. They should feel her hand on their foreheads and experience the warmth spreading through their bodies, taking away all pain. They would speak differently if they knew how kind and patient she is.
He despises stupidity. That’s why he’s vowed to himself that he will learn everything—everything in the whole world—until he knows it all. It’s why he’s so determined to learn how to read—not when they teach it in school, but now. And he will.
Their house may be useless in many ways, but it’s perfect for learning to read. There are books everywhere. The cupboards are crammed with books, the supply closets overflow with books, the drawers are packed with books, and even the wardrobes are stuffed with them. There are books in the toilet and even in the oven. Most parts of the house are hard to access because the corridors and staircases are blocked by towering stacks of books.
His own room, however, is completely book-free. It’s a young boy’s room, exactly as it’s supposed to be, with a cheerful, colorful lamp hanging from the ceiling and plenty of second-hand toys. But he doesn’t want to play with toys; he wants to read. Now, with his mother locked up in the attic for the third consecutive day, he wanders into her bedroom. He climbs onto her bed so he can catch her scent, but it’s almost gone by now. He sighs, lets himself roll off the bed, lands on the floorboards with a dull thud and stays exactly as he landed until his nose, pressed against the floor, starts to hurt. Still, he doesn’t get up. He merely turns his head to the side, gazing vacantly into the darkness beneath the bed.
But then, his eyes are drawn to something glowing faintly. At first, he doesn't understand what it is, but gradually realizes they are letters—big, bright, golden letters that glow brighter and brighter the longer he stares.
A wave of excitement washes over him. He edges his arm between the bed and the floor, but the gap is too narrow, and his arm is too short. He presses harder. The skin on his arm pulls tight and starts to hurt. The nail of his middle finger scratches the back of whatever it is, but he still can’t get a grip on it.
Frustrated, he rises to his feet, strides decisively to the hall closet, grabs a broom, and marches back to the bed. After several tries, he manages to wedge the broom handle behind the object, but the awkward angle makes it hard to drag it toward him. Sweat beads on his forehead, soaking his shirt. Time and again, the handle slips away, but at last, centimeter by centimeter, he coaxes the object close enough to grip the edge of the cover with two fingertips. Slowly, painstakingly, he pulls it out from beneath the bed.
Satisfied with his small victory, he leans back against the bed and pulls the heavy book onto his legs. Now, finally getting a good look at it, he rubs his eyes in disbelief. The golden letters on the cover seem to move. How could that be? No, he isn’t imagining it—they really are moving. Trying to steady his breathing and ignore the excited flutter in his stomach he opens the book somewhere in the middle. His eyes eagerly scan the pages. There are illustrations—intriguing ones—but they don’t hold his interest. Only wanting to read, his focus is drawn to the right-hand page, where just two words are printed in bold, robust, old-fashioned letters, begging to be understood. He knows he can do it; he only needs to concentrate.
He bites his lip and places his index finger under the first letter, just like he has seen his mother do so many times. Carefully, his mouth forms the letters: "D... E... L..." With each letter, his confidence grows. "O... K... I... D-e-l-o-k-i," he says softly to himself. Strange word, he thinks, never heard of it before. For a moment, he’s afraid he might have made a mistake, but then he resolutely shakes his head. No, he’s sure he got it right. He can read. Of course he can. He rubs his nose and starts on the second word. "K... O... R... P... O..."
He did it! He wants to run to his mother and show her what he’s accomplished. She’ll be so proud. But first, he wants to practice pronouncing the words one more time out loud before showing her: "Deloki Korpo."
The moment the sound of the last letter fades on his lips and his mouth curls into a proud smile, a powerful force grabs hold of him around his navel, yanking him backward. He accelerates so quickly that his intestines feel like they’re crawling up toward his mouth, desperate to escape his body. His skin burns. He’s moving so fast that everything around him blurs into a chaotic whirl of unrecognizable flashes. Some part of his brain wonders why he hasn’t smashed into the bedroom wall, but the larger part of him is consumed by panic.
And then, without warning, it stops. The motion ceases. His feet find solid ground again, his intestines settle back into place, and his vision sharpens. It should have been reassuring. But when he looks around, all the air is forced from his lungs out of pure shock and astonishment.
He’s standing at the crossroads where two narrow roads meet just outside their village. He knows this place. It’s one of his mother’s favorite spots for gathering flowers and herbs. Sometimes he helps her. He loves those moments. But... how did he end up here now? Only seconds ago, he was sitting in his mother’s bedroom with a heavy book on his lap.
A loud scream behind him makes him spin around.
“Dad, Dad, look... She wasn’t here... a moment ago... Dad... there was nobody!” The boy, not much older than eight, stares at him wide-eyed and shocked. His father’s eyes are also wide open, but there’s no fear in them—only disbelief.
“Nonsense, boy. He must have been hiding in the grass all this time. A prank to startle us.” But as he speaks, his eyes shift to the verge of the road where the grass isn’t even tall enough to conceal a big mouse. Slowly his gaze changes—from disbelief to fear, to anger, to hate. The boy knows this all too well, he has seen this happen many times before.
“You’re that witch’s kid, aren’t you?”
“My mother is not a witch. My mother is the sweetest of all,” the small boy shoots back. Defending his mother has become second nature. Gossip about her has always swirled, but it’s grown worse since his father’s unexpected death two years ago. It drives him crazy. He just can’t let it go unchallenged—no matter the consequences. Not even though his mother has begged him countless times not to.
Abruptly the farmer turns around and walks away. "Come, son, we have to go back." His son hesitates for a moment but then quickly follows. That exact moment, the four-year-old boy realizes that this incident will have devastating consequences and only after they’ve disappeared around the bend does he begin the long, lonely walk home.