were, they could be horrifying, too.
There was something dreadful in the colors, something alien and bestial and
terrifying that wanted him, that was trying to find him, and he knew that he
didn’t want to be found. He would hide himself amid the colors and they would
cluster thick around him and the fear would go away, leaving him again at peace
to play and dance along the rainbow.
He had once seen a face, a woman’s face, made out of the colors. The face
looked upon him with such love and understanding that he reached out his hand
to touch hers and another hand, like his, reached out of the colors to him.
The face splintered. Sharp fragments of pain lanced his mind, so that the
colors could not protect him. Everything went dark— a cool and soothing
darkness. For a long time, he’d been afraid to leave. And then a mote of
vibrant orange flitted into this darkness, and with it new-leaf green and
goldfinch yellow, and the colors enticed him out once again to play. He did not
see the face or the hand again.
He sometimes heard voices from the world outside, a world that was gray and
colorless compared with his world. He had once listened to the voices, but now
they grew more remote and distant every day. He had long ago forgotten what it
was to touch an object, to taste food, or smell a flower. His mind brought to
him the only world he wanted, the only world in which he was happy.
He looked on the vibrant, sparkling, dazzling
colors and he knew that one day, very soon, he would dissolve into a drop of
rainbow brilliance and shine brightly among them for a single breathless
moment, and then fade away forever.
“He sits like that,” said Ermintrude, her voice choked with pain. “For hours
on end. Not moving. Just staring at nothing.”
“Most of the time, Marcus is quiet and docile, as he is now,” added Edward. “But
sometimes he grows violent and flings himself about and screams in terror. If
anyone tries to touch him, he goes berserk. He has hurt himself, on more than
one occasion, and hurt others in his wild frenzies.”
“He doesn’t mean to,” Ermintrude said defensively. “He doesn’t know what he’s
doing, poor lamb. Once, he tried to climb through a stone wall. His little
hands were bruised and bleeding and he broke several toes kicking at it. Two
strong manservants had to restrain him—”
“—and they came out of it looking as if they’d been battling wolves,”
finished Edward grimly. “What else could we do but lock the child up? We feared
one day he might throw himself off the parapet or seriously injure someone and
then we could not keep the matter quiet.”
“He will no longer eat, Draconas,” said Ermintrude. “We have been feeding
him as one would feed a babe, and he used to take food willingly, though it was
plain he had no care what he was given, and would have eaten sawdust as readily
as chocolate. But now, he turns his head away or spits it out. He grows thinner
every day and I fear ... I fear . . .”
She could say no more, but clasped tight hold of Edward’s hand. Her tears
fell silently, unchecked, down her cheeks.
“Marcus will die of starvation,” said Edward bluntly. “Unless we can find
some way to reach him.”
Draconas looked through a small window set in the heavy wooden door to see a
six-year-old boy, sitting on a stool in the middle of the turret room, staring
at nothing. His too-thin arms rested on spindly legs. His hands hung flaccid.
He sat quite still. The only part of him that moved was his wide-open eyes, and
they roved constantly, shifting from one point to another, bright with awe and
wonder. He had bruises on his wrists. His caretaker was forced to bind his
hands in order to feed him.
The boy was kept as clean as they could manage, for he took no care of
himself. The woman who had nursed him as a child tended to his needs. She
remained in the room with him constantly, watching over him, cleaning him and
feeding him, making certain he did not
There was something dreadful in the colors, something alien and bestial and
terrifying that wanted him, that was trying to find him, and he knew that he
didn’t want to be found. He would hide himself amid the colors and they would
cluster thick around him and the fear would go away, leaving him again at peace
to play and dance along the rainbow.
He had once seen a face, a woman’s face, made out of the colors. The face
looked upon him with such love and understanding that he reached out his hand
to touch hers and another hand, like his, reached out of the colors to him.
The face splintered. Sharp fragments of pain lanced his mind, so that the
colors could not protect him. Everything went dark— a cool and soothing
darkness. For a long time, he’d been afraid to leave. And then a mote of
vibrant orange flitted into this darkness, and with it new-leaf green and
goldfinch yellow, and the colors enticed him out once again to play. He did not
see the face or the hand again.
He sometimes heard voices from the world outside, a world that was gray and
colorless compared with his world. He had once listened to the voices, but now
they grew more remote and distant every day. He had long ago forgotten what it
was to touch an object, to taste food, or smell a flower. His mind brought to
him the only world he wanted, the only world in which he was happy.
He looked on the vibrant, sparkling, dazzling
colors and he knew that one day, very soon, he would dissolve into a drop of
rainbow brilliance and shine brightly among them for a single breathless
moment, and then fade away forever.
“He sits like that,” said Ermintrude, her voice choked with pain. “For hours
on end. Not moving. Just staring at nothing.”
“Most of the time, Marcus is quiet and docile, as he is now,” added Edward. “But
sometimes he grows violent and flings himself about and screams in terror. If
anyone tries to touch him, he goes berserk. He has hurt himself, on more than
one occasion, and hurt others in his wild frenzies.”
“He doesn’t mean to,” Ermintrude said defensively. “He doesn’t know what he’s
doing, poor lamb. Once, he tried to climb through a stone wall. His little
hands were bruised and bleeding and he broke several toes kicking at it. Two
strong manservants had to restrain him—”
“—and they came out of it looking as if they’d been battling wolves,”
finished Edward grimly. “What else could we do but lock the child up? We feared
one day he might throw himself off the parapet or seriously injure someone and
then we could not keep the matter quiet.”
“He will no longer eat, Draconas,” said Ermintrude. “We have been feeding
him as one would feed a babe, and he used to take food willingly, though it was
plain he had no care what he was given, and would have eaten sawdust as readily
as chocolate. But now, he turns his head away or spits it out. He grows thinner
every day and I fear ... I fear . . .”
She could say no more, but clasped tight hold of Edward’s hand. Her tears
fell silently, unchecked, down her cheeks.
“Marcus will die of starvation,” said Edward bluntly. “Unless we can find
some way to reach him.”
Draconas looked through a small window set in the heavy wooden door to see a
six-year-old boy, sitting on a stool in the middle of the turret room, staring
at nothing. His too-thin arms rested on spindly legs. His hands hung flaccid.
He sat quite still. The only part of him that moved was his wide-open eyes, and
they roved constantly, shifting from one point to another, bright with awe and
wonder. He had bruises on his wrists. His caretaker was forced to bind his
hands in order to feed him.
The boy was kept as clean as they could manage, for he took no care of
himself. The woman who had nursed him as a child tended to his needs. She
remained in the room with him constantly, watching over him, cleaning him and
feeding him, making certain he did not
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