O NE DAY IN THE VILLAGE OF L ACAUNE , a couple of peasants returned from the woods with a strange story. They’d seen a naked boy crouched on the forest floor, his hands digging through the leaves for something to eat. They’d watched, curious. But they hadn’t caught him.
So the wild boy’s life in the woods went on.
In the mornings, he could watch as mist gathered in the mountain valleys before it faded in the sunlight. He could listen to rain pattering on the tree leaves. He could wake from sleep to see the round moon filling the night woods with light and shadows. A whole year passed as it always did in the forest.
Until one day, when the wild boy was about ten . . .
A group of woodsmen spotted him, and somehow, they caught him. He fought and bit, but it did no good. They took him to Lacaune and led him to the town square. It was paved with river rocks, bumpy beneath the wild boy’s bare feet. At its center, an ancient fountain splashed. All around, the tall houses of village merchants made a wall that blocked out the mountains.
Villagers gathered around the wild boy, jabbering in words he didn’t understand. Women washing their laundry in the stone troughs nearby set it aside and hurried over to see.
No one alive today knows the details of what happened next — whether the woodsmen kept a rope around the wild boy’s neck or tied his hands behind his back. No one knows if that night, they took him somewhere to sleep or left him in the square, tied and helpless. But every day, he was forced to stand, hour after hour, for everyone to see.
And maybe it was then that the wild boy began to hate the staring eyes of crowds.
But at last (exactly how, no one knows) he got loose. He ran for the forest and was free again.
His time as a prisoner had taught him something, though: where there were people, there was food.
Now sometimes when he was hungry, he visited the farm fields on the edge of the village. With the safety of the forest behind him, he dug for potatoes and turnips. Sometimes he carried them back into the woods. Other times he ate them where he stood.
When autumn came, the ferns on the forest floor withered to brown. The trees turned red and gold. Soon frost would touch the fields with white and the first snowflakes would swirl from the sky, but the wild boy could live through winter in the forest.
He’d done it for a long time.
The snow melted, and in the pale sunlight, wildflowers bloomed on the forest floor. The oaks and beeches put on their new leaves. Summer came, and the forest was shady again, dense and deep.
On July 25, 1799, when the wild boy was around eleven years old, he was captured again.
This time, it was three hunters who spotted him, and perhaps they had dogs, for the wild boy climbed a tree. The hunters caught him anyway, tied him up tight, and marched him down the mountain to Lacaune.
And this time, he wasn’t put on display. Instead, the hunters took him to stay with a poor old widow who lived in a little cottage just behind the Lacaune village square.
Why they chose her, no one knows. Perhaps she was the only one in the village who would take in a strange, wild boy.
Stories told later said she made him wear a shirt to cover his nakedness, but if she did, it couldn’t have been easy, for the wild boy
hated
clothes. Perhaps she was a gentle, patient person who was kind to him and he wore a shirt to please her. Or maybe the hunters forced the scratching, biting boy into a shirt he couldn’t get off. The peasants’ stories offer no clues.
They do say the widow seemed to like the wild boy.
She offered him meat, both raw and cooked in an iron pot over the fire, but he wouldn’t eat it. When she gave him acorns, he sniffed them first, then ate them. After sniffing them, he ate chestnuts, walnuts, and potatoes, too.
The walls of the widow’s cottage, like the other cottages in Lacaune, were made of stone. Dim light came through the tiny windows.
Maybe once — so long
So the wild boy’s life in the woods went on.
In the mornings, he could watch as mist gathered in the mountain valleys before it faded in the sunlight. He could listen to rain pattering on the tree leaves. He could wake from sleep to see the round moon filling the night woods with light and shadows. A whole year passed as it always did in the forest.
Until one day, when the wild boy was about ten . . .
A group of woodsmen spotted him, and somehow, they caught him. He fought and bit, but it did no good. They took him to Lacaune and led him to the town square. It was paved with river rocks, bumpy beneath the wild boy’s bare feet. At its center, an ancient fountain splashed. All around, the tall houses of village merchants made a wall that blocked out the mountains.
Villagers gathered around the wild boy, jabbering in words he didn’t understand. Women washing their laundry in the stone troughs nearby set it aside and hurried over to see.
No one alive today knows the details of what happened next — whether the woodsmen kept a rope around the wild boy’s neck or tied his hands behind his back. No one knows if that night, they took him somewhere to sleep or left him in the square, tied and helpless. But every day, he was forced to stand, hour after hour, for everyone to see.
And maybe it was then that the wild boy began to hate the staring eyes of crowds.
But at last (exactly how, no one knows) he got loose. He ran for the forest and was free again.
His time as a prisoner had taught him something, though: where there were people, there was food.
Now sometimes when he was hungry, he visited the farm fields on the edge of the village. With the safety of the forest behind him, he dug for potatoes and turnips. Sometimes he carried them back into the woods. Other times he ate them where he stood.
When autumn came, the ferns on the forest floor withered to brown. The trees turned red and gold. Soon frost would touch the fields with white and the first snowflakes would swirl from the sky, but the wild boy could live through winter in the forest.
He’d done it for a long time.
The snow melted, and in the pale sunlight, wildflowers bloomed on the forest floor. The oaks and beeches put on their new leaves. Summer came, and the forest was shady again, dense and deep.
On July 25, 1799, when the wild boy was around eleven years old, he was captured again.
This time, it was three hunters who spotted him, and perhaps they had dogs, for the wild boy climbed a tree. The hunters caught him anyway, tied him up tight, and marched him down the mountain to Lacaune.
And this time, he wasn’t put on display. Instead, the hunters took him to stay with a poor old widow who lived in a little cottage just behind the Lacaune village square.
Why they chose her, no one knows. Perhaps she was the only one in the village who would take in a strange, wild boy.
Stories told later said she made him wear a shirt to cover his nakedness, but if she did, it couldn’t have been easy, for the wild boy
hated
clothes. Perhaps she was a gentle, patient person who was kind to him and he wore a shirt to please her. Or maybe the hunters forced the scratching, biting boy into a shirt he couldn’t get off. The peasants’ stories offer no clues.
They do say the widow seemed to like the wild boy.
She offered him meat, both raw and cooked in an iron pot over the fire, but he wouldn’t eat it. When she gave him acorns, he sniffed them first, then ate them. After sniffing them, he ate chestnuts, walnuts, and potatoes, too.
The walls of the widow’s cottage, like the other cottages in Lacaune, were made of stone. Dim light came through the tiny windows.
Maybe once — so long
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