The Boy and the Animal

Part I | Nine

The Summer reached its boiling point, then cooled into the fall. The blue sky melted into the sleepy gray of clouds that never quite teared, the green of the trees and fields drying into their warm reds, oranges, and browns. Soon, the smell of steaming pumpkin pie and corn and roasted treats replaced the summer scent of heat.

While the outside world changed, so did life in the basement for the boy and I. By the middle of the mild season, he no longer growled at me. He was much more obedient, even staying in the basement when I would leave, and it seemed that when I returned from visiting my mother and sister he would be excited to see me. I could come closer to him, give him light touches.

I couldn't even begin to describe the joy that came with seeing the way he warmed to me. My heart swelled more and more each day with every pet and shared eye contact and conversation. That's right, conversation. He couldn't by any means speak, and I was sure he didn't really understand me, but we spoke to each other.

It was routine since the beginning to find me talking to him about meager things and the state of affairs in the empire, but sometime along the way, he stopped growling in response and began mewing- almost as if he was trying to imitate my words.

The sounds that he made were difficult to describe, but they were sweet little mews and sounds that were very much intentional. Of course, I couldn't make out anything intelligible, even when I prompted him to copy the sounds I made; still, it was a promising sign that never ceased to give me elation. Perhaps one day he would learn to speak, and...

Every implication of that possibility overwhelmed me. If he could speak, if we could understand one another, that would open up so many more avenues. He could tell me his story, what I needed to do to make him happy, maybe even become settled into society.

If I dawdled on it too long, though, I would get ahead of myself. As it were, he wasn't ready for any of that. Yet that wasn't to say we weren't communicating at all. There were times, when I would read to him or drift off to sleep, that he would crawl over and sit close to me. It was those moments, and the times he spoke and locked eyes with me, that I felt as though I was in his mind.

His speech still had to start somewhere, and that was where I found myself one day in midautumn when the trees were barren.

"Cy-rus," I articulated to the boy as we sat in front of each other, pointing to myself. He gave me a blank look and turned away from me to play with the spoon I had given him a few days ago. I snapped my fingers to get his attention back. "Cyrus," I said again. He blew air through his nose.

Just my luck, I thought. Up until then, I had named simple things like 'wall' and 'cow', and he seemed to grasp their names as he would look at them when I would speak about the objects. My name was a different story. He had absolutely no interest in knowing what I was called- as opposed to the dirt and cotton and sticks he would put in my hand to name for him.

I sighed and let him off to fumble with things as he wanted. It had been a hope of mine that he would at least know the name of the man who dedicated now four months of his life to him. I perked up. Thinking that, I had just realized something: I didn't know his name, either. A smile curved on my lips.

A name, huh?

Names, to me and mine, were special. They were something that you would carry with you for the rest of your life, something that would fill your pockets when gold didn't. LaBane carried weight in the city, hoisted on the mast of tall tales and war triumphs, hearty and obdurate.

Cyrus came from the name of my father's blade that he'd carried with him through The Death War. Dark came my mother's visions that she'd had while she was pregnant. In a family whose luck only seemed to worsen every generation, a name was everything we had, and I had to be sure to give him that honor.

I felt a bit like a father.

"Hey," I called. At the sound, the boy's ears twitched, and he glanced over at me. I reached a slow hand out to touch his forehead, the warmth of which he closed his eyes to. "Jesiter."

When I withdrew my hand, the boy opened his eyes again and looked away. It was a different preoccupation this time; whereas he would ignore my name, the boy- Jesiter- seemed to be taking in his own. He was tasting it in his mouth, passing it from place to place in his mind. Then, he looked up at me and mewed. My chest swelled until I was oozing adoration.

Jesiter.

It was the name of someone I once knew some time ago. There was no stronger, more dependable name that I could think of to carry him.

With that, Jesiter grabbed my hand and knocked on my palm with his hand. I chuckled and nodded, standing from the floor; he was hungry, and so was I, so I supposed it was time to fetch us something from the kitchen.

Now that the boy was more obedient, my brother refused to cook for me any longer, and I was charged with the inhuman task of working the stove- someone like me! I always thought I'd end up serving in the empress's harem, maybe even a respectable brothelman, but never did I think I'd have to cook for myself. My brother was a cruel man.

Actual, the more I thought about it as I placed a pot of potatoes and leeks over the fire, the more I realized how strained our living situation was becoming. Dark hated Jesiter, and he made that clear everyday. He was growing tired of having us in his basement, to the point that lately he'd been suggesting places the boy should go.

But Jesiter couldn't go anywhere- especially not to a reserve. He was lost on his own. He needed me.

Right?