Boy on the Edge Read online

  He limped all through the night, around the docks, hitting and kicking everything in his path. Cursing, hissing, growling, banging his fists furiously on the rough concrete walls until his knuckles bled. He was terrified of the anger boiling inside of him. It had taken control of him, possessed him like the devil.

  During the night he hid in an old, wrecked car in the junkyard, right next to the docks. When morning came he didn’t dare go home. He dragged himself to school, perhaps hoping that when he came home in the afternoon, everything would be back to normal, somehow; that it had just been a bad dream.

  When he arrived in the schoolyard everyone was already inside. The bell had rung for the last time, so he sat down in the playground. The windows were full of curious faces looking at him, their mouths moving fast, their eyes wide with terror. Maybe everyone already knew what he had done. But he really didn’t care what happened next.

  The police arrived to pick him up and he went with them willingly. He went to the station, where they took his photograph and fingerprints. Then he was brought to this place, this institution for young criminals, and he spent his days sitting with the nice psychologist who did most of the talking to begin with. But then the psychologist expected Henry to give some answers, and there were no easy answers to his questions.

  The guy tapped his fingers on his writing pad. Henry sighed and finally came up with an answer he imagined the psychologist would like.

  “I’m evil.”

  The man just nodded. A few days later he’d finished his report. He didn’t declare Henry retarded, not in the strict clinical sense of the word. He wrote that the boy obviously had difficulties expressing himself, but seemed to understand much more than he was able to express.

  Henry has been a victim of bullying for a long time, and this has seriously affected his social skills. He does not mix well with other children and has limited linguistic abilities. Bullying and neglect seem to have colluded to give Henry low self-esteem and the impression that he is evil. This conflict of comprehension, without the skills for expression, perhaps explains his violent outbursts of uncontrollable rage.

  One day the warden told Henry he had a visitor. He was hoping it was Mom, but when the warden led him into the visiting room he saw a man in a gray suit, sitting at the table.

  He stared at Henry for a long time, with a kind smile. “Henry, your mother can’t care for you anymore.” He waited again, maybe hoping for a reaction. “Do you understand what that means?”

  Henry nodded.

  “The state will take care of all your needs now.”

  Then he told Henry he was going to be sent to a lovely home in the beautiful countryside, where so many boys had become better men through the years.

  “It’s called the Home of Lesser Brethren.” He smiled. “It’s a proper farm, run by a good Christian couple,” he said, reading from a paper in his hands. “And they have lovely animals there,” he added. “Sheep, I believe — and cows even! I’m sure you’ll feel much better there,” he said warmly, his eyes glowing with sincerity.

  He talked about the freedom of the countryside, the beautiful scenery, the peace and the quiet. He made it sound as if he regretted terribly that he couldn’t go there himself, as if Henry should be counting his lucky stars that he’d gotten this opportunity, as if he was being rewarded. But Henry knew he was being sent away because he was trouble, because he was evil; he was being sent to the edge of the world so nobody would have to worry about him anymore.

  Henry had been staring through the window for two hours, but the landscape hadn’t changed since the bus had left the city behind. It had rained constantly; the sky was dark and gray. Black, brown, and gray slabs of lava stretched out as far as the eye could see. Occasionally there were heaps of huge boulders, like ruins of an ancient city. But no human hand had made this landscape; the whole peninsula had been formed by volcanic eruptions in ages past, the government official by his side told him, eager to explain the geological wonder that surrounded them.

  “Imagine,” he said with wide eyes, “layer upon layer of red-hot lava gushing up from the bowels of the earth, flowing over everything in its path, until it cooled down, enough to slow to a stop. Then, years later, tiny shrubs of vegetation took root. The moss is a stubborn thing.” He gave Henry a knowing smile. “It doesn’t give up easily. Though storms and rain threaten to wash it away, green or yellow or gray, the moss is the only organism that has truly conquered the lava,” he concluded with a proud look on his face, like he was responsible for this remarkably talented plant.

  Henry breathed on the window, hoping the man had finished. He felt terrible, like he was about to explode. He missed his mom. He’d never been away from her before, and he’d barely caught a glimpse of her in the rain through the bus window as it drove off from the station. She had been too late. Too late, Mom. How could you?

  Waves of anxiety washed over him again and again, and he trembled like he was freezing. His eyes felt warm, but he forced back the tears with all his might and bit his lip so hard it bled, clenching his fists in his lap. Why had she let them send him away? He was trying hard to focus on something, anything, but the blabbering official made it impossible. Finally he fixed his eyes on the bus driver, trying to imagine himself behind the steering wheel. It looked easy enough; perhaps that would be the perfect job for him some day.

  The official continued, “Eventually, birds bring seeds with their droppings; thick short grass finds shelter between the boulders; tiny flowers decorate the vast desert with their colorful little faces. And then the insects arrive. Age after age, a thin layer of soil will form and the occasional birch tree will have the courage to grow into a tangled shrub. Heather, angelica, and fern bring the finishing touches to this delicate painting, which life itself has been working on for ages,” he said with a sigh and a smile.

  In his mind, Henry grabbed the man’s throat with both hands and squeezed hard, hard, hard, screaming at him to shut up, shut up, shut up; then ripped his head off and threw the corpse far into his beloved lava field. Henry forced himself to close his eyes, hoping the man would think he was sleeping. But he didn’t.

  “Then, suddenly, a new eruption takes place,” he said with fresh excitement. Henry let his chin drop slowly down to his chest, feigning sleep. “Burning lava covers everything once again, poisonous sulfur fills the air, the lava flows over the hills like a waterfall, incinerating everything in its path.”

  The man paused and then finally shut up.

  Henry didn’t find the lava interesting at all; it was just ground, earth, surface. It reminded him of burned porridge, chunky, heavy, and clotted. Here and there, large rocks thrust their threatening knuckles up through the thick gray moss. In other places huge cracks cut through the surface, revealing deep crevasses, black bottomless pits, like open mouths of sleeping giants. If anyone should fall in, they’d never get back out. Maybe that was exactly what everybody hoped would happen to him.

  Finally the bus turned off the main road and eased down a crooked gravel road toward a farm.

  The buildings stood on a grassy knoll surrounded by a vast lava field, like an island of green in the middle of a stormy ocean, the black waves forever frozen in time. The farmhouse was a white, two-story concrete building with a low red roof. Around the house was a garden wall with an iron gate. Inside the wall were several trees, trying to grow tall. Across the yard there were stables: a large barn with four smaller structures facing the farmyard. West of the barn stood a garage and a smithy.

  The rain had finally eased, but the air was cold. In the middle of the yard stood a tall cairn, built of lava rocks, with a white iron cross on top. Henry noticed a small gray bird perched on it briefly, waving its long black tail, chirping. Bird and boy pondered each other for a moment.

  A tall man in a suit stepped out of the farmhouse.

  His shoes were shining as he walked across the yard. He exchanged a few words with the government official and signed some papers. Then he
turned and greeted Henry with a firm handshake.

  “And you are Henry.” He had a groomed beard and gold-rimmed glasses. “Welcome to your new home,” he said firmly. “I’m Reverend Oswald.”

  It was chilly standing outside, and Henry felt awkward. He wasn’t used to shaking hands with men in suits, not used to handshakes in general. It felt stupid. And the man’s cologne tickled his nostrils. He didn’t look like a farmer at all, in his smart suit and shiny shoes with his spicy aftershave. But then Henry had never been out of the city and had no idea what farmers looked like. And he didn’t care, didn’t care at all. He just wanted to jump back on the bus, start the engine, and drive off. The bus driver leaned against the tall cairn with a grin, gnawing the tip of his pipe, the gray smoke whirling around his head. Why was he grinning? Why was everybody so cheerful?

  “You’ll be fine,” the official said as he climbed back on the bus.

  “Yeah, you’ve come to the right place,” the driver said before he closed the doors and started the engine. But his eyes were mean; the smell of his tobacco lingered in the air, mixing with the reverend’s spicy cologne and the diesel fumes from the bus as it drove off along the dusty road. Suddenly Henry felt sick. He needed to throw up. But he didn’t. He clenched his jaw, forcing himself to hold back. His eyes searched for the small gray bird with the long black tail. But it was gone.

  Reverend Oswald patted him on the shoulder and said he would introduce him to his wife, Emily. She would help him settle in.

  Then he showed Henry into the kitchen and disappeared.

  Henry didn’t know what to expect next. A kitchen full of nasty troublemakers like himself, perhaps, ready to attack, to tear him apart with their wicked words, their clenched fists and angry shouts? Perhaps more psychologists asking more questions, questions, questions.

  But it was nothing like that.

  The sun had been bright outside, so for a few seconds the kitchen seemed utterly dark. But there was this wonderful smell he’d never smelled before, and the sound of batter being poured gently into a frying pan, where it crackled briefly in melted butter, giving off an amazing scent. And Henry realized he didn’t feel sick anymore; he just felt hunger, healthy hunger.

  The woman standing by the stove glanced over her shoulder and smiled. Her voice was soft, almost a whisper.

  “Hi, there. Come in. I’m almost finished with this one. You must be famished. Have a seat beside the stove, and I’ll get you a mug of coffee. There’s nothing like warm rye pancakes with butter, and fresh coffee after a long journey.”

  She took his hand in both of hers and bid him welcome with a warm smile on her rosy cheeks. She was slightly plump, with long auburn hair tied in a knot, and her breasts were heavy and round under her cotton blouse. Henry noticed that her big blue eyes didn’t flinch nor did her sweet smile freeze with terror when she looked at him, as so often happened when people saw him for the first time.

  Emily offered to take his jacket, with a small movement of her hands, as if he was an honored guest. She showed him where the bathroom was, if he wanted to freshen up after the bus drive. “But if I were you, I’d dive into the rye pancakes while they’re warm,” she said with a gleam in her eye. She dipped a ladle into the batter again and gently poured another portion into the frying pan.

  Henry sat in the chair by the warm stove, folded his fingers around the coffee mug, and breathed in the wondrous scent. Emily put a large chunk of butter on a pancake, spread it with a knife, and immediately the butter melted down. She cut the pancake in two and handed him the plate. “There,” she said softly. “I hope you like it.”

  The warm pancake, soaked with melted butter, tasted even better than it smelled; its softness on the tongue, the mild taste of cinnamon or herbs or something, sent a gentle shiver through him, a rush of pleasure he’d never felt. Before he knew it, he had finished the pancake, and without saying a word she buttered another one and put it on his plate.

  Emily continued her work in silence, occasionally buttering another pancake for him or offering him more coffee with only a questioning smile. He had expected questions, interrogation even, the usual treatment he’d had from new teachers in the past: What’s your favorite subject? Could you read this for me? Can you write your name? Are you always so quiet? Speak up, or you’ll get what’s coming to you!

  But maybe she wasn’t a teacher. He almost wanted to ask her. But he didn’t. This silence was far too precious to spoil it with a stupid question.

  His anxiety had melted away, just like the butter on the warm rye pancakes. He felt at peace, sitting here on the chair by the stove, coffee mug in his hand, the sweet taste in his mouth. The quiet, gentle woman went about her business in the kitchen as if he wasn’t even there, while making him feel more welcome than he’d felt anywhere.

  Henry realized he had never been in a room with another person without feeling any pressure at all. He just felt at ease, such as he had only felt occasionally, especially when he was awake in the middle of the night, safe in the darkness of his room, safe under his warm duvet, when the morning was still too far away for his anxiety to stir.

  It was a relief but so very strange at the same time; he had only just arrived, furious on the inside, frozen on the outside, like so many times before, and then suddenly this chair, the pancakes, the warm stove, the gentle woman. And he was at ease like never before, like he belonged here. Whatever happened next, he wouldn’t freak out. He was certain.

  But there were still the other boys to consider. And the reverend. Remembering the cold eyes behind the gold-rimmed glasses made Henry feel frightened all over again. Frightened, lost, and alone.

  From outside, the sound of chatter and running feet approached, and the kitchen door was flung open, so it hit the wall with a loud bang. Emily turned abruptly, staring at the two boys standing there; one sniffing because his nose was running, the other sniffing the scent of the pancakes. They were about nine years old, eleven at the most. Henry breathed in slowly, filling his lungs, preparing for the worst. He tried to sit up straight so he’d seem bigger; perhaps they were young enough to be scared of him. Suddenly they noticed him, sitting there by the stove, and their faces froze. Then he knew. They wouldn’t give him any trouble. Not yet.

  “You do not enter a house in this manner,” Emily said, without raising her voice one bit. They lowered their heads, the one with the running nose whispering, “Sorry, Miss Emily, but we just wanted to ask if . . .”

  “First you knock. Then you wait for a reply, and then you open the door, but gently, Timothy. Please.”

  “Yes, Miss Emily.”

  Timothy reached for the doorknob and left, closing the door without a sound. Then they heard a timid knock.

  “Come in,” Emily said, winking at Henry and smiling.

  Timothy opened the door.

  “Miss Emily, can Paul and me —”

  “Paul and I,” Emily corrected.

  “Can Paul and I play the organ?”

  “Of course you can,” she said. “But only one at a time. And if anybody else wants to play, they have to ask for my permission first.”

  “Yes, Miss Emily. Thank you,” they said in perfect unison, and closed the door ever so gently.

  Emily smiled. “All the other boys are around Paul and Timothy’s age. You’ll have a better chance to meet them all later; there’s no hurry. But if you feel up to it, I’d like to show you to your room now.”

  Henry breathed out slowly. He wanted to smile as well, but he was afraid she might misunderstand it and take it for a malicious grin like everybody else had always done. So he didn’t smile. Not on the outside, anyway.

  “I’ll be in the kitchen, if there’s anything you need,” she said. “Just take your time to settle in. Look around the place if you like. I’ll check on you before dinnertime.”

  Her smile lingered in the air long after she had left the room. Henry sat on his bed, breathing in the smell of clean sheets, the fresh scent of the tiny purple
flowers standing in a jar on the chest of drawers by the small window. There was a small table and a chair, a colorful rug on the wooden floor, and a couple of pictures on the wall: photographs of a sunny country somewhere, a vineyard perhaps. And there was a tiny bathroom with a shower.

  The room had been built inside the cowshed, some years ago, when they’d had a farmhand, Emily had told Henry. There was plenty of space for the cows, so a portion of the barn had been made into simple living quarters for the farmhand. The man had married a widow on a farm in the district, so now he was the farmer there, but he still helped them out from time to time, mowing the fields, moving the hay into the barn.

  “Now that you’re here,” Emily had said, “your work will be to feed the cows and clean the stalls and the dung canal. And in a couple of months they will be let out, and you’ll herd them to pasture after morning milking and get them back for the evening milking.”

  At that point a sudden spasm of anxiety had whirled around in his stomach. She must have noticed, for she told him not to worry about anything; she would teach him how to milk.

  Then she’d shown him the sheep shed. The sheep turned to the open door, wide eyed, bleating loudly, their purple tongues trembling in their open mouths. The stink of their dung was bitter and nasty.

  “The sheep, of course, will have to be fed too,” Emily said. “But pretty soon we’ll herd them up on the heath where they’ll be grazing all summer, so we don’t have to worry about them till autumn.”

  The door and the window frame in his room were painted white, the walls dark green; a pleasant color that made him somehow feel secure. The soft spicy scent of the hay in the barn tickled his nostrils a little. From the other side of the wall he heard the cows sigh and murmur to themselves, and an occasional bleat from the sheep shed, next door. A low rumbling could be heard in the distance, almost like thunder, but regular like a heartbeat.

  From the window, the vast lava field stretched as far as the eye could see. In the distance Henry caught a glimpse of columns of white foam shooting high into the air: the ocean waves exploding on the cliffs. The rumbling he’d heard was the heartbeat of the ocean. He felt tired and a little dizzy. His eyelids were heavy and the soothing rumble was like a lullaby. He rocked his body gently back and forth. Then he lay on the bed, fully clothed, and didn’t even bother to take his shoes off. He fell asleep, instantly, and slept like a babe in a crib, while the sunbeams moved ever so slowly across the colorful rug on the wooden floor.