‘This is the chamber pot. This is the cabinet.’
Lispeth was fourteen, the same age as Jacob. She shared an understanding with the other servants that their lord Villiam was an ill person, a man who had never grown out of childhood, who would die early because of his underdeveloped strength, and whom they were glad was not vindictive or ambitious. The servants were especially grateful to be at the manor during the drought. The guards who patrolled the village occasionally brought back stories of suicides, madness, blasphemy. They said that the bandits were watching from the hills, that Villiam had instructed the guards to stand down if the bandits came, to let the bandits finish the villagers off, because why not—he could repopulate easily once the rains returned. ‘He just wants us around to protect the manor,’ was what the guards said. Klarek kept them ignorant of Villiam’s real rapport with the bandits.
Marek and Villiam chatted now as Clod drew their portraits. Marek was asked to report his dreams to Villiam every morning, and he was smart enough to withhold anything that might give rise to stress. For instance, he had dreamt one night that bandits had stormed the manor and hanged Villiam by a rope from the chandelier in the great hall. He dreamt of Jacob’s broken body coming back to life, shooting at rabbits and eating them, fur and all, as he walked purposefully into a lake of fire. The dreams he did share with Villiam were more playful. ‘I dreamt there was a bird that had a voice like a man, and he would say everything a man would think but never say.’
‘What did he say?’
‘I love poop,’ Marek said.
Villiam thought that was rather tame.
‘How about “I’d like to cover my testicles in custard and have the servants clean me with their tongues?” Yes. What a nasty little bird!’
‘Very funny,’ Marek said.
‘What else, Marek?’ Villiam asked.
‘I’d like to marry my grandma.’
‘Disgusting!’
‘Then my father would be my son.’
‘That’s very clever. Who would be in charge?’
‘I think it would be confusing,’ said Father Barnabas, entering with a yawn.
‘For the father or the son?’
‘Exactly.’
Villiam preferred Marek’s face to Jacob’s: it was narrow and fleshy, funny, the nose was crooked and limp, his lips moved like a fish when he spoke. His red hair was unnatural, a joke color, Villiam thought. He turned to look at the boy, his new son, and petted him affectionately on his lopsided cheek. The boy’s face had healed since he’d come to the manor, his jaw a little asymmetrical, his bottom lip scarred with a white line where it had split and seamed itself. He looked more confident in his body now that he had more flesh, almost portly. Villiam admired this in him. It made the boy look as spoiled and rich as he now was. Villiam wished he could be portly, too. ‘You’re a good son,’ he said to Marek as he patted his hand.
This kind of sweetness was what gave Marek the faith and courage to adapt to his new life. He had never been treated so nicely by anyone. Even Ina had been withholding, always a bit rude, as if nursing him were a sacrifice she made out of pity, rather than care. Villiam actually seemed to enjoy Marek’s company, his strangeness and funniness. Marek grew less compulsive about his fear of God. As Villiam was powerful and unafraid, Marek believed that pleasing Villiam was akin to pleasing God. And Father Barnabas always agreed with whatever Villiam said.
‘When the drought is over, we’ll invite more northerners to live here. Lapvonians are all too serious and dark-haired anyway. Don’t you think, Father?’
‘That’s true. They’re stern, ugly people. Some more lightness wouldn’t hurt.’
‘And maybe some red-haired children will add to the fun,’ Villiam elbowed Marek in the ribs. ‘If there are any pretty young girls looking for a roll in the hay. You like hay, don’t you, Marek?’
‘Hay is itchy,’ he said, and Villiam frowned. So Marek corrected himself. ‘And I like to itch.’
‘There he is, the little wolf. I bet you’d like to sink your teeth into Lispeth, too.’
Lispeth had been sitting in the corner, listening to the entire exchange, as was Clod, who had put away his drawing materials when the priest arrived.
‘Oh no,’ Marek said, looking at Lispeth and then the empty face of the priest, who, in turn, looked at Villiam, awaiting a sign as to whether to smile or frown. ‘Lispeth stinks too much of cabbage,’ Marek said.