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The sheet metal slave barn stunk of filth and sour straw, the close heat suffocating. Stale frying from a nearby food stall wafted into the row of barred pens that were empty except for a young slave, naked save for tattered, stained pants, lying on the concrete floor. The smell of the food no longer attacked him with painful longing. It made him ill. Flies busied themselves round his encrusted eyes and nose but he made no move to brush them away. Thirst burned his throat and tongue. The small gulp of tepid water a kind slave, now sold, had risked giving him seemed a distant mirage. Even the bitter metallic condensation he had licked off the walls in the early dawn, had vanished in the heat. Now the others had been sold, would the slaver shoot him? Put him out of his misery? The tiny spark of hope died. No food or drink for how long? He didn't know. Why not save a bullet by waiting. The slave gasped for a breath and received a burning, scraping cough.

Voices echoed in the shed. He scrambled into position, cross-legged, head bent, hands clasped in his lap. A wave of dizziness washed through him. No. Can't faint. He'll correct me if I faint.

"My Lady has come late. Most of the lot went to Star Mines, the few remaining women went, "the slave trader paused, "It's not polite to say."

"This is the territories. I'm the local healer, not a hot house flower. I'm well aware of the existence of brothels," said a woman with a snort.

The lock jangled, the gate creaked open and two sets of boots stopped in front of him; one the slaver's, dirty and cracked, the other fine leather dusted with the street, the hem of a black robe brushing the uppers. Behind the Lady's boots stood two small sandaled feet with toe nails painted red and plump as glistening cherries. The slave smothered a parched cough.

"He's newly arrived transported," stated the trader. "My Lady knows I'm sure, how obedient they are and you would be the first owner. No bad habits needing correction. Home World skills. It's rare for me to have one left this far down the line. I had another, skilled in surface blasting, but he was an order for Star Mines."

The slave stared down at his hands, large and bony against the thinness of his manacled wrists. Even if he could speak, he knew no one would believe or care that he had been kidnapped. On the transport ship, he had seen youths like him corrected for protesting they had done nothing wrong, were only making a living singing or juggling or selling their art and jewellery in the street. He wondered if telling her that he once played the piano, practiced for the love of it, would make her take him away from this place to another one. He knew not to hope for a better place but they would surely give him something to drink. Physically unable to speak, unable to give even a gesture, he would never know.

"What's wrong with him? That's a deep scar across the top of his head," said the woman. He felt her hand brush the stubble on top of his head and he flashed back to the slaver shaving off his curls, the screaming rage over the con job, then the brutal pain of the angry beating. "Have him stand and turn around. Head up."

The trader brushed at the flies then prodded the slave with the butt end of his correction rod. The youth tensed and stood up, squinting through gummy eyes. The noble woman wore cowled widows' weeds. Above a sharp nose, black eyebrows pulled together in a frown. Behind her, close as she dared, stood a girl with the beginnings of breasts, dressed in a trim grey house servant's dress that seemed at odds with her colourful toes and fingernails. Long gleaming black hair fell to past her shoulders, parting on either side of the face of a frightened angel. The slave swayed as he turned around, fighting not to stumble. The girl drew in her breath and he knew that once again his back, with the tree of correction scars overlaid by a few fresh welts, meant he stayed in this pen.

"Those welts seem excessive, even for a transpo. Boy, turn back to face me," said the widow. He turned. She pulled up one of his pant legs with the end of her walking stick and examined the skinny limb beneath."Faint yellow bruises on his legs and one on a shoulder. You beat him? He's stubborn as a donkey?"

"No, no, My Lady," said the trader with a touch of anger. The youth held back a shiver.

The noble woman took out a stethoscope and listened to the slave's chest and back. It sunk in that she was a healer. Maybe . . . No, no. No bright hope with its torturous letdown. Best to stick with tiny drops of water on metal, a bit of fresh straw to chew. Small wishes. When she asked for a deep breath, he glanced at the trader's gleaming correction rod and choked back his coughing.

"Starved, pink eye," said the Lady. "Strong heart beat. Some congestion. That can be brought round if it's not resistant tuberculosis."

"He survived the months of travel by transport ship from the Old World to Botany, he's made of tough stuff," said the slaver. "Transpos have home world skills and obedience is trained into them."

"Tortured more like," said the Lady. "The citizens of Botany and Windego snap up transpos. The ones we see in the territories come preordered, not as the rejected end of a lot destined for mines and brothels."

"His, um, designated master went into receivership just before he arrived," said the trader. The woman snorted.

"Look at me and tell me about yourself," she said to the slave. He lifted his head and stared right through her, feeling nothing, a long time since he cared that his face presented a blank mask. This scene had repeated itself too many times.

"He can't speak," pointed out the trader helpfully.

"I can see that," snipped the woman. "What is he? A black market buy you got cheated over? Is he deaf? Without a tongue? Or an aggressive turned mad, waiting to cause havoc?"

The trader sent his damaged good a look of irritation. "Open your mouth." The slave dropped his jaw to reveal a tongue and extraordinary straight, white teeth. The healer pulled on a surgical glove and pulled his tongue this way and that, looking underneath before examining his throat. The slave held back a gag. She tsked.

" He understands what you say," said the slaver. "Remember when you asked him to turn? He's not deaf or aggressive. Maybe the scar on his head is the cause of his silence." The trader made a last ditch attempt to save his sale. "Think about it. He's the perfect slave. No stopping to chat. No carrying of servants' gossip. He's young. Look at his size, he'll be big and strong when he's grown. Many years of potential. He obeys. Kneel you and pick up the straw piece by piece."

The slave fell to his knees. The dizziness overcame him and he continued forward, his hands scraping the concrete. The world turned red, he willed the blackness away and began to gather the dirty straw, oblivious to the blood oozing down his palms. His wheezing filled the barn.

"He's a boy, fourteen at most," said the noble woman with a trace of pity.

"Twenty shillings and I save the cost of the legal work for killing him. I'm not heading back with unsellable goods," said the trader. "He's a good buy, you'll see. And I reduce my loss. A good deal all round."

"He looks a bit thin. Since he's so unsellable how do I know you haven't stopped feeding and watering him? Perhaps he'll die right after I buy him."

"Oh, no, My Lady," said the trader. "He's a tough little chigger. A transpo. Without his problem, he would fetch a high price."

"I'll take him if he passes the litmus test," she said. "Ten shillings."

"Please Madam. Don't buy him," whispered the maidservant. "Look how he's still gathering the straw, even though his arms are so full he loses as much as he picks up. He's a zombie. I know this. That's why no one's bought him."

"Nonsense, Reba. There's no such thing as a zombie," said the woman.

"Stop you," snapped the trader. "And drop the straw for Mordath's sake." The slave dropped the straw and remained kneeling with his head bowed.

"Ten shillings. The other ten off for the superstition this wretch will cause among my employees and servants."

The slave heard the Lady rustling around in her medical bag.

"I'll do it, thank you," she said. "No quick switch showing a clear test then diphtheria, TB, creep or Mason's anthrax decimating my holdings."

The woman picked up the slave's hand and placed a paper against the scrapes. His blood turned the swab purple. He heard the clink of shillings then felt the touch of her walking stick on his upper arm and the faint tingle of his ownership chip changing frequency. She bought him?

The slaver unhooked him from the stall and dragged him stumbling to a pickup truck sitting right outside the door.

"Into the truck," the trader ordered.

The slave crawled into the open back, sitting down with head bowed, legs crossed, ignoring the hot sun beating down on his bare head and the burning metal under his calves and ankles. Someone had bought him. A healer had bought him. No. Must not hope. But he couldn't stop himself. His thoughts rushed off on their own.

Hail Gaia, full of grace, blessed art thou and blessed the fruits of the earth from your womb. You who love the least of your creatures hear my thanks that you answered my prayer and know my needs. Forgive me. I never meant it when I cursed you. I'm not greedy. I won't ask for too much. Like a healing. A drink of water, a bit of food, maybe straw to lie on. Not too many beatings. Hail Gaia, Blessed Gaia, Hail Gaia, Blessed Gaia . . .

The trader removed his shackles.

"I'll put your manacles on for you," he said to the woman. "A lady shouldn't do this job."

"That won't be necessary," she said. "And you should know. I'm Lady Elizabeth the Healer, Matriarch of the House of Endor, the local medical officer of health. Your shabby operation and the condition of the barn will prompt an official letter to the cooperative running this market. All humans whether buyers, sellers or merchandise, can pick up serious diseases from your disregard for public health. The abuse of this boy's a crime. I expect any thing sold in this market to be in good condition." She snapped the cuffs around the slave's wrists before attaching his chain to the animal ring welded to the floor.

"You can lean against the bags," she whispered.

He glanced at the slaver storming back to the barn. Must not give his new master a reason to return him. He leaned back, his legs still crossed, his body stiff against the bulging sacks. Small hard corners and edges from the various packages inside pressed against his aching back. Lady Elizabeth slammed the tail gate shut. The truck puffed out a cushion of air and they whooshed away from the market in a swirl of dust.

The late afternoon sun beat down as they left the town of Mary Delight behind them. The truck hovered over a grassy field and stopped with a sigh in a wind break. The shade felt good. Water burbled up a pipe from an underground spring. The slave smelt it, cool and wet and metallic. Agony. His hands twisted carefully in the cuffs. If he could get lose then scramble to the pipe, fall down before it and drink, drink until the underground stream went dry.

He stared at the servant girl spreading a colourful plastic table cloth under the cool of a pyramid tree. She pulled a cooler from the cab and set out two cups and bowls. Nothing for him. He folded a hand and began to push it into his manacle. She stirred lentils and couscous and filled the mugs from the spring. His eyes burned. The flies blown away by the wind as the truck traveled, returned. He crackled with a hacking cough. The girl glanced at him and shivered. He froze.

"Water and feed the transpo," said his new master.

"Please, please. Water," thought the slave.

"Madam, " begged the servant, hugging herself.

"Don't be a silly, superstitious girl, Reba," snapped Lady Elizabeth. "He's not a zombie. My educated guess is that he's autistic. And from the looks of him, at death's door from abuse and neglect."

Reba slopped the lentils and couscous into a bowl and filled a mug with water. She stood as far away as she could from the truck, stretched out her arms and placed the containers on the tail. The slave scrambled to the cup and gulped down the water. Cold and good on his burning throat but not enough. Liquid in the food. He scooped up a handful of the beans and tried to stuff it down. His throat clenched in a coughing spasm and the mouthful sprayed over the bags. He lay scrunched on the truck floor, choking and wheezing, his face covered with mucus and spewed food, every skeleton rib standing out, suffering alone within himself. He stopped, his chest heaving and stared out at them staring back at him. The few flies frightened by his spasm returned with a buzz at the new feast. The maidservant turned away in disgust.

"Give him this bottle of sugar drink," said the Lady. "He's dehydrated. The sugar and salt in the Special Lemon will help him. There's still a special bottle for you. We'll give him mine."

The maid looked sulky and guilty as she took the bottle and set the open drink on the tail of the truck. The slave reached out, his chains drawn tight, clutched the bottle with both hands and pulled it to him. Condensation cooled against his chest. He sipped until his cough calmed then gulped the bottle. His hunger returned raging. The transpo attacked the lentils and rice, this time with success. He pushed the empty containers to the tail of the truck, leaned back into the feed sacks and closed his eyes.

Thank you Gaia for this day without hunger. Thank you for taking away my thirst with the holy spring of your word.

His filthy face itched, the flies bothered, his eyes scratched. He knuckled his swollen lids.

"Poor thing," said Lady Elizabeth. He heard her medicine bag snap open. "Still, pink eye puts many purchasers off. We may have a bargain yet."

Someone shook his shoulder. The transpo pulled apart his crusted lids and looked up. The Master. He started to stumble into his cross-legged position. The Lady gently pushed him back.

"Lie still. I'm going to help your eyes," she said. A cold wet cloth cleaned his face and cooled his eyes. He felt like weeping but his affliction kept his face blank. "Keep your eyes open. These drops will help."

He blinked a few times after the medicine fell in. The slave looked up at her and knew from her face that she expected gratitude. He couldn't provide it.

"Pay attention to me," she snapped.

The transpo almost bowled her over as he struggled into a kneeling kotow, forehead touching the metal floor, forearms and hands stretched around his head to join at the manacled wrists. The girl, Reba, squeaked. His wheezing chest heaved. He gulped and worked to hold it still.

His mind detached itself and without fear, it wondered idly if the new master would correct him with the agony of the rod, or whip him, or beat him, or maybe, since she was a woman, she would just slap his head and face. Slapping, he could live with that.

Lady Elizabeth tsked. "No, no. I'm not going to punish you. I'm trying to help you. Lean back against the sacks again."

He unfolded himself and lay stiffly against the lumpy sacks, wary of a trick, his heavy head with its feverish empty eyes twisted down to stare at the floor, in case he might offend again by glancing at her.

"This has all been trained into him, rote, like a circus act. He doesn't really understand what he's doing." She sighed as she tossed an empty sack over him. He flinched but she didn't notice. "Lying there as we traveled, not even the sense to cover himself for protection from the sun. Not even the body language of an animal. Well, it was only ten shillings."

The truck rambled over winding, pot-holed roads past fields, through alien forest and swamp peppered with the skeletons of trees. The back draft of its wake blew the burlap off the slave's face. He turned his head and stared up at the tops of trees and the blue of the sky. Pink and gold washed the high billowing clouds behind which the sun edged below the horizon. Odd, pale, pastel colours instead of the brilliant angry red, purple and orange of the polluted sunset at home.

In time, a spray of tiny moons scattered across the night, then stars in a white band thick as sticky milk. He had never seen so many stars. A gift from Gaia in the midst of his misery. The truck topped the hill then began to slow. The transpo glanced at the cab to make sure no one noticed, then in a daring movement, lifted himself up to stare over the bags and boxes.

Lights gleamed in the dell ahead. Perched atop steel poles, a row of fiery human skulls lit up the night. A lumpy, grey wall ran to the left and right, as far as his eyes could see. Behind a wrought iron gate forged to resemble human bones, a small sentry house with door and curtained windows from a child's drawing, paced up and down on bright orange chicken legs.

Baba Yaga! A bad witch had bought him. He shuddered. Baba Yaga ate young men and boys for breakfast.

It occurred to him that she would have to fatten him up. He wouldn't mind that, lots of good food and drink. What had he to live for anyway? Perhaps the witch conducted a ceremony. He had heard that Baba Yaga ripped out your heart, but you died before it began to hurt. Laid out on a sacrifice stone, his blood fertilizing Gaia, maybe the stars would shine down as the last thing he saw.

The gate opened and the sentry house bowed down. The truck whooshed up the tree-lined driveway to a large white ranch house with a pale wood veranda running its length, then turned to the right and around to the back. Light streamed through a screen door, over the porch floor and into a gravel strewn yard. Beyond the end of the porch, an addition with darkened windows sat set back in shadow. A tall, stooped man with a thick shock of white hair came out of a dark barn on the right. He limped across the yard, guard dogs clustered behind him. The truck lowered onto the ground. The man stopped and bowed with respect as Elizabeth exited the cab. A trainer. The slave's heart banged against his ribs as he folded into the wait position.

"I've found the perfect assistant for you, William," said the lady. "No goofing off or useless chatter. Reba thinks he's a zombie."

The trainer gave a low whistle, "A transpo."

"So the trader did tell the truth. He's young and basically healthy. He doesn't speak. Might be autistic. But he obeys. He was only ten shillings." A pause. "Don't give me that look. He's not a free kitten about to spread distemper. He'll just need these drops for a few days." Her steps crunched across the yard and thudded over the porch. The screen door thunked.

Warm and thick cooking smells - meat, vegetables, stew perhaps - filled the slave's nostrils. His stomach, assuming that one meal meant another, ached with hunger.

"Dad, Dad," said the maidservant in an urgent whisper.

"Yes," said the trainer.

"He stinks. He makes me gag. He's weird. You're going to put him in with the pigs or in the barn?"

In with the pigs. Pigs got slop and didn't farmers give them scraps and leftovers from their meals? Maybe later tonight or tomorrow morning they would put some of the supper he smelt in the hog trough. Better than chained in the barn. They might forget him in the barn. His stomach stabbed. His breathing thickened and wheezed. The slave gave a dry swallow, the gulped bottle of Special Lemon sweated away by the heat of the trip. Please no, Gaia. He fought the useless panic. There would be straw and dry cobs and water, surely water. He would manage.

A pair of hands grabbed the slave's manacles. The nails were dirty and broken, the fingers work-cracked.

"Dad?" said the maid.

"Take the cooler into the house and help Martha," said the trainer. "And take off that stuff on your nails. What was Madam thinking, to let you do that? You look like a tea lady."

The trainer opened the cuffs. The transpo stumbled up, toppling toward the trainer then jerking back down to a squat. If he touched the man, it would mean a beating if not more. He crawled to the end then half-fell off the tail of the truck. The slave stood and hung his head, shivering in the cool night air, his arms limp at his sides. He smothered a cough. The maid snorted and crunched away across the yard. The screen door slammed.

The dogs sniffed around him with great interest. One of them whined. The slave froze.

"Get away with you," snapped the trainer at the beasts. They moved back a few inches. His voice softened, "Come on, lad. Into the house."

"At last," thought Martha hearing the hiss of air as the truck settled in the yard. Madam came through the door and Martha curtsied.

"Don't be shocked," said her mistress. "Reba wanted nail polish as her birthday present." Martha raised her eyebrows and Madam grinned. "Let her wear it awhile. I'll give her some remover. I got almost all the spices, sugar, and the miller did a beautiful job on the flour. There's your chocolate drops in the cooler along with a package of hundreds-and-thousands."

"Thank you," said Martha. Madam gave a curt nod as she crossed the kitchen and disappeared down the hall to the main house.

The screen slammed and a sullen Reba dumped the cooler in the middle of the floor. Her red nails glared in the bright kitchen.

"What does she need polish for?" thought Martha, staring at her sister's delicate features and flawless skin, her new soon to be buxom breasts.

She glanced down at her own short nails where the dirt from the garden and the housework lived in half moons no matter how hard she scrubbed them. She was heavy and thickened from the comfort of her own cooking. Madam thought to bring her chocolate drops, not make up.

"What's your problem?" she snapped.

"Madam bought a retard with a big scar on his head," said Reba close to tears. "He's awful. A zombie."

Martha smelt the slave before Dad opened the door. It wasn't hard to believe he rotted from the grave. But no frightening man entered close behind her father, it was a half-grown boy. He wrenched her heart. She had never seen anyone so thin, or so filthy. Forget a zombie. He looked one step from a walking skeleton.

"Make him take a bath before he sits down to supper with us," she said.

"I won't sit at the table with that," said Reba. "Look at that stain on the front of his pants. He peed himself. He doesn't even know enough to go to the bathroom."

"Did Madam stop on the way home or go bang out like usual?" said Dad in a soft voice.

"We stopped for lunch. He drank all of Madam's Special Lemon."

"And she took him to a bush?"

Reba pouted. "I don't remember."

Dad shook his head and turned to Martha. "Never saw so many welts. The boy's a transpo"

"Like you were," said Martha softly.

"Am," said Dad, his own face turning to stone. Reba examined the floor.

"Come on Wordless," he murmured. Christened in that moment, Wordless shuffled behind him to the bathroom on the other side of the kitchen, just inside the hall.

"Madam wishes to eat in her study," said Reba, giving herself airs.

As if Gretchen had not looked up from the office computer to mention the obvious when Martha had taken the meal trolley around to the clinic patients. Reba left the contents of the cooler piled on the set table, yanked open a drawer and pulled out a wooden tray. She filled the little tea pot and set up Madam's cutlery.

Through the half-open door of the bathroom, Martha heard the taps squeak shut as the water finish its growl into the tub.

"This is a toilet," said Dad. "You can sit on it or lift up the seat. When you're done, you put the seat and lid down. It's respectful to the women. You do your business here or in the outhouse. Madam expects things to be clean. You understand?" He sighed. " Show me."

"Told you," said Reba rattling a full plate onto the tray.

Martha heard the seat squeak and Dad say, "Good." She raised her eyebrows.

Reba snorted and headed off down the hall. Martha moved round the table, gathering up the things from the cooler, dirty dishes, the warm ice pack, lunch remains, two empty and one full bottle of Special Lemon, and a jumbo package of coated chocolate drops. She opened the candy bag and gobbled a handful before placing them in a cupboard.

Dad strode out of the bathroom, his face grim, stinking rags bundled in his hands. "I'll bury these. Can you get a clean overall and shirt? " He stared down at the rags. "When I handed him a bar of your lavender soap, he lifted it to his nose and seemed lost in it. I remembered the wonder of the soap when I first came here. Made by your mother." He paused. " I'm too old for this." Dad squeezed his eyes shut for an instant. "I said, been a while, hasn't it? He ignored me and I snapped at him. He fell to his knees, then -- I remember it well -- the effort to stop shaking, knowing it only makes the punishment worse. He bowed his head like they taught him but nothing else. There's something wrong with him, he can't speak or even gesture."

"Is he all right in the bath?" asked Martha.

"He seems to know what to do. I showed him how to use the soap with a flannel." Dad pursed his lips. "I have to check the barn." He pulled on his rubber boots and thumped out.

Martha walked across the kitchen and entered Dad's room. She pulled open the bureau and took out an overall and a shirt. Much too large, she would have to cut it down tomorrow. Martha walked over to the bathroom.

A clean Wordless, a towel tucked around his waist, stood hunched in front of the sink, seeming almost furtive. He turned on the cold tap, cupped his hands under the flow then lifted them to drink. In a sudden movement, he stuck his face sideways under the flow and gulped the water. Martha bit her lip, not even an offer of a cool drink after his long hot trip. He stopped, turned off the tap then wiped it with a dry washcloth as if someone might notice he had touched it.

Wordless looked into the mirror over the sink. Dark shadows smudged under blood shot grey eyes too large for his thin face. He tilted his head forward and examined his scar then stared at himself, reaching out to touch the stranger in the mirror.

Dad had come up beside her. Wordless caught sight of them and instantly folded down into the cross-legged transpo position. Martha couldn't take her eyes from the fiery welts and scars on his back. Dad placed the overall and shirt in his lap, rested a hand on his head and, his voice husky, said "You put this on. No one's going to hurt you here."

Martha plodded back to the stove to dish up the dinner. Reba returned with the empty tray, placed it on the side and thudded down in her seat. Dad brought in the transpo, the shirt flopping over his hands, the straps falling down his arms and the legs bunching at his bare feet.

"You look lost in that," said Martha.

He stared at the floor, motionless, shoulders tensed as she rolled up the overflowing material and knotted the straps together at the back so they stayed over his shoulders. Wordless stayed frozen until Dad guided him to the table. Reba grimaced as the slave sat down across from her.

William joined hands with Martha who joined with Reba. Reba reached across the table and grabbed her father's forearm before he could take hold of one of the limp hands resting in Wordless's lap. She pulled her father's work-worn paw to her and clasped it. Wordless stared down at his plate in silence, his face a mask. The family bowed their heads and sang the hymn, Holy Lady Gaia, Queen of Heaven.

Martha prayed, "Thank you Lady Gaia for letting us partake of your blessed food and drink. Thank you for this day without hunger. Thank you for taking away our thirst with the holy spring of your word. Amen."

"Amen," replied the family then cut up their meat and used their forks to mash the dumplings, potatoes, gravy and vegetables together for easier handling with their spoons.

Wordless half-raised his head and stared at the label of the bottle of fruit drink sitting in the middle of the table. Surrounding a shield of stars with a crown above and two mythical lions rampart on either side, were the words:

He froze, a rabbit in the headlights, then slowly bowed his head and stared down at his plate. The skinny hand that had begun to reach for his glass of fruit drink folded back onto his lap.

"Rude," said Reba.

"He's retarded. He can't answer," said William. "Right now he's waiting for a cuff in the head . . . or worse."

"Oh Wordless." Martha placed a slice on the side of his plate. "I wouldn't hit you over a piece of bread."

He raised his head, gave her a blank stare then took a long drink of his Special Lemon.

"He likes that. Could drink it all day," sniffed Reba.

Wordless put down his glass and ran his fingers along the battered knife, fork and spoon bunched at the side of his plate.

"Show him how to use them, Dad," suggested Martha.

Wordless picked up his utensils and began to eat. He used the style of the nobles; cutting a small piece of food then lifting it with his fork and eating it before cutting the next piece, taking pinches of salt and herbs from the cellars and sprinkling with his fingers instead of spooning a small pile onto the side of his plate.

"I can't believe it," said Martha.

"There's more to this lad than meets the eye," agreed William.

"I still think he's a pig in a poke," said Reba.

Wordless ignored them, his only acknowledgment of their existence his staring at his empty plate until Martha refilled it and he began to work again at elegantly filling his starving stomach.

A wrenching pain in his gut woke Wordless from a fevered sleep filled with the horrors of the ship. A pillow. Mattress. Bedclothes? He thought for an instant he rested in bed at home, then reality and a coughing spasm hit. He couldn't stop it. The new trainer would come and beat him, torture him with the correction rod, angry that he woke everyone up. He jammed the pillow over his head but the smell of feathers suffocated. He pulled it away, gasping, drowning in the air. Wordless retched and his stomach rebelled, unused to the rich gravy, meat and dumplings. The terror engulfed him. He would mess the bed and end up corrected for that too. Wordless remembered the bathroom. Would they correct him for moving from his spot? All choices led to the same end. His body decided for him.

Wordless shot through the curtain in front of his alcove beside the fireplace, out of the kitchen and into the bathroom. He had managed to close the door and pull off his overalls before his body exploded from both ends. Afterwards he lay shivering on the splattered floor, his face blank though deep inside he sobbed with despair -- a little boy, sick and alone. The coughing, the air drowning started again. He couldn't catch his breath.

Suddenly, Wordless knew he was dying. He stared up at the shining sink with the nice shaving mug, the chipped dragon-legged bath with the small wire cage on the side holding a blue wash cloth and the lavender soap smelling of Nanny that had made him forget the danger for a second and sniff, the women's black stockings hanging from the round shower rod. He didn't want to die in this strange bathroom, after messing up their floor. He needed somewhere dark and quiet where he could curl up and die in peace, even an old dog managed that much.

Wordless crawled to the hall and somehow stumbled to the back door, letting himself out. He swayed on the back porch. The space underneath beckoned, dark and hidden, the earth soft and cool. He collapsed at the railing. The night air caressed his body, puffing in his face and making breathing a little easier. He curled on his side, closed his eyes and felt his dead nanny near him. Not long now. A hand touched his arm.

"Oh, you poor thing," said the voice of the cook, Martha. "What on earth brought you out here?"

Wordless wished, he prayed he could answer her. He wouldn't beg, that sometimes failed. He would speak softly, politely, the perfect transpo. "Oh, kind lady. Please don't wake the trainer. I didn't mean to mess up your bathroom. I'm good at cleaning things up, you wouldn't even know I messed. But I don't think I can get up anymore. Don't call the trainer. Please let me die in peace. It's hard to breathe. I can't think of pain as well. I've seen people die in punishment. I don't want to die screaming. And I know how to scream. Please, good, saintly, lady who gave me so much food, pretend you never found me. It won't be long and I'll be gone, only my poor body left to fertilize your fields. Nanny once said someone special like me might become an angel when I died. I'll be your guardian angel, if you let me lie here in peace." But he couldn't speak, only gasp and cough.

"Oh, the cold fresh air full of oxygen brought you out here," she said. "But you'll catch your death after being so ill. I can't imagine what I was thinking of to let you eat so much of that supper. Come on. I'll help you up."

She tugged and pulled him back into the kitchen, spread towels over the stone floor then rolled him onto them. Martha washed him up from a bucket of soapy water smelling of the comfort of lavender. No mention of the state of the bathroom. She pulled a pair of pajama bottoms over his legs and tucked him into bed. Martha put a pan of something on the stove. Something that smelt good as it heated.

He must have passed out. A cool wet cloth wiped his forehead. Wordless opened his eyes to her pressing it against his feverish face. It felt like heaven. Why this kindness?

"Look at you. How you're sweating. That feels good, doesn't it?" She held a finger to her lips, as if he could tell a secret. "Madam's not the only one around here with magic. But it's a secret. I'm all natural, a gift. Lady Gaia works through me when I cook. No noble blood, no bioengineering. Heaven knows what they'd do to me, a slave, if they knew." Martha opened a jar and put some cream on her fingers. "Lie face down, I'm going to help your breathing with this potion I boil up to help Dad's winter colds." Wordless turned over. He heard a sad sigh and knew she stared at his back. "This is a crime. You're nothing but scars and bones. Gaia smiles on those like children. How could anyone starve and hurt one such as you?"

She spread the cream and it warmed right through his lungs. "Turn over now," she murmured. He obeyed and she started on his chest. The scent of eucalyptus cleared his nose and throat, softened the gasps to wheezing. He watched the firelight flicker through her loosened chestnut hair. Earlier, it had sat tight in a bun at the nape of her neck. Her chocolate eyes smiled down at him. In her white flannel nightie, she looked as comfortable and soft as a plump feather bed. Her touch soothed.

"Do you think you could manage a little chicken noodle soup?" she asked. "It's my specialty. All the clinic patients get better after a bowl."

Though he gave no answer, she brought some anyway, dipped a spoon into the broth and pushed it against his lips. He sipped and tasted magic in it. The soup restored his soul. It brought him back to life.

"Magic chicken soup," thought Wordless. "How odd."

He drank every wonderful drop. His stomach felt pleasantly full, no ache at all. He fell into a deep healing sleep.

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