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Chapter 2

Several years passed before Wordless discovered that he could circumvent whatever stopped him communicating by using a request to initiate an action that showed his feelings. Tonight he sat at the kitchen table, watching Martha pour out hot toddies for William and Reba and cups of tea for Wordless and herself. Soon Martha would sit down in her easy chair by the fire and nurse her cup, glad to rest feet and legs aching from a day of standing and preparing Madam Elizabeth's Yule party. Then he could fill a bowl with hot water and soothing salts and let her soak her feet before he washed and massaged them. A few months ago, Martha had sighed that she would like to have someone massage her feet. He wished to show Martha that he loved her and he had loved her from the moment he looked into her beautiful brown eyes as she fed him the chicken soup on that first, lonely, terrifying night.

He remembered the first few convalescent weeks. She unrolled a futon for him on the porch, the kitchen too hot for him with her canning the fruit and vegetables from the garden, she said. He suspected Reba complained that he was disgusting or smelled.

Wordless rested under an insect net, between cool white sheets, drifting in and out of sleep. Martha whispered to him that he should not fear the night. No vicious hita around here, the wars had wiped them out. On hot, humid nights, William and Martha would bring out their own futon, to take advantage of any cool breezes. Reba never came out. Wordless thought that she sneaked a spare bed in the air-conditioned cool of the house or clinic.

His illness was kept at bay by the chicken soup until nature did her work. Martha was puzzled that the healing magic seemed not to work as well with him as with other patients.

Each summer afternoon, when the heat became too great, Martha would pull up an old wicker porch chair and sit beside him, her legs resting on the tattered antimacassar. As he improved, she got him to open pea pods or snap beans as she read to him from the Annals of Gaia and the Sayings of Blessed Kore. When he finished his small chore, he would lie back on the soft pallet and stare up at the peeling white porch ceiling, watching the sticky beetles spinning their little basket traps. When he turned his head, he could see a patch of the beautiful blue sky, so different from the white haze at home. Sometimes he would turn on his side and look at the dogs panting in the shade of the barn, too shy to even glance at Martha out of the corners of his eyes.

Reba laughed at her sister, but Martha claimed that if he couldn't understand, and she believed he did, then the poetry soothed him and sent him off to quiet dreams. That was true, he could still drift off on the rise and fall of the waves of her words, safe and comforted as she read the night time religious reading.

Martha often gave Wordless extra food and since he was a tall, brawny youth engaged in heavy physical labor, he prized every bite. She slipped him cookies, no magic in them but delicious just the same. He wrapped them in a tea towel and hid them between his mattress and the wall, bringing them out in the quiet of the night, the time when he felt himself, not reminded of his disability by the presence of others.

He would sit on his bed in the alcove beside the kitchen fireplace and nibble a cookie bit by bit. His favorite cookies were the rare chocolate chip. He removed the chips and tiny candy chocolates one by one, letting each piece melt in his mouth.

Sometimes he stole a glass of milk from the fridge to go with it, washing the glass afterwards and putting it away in the exact same spot to hide the evidence. Madam would murder him with the rod if he was caught stealing, he had watched that grim lesson during his training.

One night, in a daring moment, he stole some of the rum Martha used in the mincemeat. He knew well how alcohol deadened grief and loneliness. The first few sips made him deathly ill. Something to do with his affliction, it had never happened before he lost his voice.

Once Martha hugged him. William lost his temper in frustration when Wordless couldn't understand how to fix the microwave. Usually, he caught on right away but that day the explanation escaped him and he couldn't ask about the part he didn't understand. William shouted, Wordless dropped to his knees and bowed his head. The shouting mutated into gestures and swearing as William vented his frustration at the lack of communication. Wordless pulled off his shirt and kowtowed, forehead and palms plastered against the floor, every scarred vertebra standing up in tense readiness. He waited for the correction rod's agony to shoot up his spine.

Instead, William took one look at him and burst into tears, sobbing into Martha's shoulder. She sat her father down in a chair, giving him a handkerchief to blow his nose and placing a beer in his hand to settle him. Then wonder of wonders, she came over to Wordless and made him rise.

"You mustn't do that. Ever," she said. "Dad's a transpo too. He would never correct you. Just let him shout. It's a summer storm, soon over. I know you can't help how you are but sometimes it's so annoying."

She hugged him. It must have felt like embracing a stone pole or a tree. He treasured it.

Martha set Wordless' tea and a cookie in front of him. "You drink some before you see to me. You've worked harder and longer today than any of us. Up before dawn to split the Yule logs, running the scrubber over the floors."

Her hand stroked the gold curls that had replaced his baldness and hidden his scar. He glanced at her. She looked exhausted, with dark smudges under her eyes.

Reba finished massaging her father's sore back, the long ago corrections having settled into arthritis of the spine, and sat in her fireside seat. Martha handed William and Reba their toddies, then with a sigh sank down in her comfortable chair by the fire. Wordless left his tea and got out the bowl and the salts.

"You can't stop him once he's got a task set in his mind," said William with a grin as Martha gave in and removed her slippers.

Wordless placed the bowl of warm water in front of her feet. Martha tipped up his face. "Such a lovely frame of dark lashes. Your eyes are beautiful."

"Not as beautiful as you. Your eyes, your everything," thought Wordless, straining, wishing for even the slightest twist of emotion, the smallest murmur. His face and mouth stayed frozen in the blank mask.

"Honestly. How can you call anything in that empty, stupid head, beautiful?" said Reba.

Her sword pierced. Why did he care what she thought? Because she said what everyone said. William when he got angry -- and Wordless would walk on water for William. Madam in a kind way. Everyone except Martha, who never spoke a nasty word, despite what she thought. Why couldn't his heart turn to stone like the rest of him?

Gutter wench, he wanted to shout at Reba. Slut. I hear you in the loft, giggling and carrying on with Master George when he comes over from the other farm. I don't even exist, working below. William wouldn't think you're a wonderful daughter if he knew. And Madam would correct you, messing with her grandson like that. The secret gave him cold comfort and a twinge of guilt. He shouldn't wish correction on anyone.

"But your eyes have lost that nice blue from the uniform Madam dressed you in, now you've changed back into your overalls. Plain gray again," said Martha.

"Madam treats him and Reba like prize dolls to show off to company," muttered William.

"I like my red velvet gown and the bloodwood combs for my hair," said Reba waving her painted nails. She hadn't bothered changing. "What's wrong with looking nice when I sing and play?"

"Those bare shoulders for one thing," said her father. Reba snorted.

"At least they aren't playthings for the guests' use," said Martha.

Wordless lowered his head to concentrate on washing her feet, in case the bad, humiliating ship memories flickering in his mind might somehow betray themselves. He fastened on soaping each of her lovely toes. The pain faded away in the scents of the lavender and rose water.

"All right, I'll give her that," said William.

"I wish the statue of Adonis would massage my feet. Martha's not the only person around here working her fingers to the bone," said Reba. "I'm going to ask Madam to order him to look after me too."

Wordless soaped Martha's heels. Reba wouldn't like how he would wash her feet.

"You're showing me you care for me. I understand," said Martha. "Reba won't get your attention if she taunts you with the label that sow Lady Wesley laid on you at the party. So rude. Madam was furious. As I cleared the table, I heard her complaining to Master Richard about the way Lady Wesley drunkenly draped herself over Wordless and asked to buy him. No wonder her husband spends his time in Botany. I'm sure that woman's finally off the list."

Reba brushed invisible crumbs off her dress. She sent a dagger glance at Wordless as she rose. "You would have thought he was the pretty one."

"He can't help what Lady Wesley does," said Martha. Reba stalked off down the hall to the bedroom she shared with Martha.

"That's a noble for you. Well, I'm done in tonight," yawned William.

He tottered off to bed, giving Martha a kiss on the cheek and Wordless a pat on the head. Wordless wished he could say goodnight, do more than work hard to show his feelings for William. He longed to give a grin or share a bit of the rough banter William engaged in with the male slaves when they visited the other farms on a chore for Madam.

William had taken him under his wing, calming Wordless' silent terror, leaving him in awe that any man would show a gruff affection for a bastard like him. Not like his own father whome he had newver met. Nanny, Nanny. Why'd you die and leave me all alone? He pushed the grief out of his memory by concentrating on thoughts of some day kissing Martha's feet. Wordless patted them dry.

"You never laugh or cry, never smile or frown. Are you ever sad?" asked Martha. She played with his curls. He stilled himself, savoring each tug. "You must be lonely, shut up inside yourself. Your only romance washing the feet of a fat old maid of twenty-one. Sometimes it seems to me that you're sad and lonely, but maybe I'm putting my own feelings onto your blank slate." Wordless knelt forward and picked up the bowl of dirty water, intending to rinse it then head to bed. "Don't go. I'm overtired and can't sleep. Sit by me awhile. I'll make fresh tea just for us."

Wordless cleaned the bowl while she put on the kettle. He sat down cross-legged beside her chair and she slipped him a cookie that he nibbled as he watched her. She brought him fresh tea. They sipped in silence, the only sounds the soft hymns from Martha's radio program and the occasional log falling in the fire. He loved these rare times when they sat together, listening to the service from the Cathedral in Botany.

Martha stroked his hair. Unbidden, for the first time, he leaned his head on her soft lap and closed his eyes. The fire warmed him. The scent of lavender drifted from her skin. He owned nothing, possessed no power, someone owned him. Yet Wordless felt content.

"You'd come if I asked you to share my bed, wouldn't you?" said Martha suddenly. "Like my old teddy bear. Someone to cuddle. Someone to rest beside me. Like other women have." She sighed. "I must be desperate. You're like a child."

The back door slammed. Reba flounced in, a smug billow of tousled hair, velvet and flushed skin.

"What a cozy picture," she said. "The faithful slave and the retard." She turned a kitchen chair, plopped down in it and waved a snow wet slipper in front of Wordless' still face. "Take off my shoes, zombie." He ignored her. "Huh. I thought he lived only to obey. Guess not."

"Thought you went to bed," said Martha.

Reba smirked as she pulled off her dainty footwear. "George is going to buy me. I'm going to sing for society in Botany. No more taking care of Madam's barfing backwoods sickies for me."

"Watch out, Reba," said Martha. "The world's not as kind a place as here. Wordless would warn you if he could. I know Dad will."

"What do you know of it? A least I'll have a life. And I won't be taking second billing to an idiot, like I did tonight."

Wordless opened his eyes and stared at her. Bitch.

"He understands everything you say," scolded Martha. "It costs you nothing to be kind to someone who can't defend himself."

"Puh." Reba rose, stomped down the hall to their room, slamming the door behind her.

"My sister's going to come to a bad end," said Martha. She smiled down at Wordless. "I've kept you with me long enough. We have to start all over again in the morning. You've got chores. I've got brunch."

_____________________________________________________

Something woke Martha. The little moons sprinkled bright snowlight over her bed.

Shadows crooked about the room. The floor creaked and she thought a white shade moved by the door. Martha looked to her right. Her sister's bed lay rumpled and empty. Clouds hid the moons and she closed her eyes.

She dreamed a statue rested beside her on top of the covers. She reached out and felt a bare chest cold as marble.

"You'll catch your death," she murmured and threw the covers over her dream.

He snuggled up to her and she realized he was naked. He hugged her and she hugged back to warm him. The dream began to make love to her, pulling up her nightgown to kiss and suck her breasts. His aroused body tight against her; his mouth on her breast; his hands exploring her -- all at the same time. Martha sighed then shuddered as the tension he built snapped and oozed away. She decided to explore in turn and ran her hands over his buttocks then up his back. Twisted branching ridges overlaid his muscles. Wordless?

The statue sucked in his breath then coughed and cleared his throat.

"Martha?" he croaked.

"Wordless?"

He sat up and touched his face. "Oh, Gaia. Oh. Something's happened. It's gone. I'm free. Holy Lady Gaia blesses me because I love you. I love you" The words sang in the lilting rounded tones of an Old World noble. He grabbed her foot and kissed every toe. "You don't know how long I've wanted to do that." He scrambled off the bed to the bureau and grabbed Reba's polish.

"What are you doing?" said Martha.

"You need your toes painted. Your feet are much nicer than Reba's. They're perfect."

"Wordless?" asked Martha.

He flung himself back onto the bed and pulled her feet to him.

"There's no light," she burst out laughing.

"Shhh, shhh. Your foot's jiggling." He pulled the brush from the tiny bottle, cleaned off the excess and carefully, lovingly painted each nail. He chuckled. It came out deep and rich.

"I can't believe how my voice sounds. It's so rumbly. I love you. I love you. I love you." He kissed her toes again and laughed. Martha laughed. The room filled with the scents of roses and lavender. "I love your cookies, especially the ones with the little chocolate candies. I love you."

She stared at him."You are Wordless. How can this be?"

He sat up and turned towards her. In the half light, she saw emotion in his face for the first time, a hesitancy of hope and love. "I don't know."

Martha felt along his lips. He smiled and kissed her fingertips. She found his curls, raked her fingers through them and smiled back. They kissed, falling back on the bed, side by side. He rolled on top of her. Martha gasped with surprise to find him inside her.

He came. They clung together for a little while. He pulled away and ran his hand down her then frowned and smoothed down her night gown. Wordless sat on the side of the bed with his head in his hands. His sigh seemed almost a sob. "Why did I do that? I only meant to give you pleasure, like the man in the naughty book Nanny kept beside her bed. I love you. Please don't hate me."

"Why would I hate you?"

A moan came as the reply. "No." His hands slapped about his head as if bees attacked him. "Holy Lady Gaia. Don't give me this then snatch it away." His voice stuttered, "N-n-no. Don't." It halted with a strangled gurgle. He stiffened and his arms fell to his side.

Wordless stumbled out of the room. Martha reached for the light, flicked it on and screamed.

I love you. I love Martha. Martha, I love you. Martha, Martha, Martha.

The words scrawled across her walls. Pink, red, purple, blue; script, print, large, small. Some wound through stenciled borders of painted roses and lavender. Perfume rose from petals and leaves strewn across the bed and the floor.

Dad appeared at the door, a cloaked Reba behind. "What the Hell?" he asked. Reba ran to get Madam.

"Wordless," cried Martha.

She ran into the kitchen, Dad behind her, and threw back the curtain of the alcove. Wordless lay tucked under his duvet. He stared blankly up at her.

"You talked. You were in my room," said Martha. Wordless sat up as Madam Elizabeth strode up.

"Is this true?" she demanded.

Wordless slid out of bed and knelt on the floor, head bowed. He remained silent. Martha followed Madam's gaze to a small wet spot by the fly of his long john bottoms. His undershirt rested crumpled on the end of the bed.

"Look at me," Madam ordered. Wordless lifted his head and she gave his zombie features a piercing search. Dad frowned.

"Martha sit down," said Madam. They all sat down in the chairs before the fire. Wordless remained kneeling. "What happened? How did those words get on your walls?"

"I dreamed a naked man was in my room. I turned on the light and saw all the words and the petals."

"Why do you think it was Wordless?"

"I don't know. It couldn't be," Martha's words stumbled into confusion. "He was in bed, wearing his long johns. How could he do that? It would take hours and he's never talked let alone writing." She stared down at her toes and saw red nails. Martha covered one foot with the other.

Reba stiffened at the sight and burst out, "When I came back, she was sitting in her chair with his head in her lap, stroking his hair. He washes her feet. He's always staring at us."

"And where were you?" asked Madam.

Reba snapped her mouth shut and pulled her cloak around her."I got cold."

"Hupf." Madam's lips gave a slight twist. "William pull Wordless' bed apart and see if you can find markers, paint or pens."

"There's nothing but this little stash of cookies," reported Dad, after a few minutes search. He opened the dish towel to show them. Martha thought she might cry.

"A mystery. Martha is there anything you want to tell me?" Madam shot a glance at Reba. "You know I like to know what goes on among my servants."

"No," stammered Martha. Was her magic going out of control? What if Madam found out? Her stomach clenched."It was a dream. I'm sure. You know how Wordless is. Like a mute child. I give him an extra cookie now and then. He didn't steal those. He's decided for some reason that my feet need taking care of. I don't know why tonight I stroked his head. He didn't respond."

"Perhaps he did," murmured Madam. "William, I want you to keep a closer eye on Wordless. Have him sleep in your room. Martha don't encourage him. If he starts getting ideas, I can't keep him with all the female guests and patients I have. And no one else will take him. You are all to return to your rooms. Wordless don't move. I'm coming back."

Reba blanched and ran to the bedroom. Dad and Martha stayed rooted to their spots. All owners possessed a correction rod. Madam returned with her walking stick. Martha remembered her long dead mother threatening her with Madam's walking stick when she was naughty as a child but no one had ever seen it used. Wordless kowtowed, palms and forehead flattened against the floor. Martha pushed her fist into her mouth to stop a sob.

"No, Madam," begged Dad. "The threat's enough."

"I . . . No," said Martha.

Madam sent her a sharp look. "I ordered you to your rooms. Don't make this harder than it has to be." She straightened, her shoulders stiff. "I want this over before any of my visitors wake up. I'm known for my regulated household."

Martha rushed to her room and shut the door. She huddled in the middle of her bed and stared at the words of love. The tears poured as Madam's firm tones echoed down the hall.

"Wordless, tomorrow when your chores are finished, you will paint Martha's room back to its previous beige. Stay away from her. Stay away from all women. No foot washing. No staring. Nothing."

Martha heard a horrendous buzz then the strangled high-pitched scream of a tortured animal. Scrambling and the scrape of kitchen chairs echoed down the hall. Her father slammed the wall of his room with his fist.

"No William," shouted Madam. The pounding stopped. "For Seth's sake, Wordless. Get out from under the table. Remember your training. Shall I wake my son, Richard, and the other visiting masters and have them take you to the old chains in the barn?" Her voice softened as a chair scraped. "That's better. Out you come. Resume the position. That's good." A deep annoyed sigh. "Remove your forehead from my feet. You've been a bad boy. Groveling isn't going to help you. Take your punishment like a man."

Another buzz and another scream. Silence. Madam's footsteps marched away. The door to the main house slammed shut. Martha rushed into the hall, terrified that Madam had corrected her father.

"I'm all right, Martha," said Dad's quiet voice.

They peeked into the kitchen, expecting to see Wordless prostrate on the floor or curled in an agonized ball. They found him sitting cross-legged facing the empty wall beside the back door, his forehead leaning against the plaster. Two angry welts ran up his spine, branching out where the nerves ran. Martha understood the tree of scars on her father's back and for the first time the reality of her slavery hit her. She thought she might faint. Wordless' hands shook in his lap. At the sound of them, he lifted his head and straightened with difficulty, still sitting facing the wall. Martha moved to comfort him.

"No. Don't," said Dad. "He's in the post correction position. I'll see to him. Go to bed." He knelt down beside Wordless. "It's all over lad. Come sleep in my bed. I'll take the cot tonight. Come on, there's no need to stay in this posture. You do as I say. You know Madam charged me to be your overseer."

Wordless remained frozen. Martha could almost feel the silent accusation. "You said no one would hurt me." Dad finally left him.

Martha's ugly endless night stopped with the cry of her alarm clock. She walked into the kitchen to start the brunch and found Wordless in the exact same position. She stayed away from him. He only moved when Dad reminded him about the chores.

He struggled with his coat, putting one arm in his left sleeve then, the coat dangling behind him, moving stiff and awkward as he raised and crooked his other arm to search behind him for his right sleeve. Dad turned at the door when he hadn't followed, a look of annoyance on his face. Dad's mouth turned down. He walked back and helped Wordless with the coat.

When Wordless came back to fill the hearth bin, Martha forgot and sent him a smile and a look of concern. He stared down at the logs instead of meeting her eyes as he had before, filled the container then left to clean and stock the fireplaces in the main house, the perfect robot.

Breakfast came and went without his presence. Martha left his porridge on the table. It sat cold and untouched as did his lunch. He painted her room without a break. Supper was long finished, the evening almost done when he appeared. He crossed his legs and sat down in front of the wall again. After awhile he gave in a little and leaned his forehead against the plaster. Dad placed his food and a Special Lemon beside him. He ignored it. Dad set two Yule shortbreads on his lap. He stared down at the floor as if they didn't exist. Wordless moved when Dad reminded him of Madam's order that he should sleep in Dad's room. The cookies slid off his lap as he stood, falling abandoned in the bit of dust by the wainscot.

The next morning, Dad told Martha that Wordless lied down on the cot and turned to face the wall, not bothering covering himself despite the cold in the room. Dad had tucked a quilt around him then spent a large part of the night wide awake, examining the ceiling as he seethed with the old grief and impotent anger.

Several long days passed with no change. Dad told Martha he had discovered Wordless leaning against a support in the barn instead of forking hay, obviously faint from hunger and thirst.

"You can't go on like this, I told him," said Dad. "Go to the kitchen and let Martha fix you some food. She's got cookies and that Special Lemon you love. But he just straightened and returned to work, ignoring me like I didn't exist. You know how he is, glancing out of the corners of his eyes at you as he works, sort of his way of acknowledging what you say. Now, head down all the time. Might as well be the zombie Reba's so fond of calling him."

Martha got up the nerve to take her worries to Madam.

"Come in," came the answer to her timid knock at the open door. Her mistress looked up from her computer. "A question about the week's menus?"

Martha curtsied. "It's Wordless. He won't eat or drink. He just sits cross-legged facing the wall."

Madam frowned. "He's not working?"

"That's all he does. He ignores me, I mean, us."

"Sounds like he's doing what he's told. Wordless is having a little sulk," said her mistress. "He'll come round when he gets hungry enough." She yanked an X-ray out of a folder and examined it. Martha waited. Madam glanced up with a tight dismissive smile.

Martha lowered her eyes. Madam didn't care about Wordless at all. No one cared about him. Her chest tightened. No more magic in the soup. So a bunch of Madam's noble patients didn't get well as fast. Prentices practiced to make their magic stronger. If she stopped, maybe it would go away, not go wild all over her room. It was a curse. She blinked rapidly as she turned away and stepped out the door. Reba stood in the hall, her face strained, her hands clenched together.

"What's the matter?" snapped Martha. Why was her sister here? To make Wordless' life more of a misery and her life more privileged by pointing out some small chore he had left undone or a bit of the bedroom paint not right.

"I'm pregnant," whispered Reba on the verge of tears. "And Madam knows."

"George?"

"He said he'd buy me. I called. I went over to the farm. He wouldn't see me. What if she . . . Like Wordless?"

"No." Martha felt uncertain.

"Reba," Madam called.

Martha hugged her sister. "Gaia be with you."

Reba rushed into the room and fell down on her knees in front of the desk. The mistress looked up with a frown and narrowed her eyes. "Martha, aren't you supposed to be dusting?"

"Yes, Madam."

"Close the door."

Martha curtsied, did as she was told and dashed to the drawing room. All the time she rubbed the tables and polished the figurines, her mind swirled. What was happening? First Wordless, now Reba. Who next? Martha rubbed tears from her face.

Gretchen glided past the French doors beyond the formal dining room. Not Gretchen. Snotty receptionist, lady's maid, Madam's confidant. But a slave the same as the rest of them. She felt a stab of glee, then guilt at her bad thought. Martha walked back to the kitchen to start the dinner. Scalloped potatoes already made, ham, fresh beans ready to cook, peterberry duffy for dessert and the usual condiments. Wordless liked scalloped potatoes.

Reba stood in front of the fridge, pouring a glass of juice. She looked relieved. Martha gave a half smile at the smell of rose water. Madam must have given her an abortion, not a correction.

Wordless sat in front of his wall. He must have finished the chores and waited for Dad to wake from an afternoon nap. Martha bit her lip. Wordless used to wait at the table for a cookie and tea, a bit of kindness, when this happened. Now, his forehead rested against the paint, his eyes fast shut. He had fallen asleep. With his face relaxed, he resembled the Wordless of her dream. Intelligent, handsome, normal. Reba closed the fridge and glanced his way. She smirked, walked up to him and leaned over. Her breasts brushed against his cheek.

"Straighten up slacker," she hissed .

He opened his eyes but ignored her, fixing on the floor. His hands spread in his lap to shield himself. Martha sucked in her breath.

"Got a little problem?" said Reba with a nasty laugh. "Want a stare? I bet you do. Keep those eyes down. Maybe a mouse will run by and you can catch it for dinner."

"Leave him alone!" shouted Martha.

Reba snorted and left for the bedroom with her glass of juice. Martha got out a cookie but Wordless rose and walked to the door, shoved his feet into his boots and before she could remind him to wear his coat, plodded out across the yard to the barn. Wordless leaned against the barn wall. He raised his fist. Snow whirled up around him then vanished. Martha watched in amazement as he pounded against the boards. His face twisted. His chest heaved. Wordless showed emotion? His hands flew to his head and he hunched forward, shaking. Martha rushed to the door and struggled with her coat. He straightened, a blank slate, and disappeared into the barn. Martha blinked back tears, put her parka back on the hook, and returned to making the dinner.

________________________________________________________________

A small breakthrough occurred. Dad discovered Wordless gulping water from the tap in the barn. Soon he would eat again. Martha filled the kitchen with the smell of his favorite cookies, pulling out the final pan as he entered the kitchen behind Dad, the evening chores finished.

"That smells grand," said Dad in a jolly voice. "There a cookie for us?"

"Of course," said Martha. She put on a broad smile and placed the pan under Wordless' nose. He turned his head to stare at the floor, arms limp at his sides. Her face fell.

"That's enough," snapped Dad. "Look how you're upsetting Martha. She made those specially. Madam says you must eat. I order you to eat a cookie."

Wordless reached out a trembling hand and took one, his eyes remaining fixed on the floor. His arm dropped back to his side, the biscuit hanging limply from his fingers.

Martha wanted to say she was sorry, beg his forgiveness, but her throat tightened, and all she croaked was, "Don't you like my food anymore?"

The cookie hit the flagstones, breaking in pieces. Wordless pushed between them, brushing against the pan. Cookies tumbled to the floor, crunching beneath his feet. He walked across the kitchen to the hall and Dad's bedroom. Martha stood stunned, the pan tipped unnoticed in her hands. Wordless had never disobeyed her father.

"What the Hell. Get back here," shouted Dad following behind. "Clean up the mess you made."

Wordless tugged down the straps of his overall, pulled off his shirt and undershirt and kowtowed in the doorway.

"Damn you," cried Dad and kicked him in the ribs. Wordless stayed frozen in position.

"Stop, stop," said Martha. "Both of you. You'll bring Madam from the house."

"Go lay down on your cot, you defiant bastard," said Dad, his fists clenched as he turned away. "I'm finished with you. I'll have Madam here in the morning. If you know what's good for you, you'll be sitting down eating your porridge when she arrives. I'll not have any more of this."

Wordless stumbled to his feet, moved to his cot and lay down facing the wall, his fiery welts taunting them. Dad closed the door then plodded to his chair and thumped down into it.

"Do you think he'll eat for Madam?" asked Martha as she brought him a beer.

Her father ran a hand through his disheveled hair. "I don't know. I just don't know." ___________________________________________________________________

"Martha," Dad called out from the doorway to her room.

Martha sat up in bed. "What?"

"You're all right? You're alone?"

"Yes. What's the matter?"

"Wordless is gone from his cot."

Martha jumped from her bed, throwing on her robe. They checked the kitchen alcove, the bathroom, the back porch.

"Reba," said Dad.

"He doesn't like her."

"That makes it worse." Dad opened Reba's door.

She rose from her bed, annoyed and sleepy. No Wordless.

"Stupid, annoying retard, " she groused. "Probably hiding somewhere eating so we'll all continue feeling sorry for him."

"Shut up," said Martha. "Shut up."

Reba tossed her head. "I'll wake Madam."

"I'll do it," said Dad. "He's my responsibility. Go tell the night nurse."

The hired nurse looked up from her notes with a shake of her head at Reba and Martha. "The ward's quiet. No one here."

Reba and Martha met Madam, Gretchen, and Dad in the small hallway between the clinic and the house.

" All's quiet," said Martha.

Madam breathed a sigh of relief. "Then it's a thorough search of the house."

They entered the dead Master's den. A desk drawer sat pulled out. On the far wall, the gun cabinet hung open. Madam examined the key in the lock, then the cabinet itself.

"Seems he knows where all the keys are kept. A pistol's missing. Don't tell me he's run."

She walked out to the front hall, picked the walking stick from the round china umbrella stand and activated the frequency for Wordless' chip. Puzzled, she reported, "He's in the barn. With a gun?"

"Oh, Gaia. He's going to shoot himself," said Dad.

"He's not capable of it," said Madam.

"Why? Because he's retarded?" shouted Dad. He rushed away, through the house to the stables. The women followed.

The barn door swung on its hinges, the inside a black maw. Hard bits of snow stung their faces before swirling into the dark. Martha picked out the white of long johns. Wordless knelt on the bare boards in the center of the barn, facing away from them, his arms clasped in front of him, his curls a holy halo about his head. The cows stomped and complained about the cold. He ignored them.

Wordless twisted around. The gun was jammed under his chin. He glanced at Martha then dropped his eyes to the floor and turned away.

"No! Don't," shouted Dad and rushed towards him.

The sound of a single shot rang through the ice of the night. Wordless crumpled to the floor, blood spreading out in a pool beneath him.

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