The Stable Boy

The truly special stable boy

I am Ferdinand, son of Sr. Richard, son of Sr. Symore. I am a knight in training and this is the story of my first adventure. This story is not about slaying dragons, though those creatures do appear in it, or exploring new lands. This story is of my journey into a much harsher landscape: my own soul.

My story begins on the grounds of the castle Rowinback, in the country of Keb. This is where I was squire to Sr. Harrison the third. He was training me to be a knight, and was almost done too, at about the time when this tale begins.

The castle Rowinback was not huge; in fact, it was more of a fort than anything. Its inhabitants were Sr. Harrison, his wife, his three newborn children, and the servants and slaves that were bound to them. But usually this was not all those who inhabited the castle, for Sr. Harrison was a bit of a party animal. He would frequently have friends, colleagues, or even enemies over for dinner and a drink (or many).

These guests frequently stayed the night, but I was glad that none ever stole my bed. I slept in the attic. I had a small room between the ceilings of the rooms downstairs, and the thatch of the roof above. Yes, sometimes it leaked, and yes it would get mighty hot in the summer, but it was mine.

There were bats that lived in one corner of the roof, and I had made them my pets. They had had babies one summer and I had splinted up one's wing when it fell before it was ready to fly. I brought them food and straw for their corner, to block the drafty spots in the winter. They had taken a liking to me and would hang from my finger and make little noises at me before they went out to hunt every night. They were my closest friends in those many years.

The next closest were Gail and her husband Carron. Gail was the cook, a large lady of about forty years. Whenever I was beaten and bruised from practice, she would wrap me in a blanket and give me a steaming bowl of her chicken broth. Carron was grounds keeper and kind of head-stable-boy. He was the first to tell me of the stable boy when I arrived. I was twelve, that was a good six years ago now, and had just been told to roam the grounds and get my bearings.

I was walking out into the courtyard, a square of particularly muddy ground walled in on three sides by the castle buildings, and on the forth by the pastures. I spotted the stables and, with my love for horses, started making my way towards their closed wooden doors. I was about half way across the courtyard when a man of about thirty-five years (keep in mind this was six years ago) hobbled up to me.

"Where yea goin' lil' one?" He looked kindly and yet threatening at the same time. However it was less threatening than worried. It was hard to make out his facial expressions because he wore a patch over one eye.

"To the stables, sir." He closed his eyes and shook his head.

"No yer not lil' one." I was really confused at this point.

"I'm not?" He smiled, the corner of his eye crinkling.

"No, no 'ne goes in tha stables, 'cept the stable boy, tha' is." I had heard of knights that only trusted their horses to one or two people because they were very posesive of them.

"I promise I won't hurt them. I love horses." He smiled and wrapped an arm around my shoulders, turning me around.

"I'm sure yea woudn't, boy, but that's not why yea canna go in there." I looked up at him.

"Well, why then?" He smiled at me again and looked ahead.

"'tis tha stable boy. He's deformed, possessed some say. He really taint, but some treat him bad like. Sr. 'arrison lets him work wi' tha 'orses, an feeds 'im, but no'ne goes in tha stable. Sr. 'arrison tells me wen he wan's 'is 'orse, an I call i' in through tha stable window. Quarter o' an 'our later, thar's 'is 'orse, as beautiful as ca' be, 'itched ouside." We were well to the other side of the courtyard, headed to the end of the buildings.

That was six years ago, when I was fresh and new. My curiosity was peaked by the deformed stable boy, of course. But out of respect, I never went in the stable, and never tried to coax him out. I did, however try to spy him whenever Sr. Harrison called for his horse. I never did see him.

By my second year there, when I was fourteen, I was riding almost more than Sr. Harrison himself. I would go for a ride every day, never favoring any one horse, but never touching Thunder, Sr. Harrison's steed. I became well acquainted with all the horses, and they seemed all the better for the exercise. I hoped the phantom stable boy was happy for the horses, I was sure he wanted to ride them himself, I just hoped he wasn't jealous, or didn't hate me.

I did catch a glimpse of him, once. It was a rainy day in the fourth spring of my apprentiship. I was sitting at the window in my little room, holding the bat that had broken its wing. It was sleeping as I stroked the fur on the top of its head; just between it's ears. I was staring out into the rain and my eyes wandered back to the stables. The hay loft window was open and a figure was sitting just inside, looking out into the distance. It was the boy! His outlines were blurred by the rain, but I could tell that he was wearing brown breeches, probably wool, and nothing else. His torso was tan, not what I was expecting of a boy who never left the stable. I watched him watch the rain. He bent forward and put his arms on his crossed legs. There was something different about his back, it was too big, like he was hunch-backed or something, then the flesh on his back moved. I could make out ridges and crevices, long curved lines that seemed to stretch from points above his shoulders, down to below his butt and further. They shifted again, fluttered, and I gasped. I looked down at the sleeping form in my hand. I slowly turned it over to look at its back. There, my bat's folded wings. That was what I was looking at through the rain. I looked back and he was gone. A boy with wings. A boy with bat wings. I looked down at my friend and stroked his furry stomach. I saw why he was shunned. I will not shun you, winged one.

That was when I was sixteen, two years before the story really gets going.

I had tried harder than ever to see him over the next year, but to no avail. Soon after our Christmas masses and celebrations my studies increased in difficulty, taking all of my time, leaving none for more than daydreaming. However, it was the first jousting tournament after my eighteenth birthday, and Sr. Harrison wanted me to come and see how "things were done." Well, I was looking forward to it, as any boy would, when I found myself being thrown off a horse. Apparently, I had been daydreaming again, during one of my rides, and a fox had run across the track, spooking my horse. I found myself, a while later, in a bed, not mine, with a bandage around my head and a splint on my shin.

I learned, from Gail, as she was pouring hot soup into me, that the horse had thrown me, and I had ended up with a broken leg and a bleeding skull. Fortunately someone had found me and brought me back to the castle and Sr. Harrison's own physician had fixed me up. He had said that I would be fine, good as new in fact, by summers end, but I shouldn't do anything strenuous for two moons, so the tournament was out. I was disappointed, but moved on.

"Who was it who found me, I should like to thank them." I was still a little groggy, but my mind seemed to be coming out of it.

"Well, ma boy, tis a strange thing, that. Twas tha stable boy." My mind just stopped. I sat there, staring at her. I think she thought I had gotten ill for she got a worried look on her face and took my head in her hands.

"Ferdinand, ma boy! What's wrong?" I shook my head and put my hands over hers. I took them off my head and put them on her lap.

"Gail, did he really? Please tell me!" She looked almost more worried than before.

"Yes, ma boy, he did. But he's no monster, he just, he's just... deformed. Please, don't do anything to him!" It was my turn to take her head in my hands now.

"My dear Gail, I would never hurt him. He is amazing. I have only seen him once in my life and yet I know. He is something to be cherished. He has the wings of an angel, and I am blessed to know that he was the one who saved my life." I could feel the tears welling up in my eyes and I knew that my soul knew something that I did not. I did not know the meaning of my words, yet I knew they were true. I somehow felt like I needed this boy, more than I needed anyone.

I was moved back to my room a few days later, when the physician deemed me well enough to walk with crutches. I rested, as I was told, but the moment all eyes were occupied, I hobbled my way across the courtyard to those thin wooden walls that seemed to guard their treasure far better than any stone battlements could. It took all the courage I could muster, but I finally put my hand on the door's iron latch, and pushed it aside.

The interior of the stables was dark, compared to the bright summer sunshine, and I let my eyes adjust for a moment, before I stepped over the threshold and into new territory. I looked around and closed the door. I heard the snuffling and shifting of beasts. I felt the warmth created by large bodies being so close together. I smelt the fragrance of life, sweat, and poo. I heard the rustling of wings. Wings!

I heard it again and pinpointed the source of the noise. It was coming from one of the darkest corners, up against the wall, he was afraid.

"Please, I only wish to talk to you. Do not be afraid, I will not hurt you. I envy you. Your wings, I only saw them once, but they are so beautiful. I wish I had your wings." I slumped in my crutches and lay my head down. The corner rustled again.

"Then you may have them, and may I be rid of this curse." His voice was deep and husky, raw from lack of use. I felt so sorry for him.

"May I one day have such a curse. To fly above tree and field, to soar with the birds, and share songs with the dragons, ah, what a gift, what a treasure."

"This gift, this treasure, this blessing, has tied me to the ground, has left me in the dark, away from men, away from friendship, away from love. This gift has made me a leper, forever to be shunned by those who would not feign to call me man, those with whom I share a father, a mother. This gift, this treasure, what kind of God would curse a man with such livery. The same who would make his other children bred to scorn and hate those that they do not understand. This gift, this treasure, this mutilation." The scorn and self-hate in his voice struck at my soul like a well-aimed arrow. I felt a tear roll down my cheek.

"My heart, do not speak this way. Please, let me join you in this misery. I can not bear to know you are suffering so." With that I fell to my knees, an extremely painful venture. In consequence I yelped and collapsed, the pain searing my mind.

I felt a wind then a pair of strong arms cradled me, lifting me off the ground like a newborn babe. I felt a jolt, a wind, then a thud as we landed in his loft. I was laid in some straw, the pain beginning to subside. I opened my eyes and gazed upon the face looking down upon mine, illuminated by the sparse light seeping through the cracks in the hayloft window. His face was an artful combination of graceful lines, seemingly flowing with life.

"You're so beautiful." I whispered. I saw a single tear slide from his eye to the tip of his nose. I reached out and wiped it away with my thumb. I let my fingers trace the lines of his face and his eyes closed. I cupped his cheek in my hand and he tilted his head into my palm. Another tear followed the first's path and I wiped it away too. I lay my hand on his shoulder and gently guided him to me. I closed my eyes and felt his arms wrap around me, and a single drop of salty water land on my shoulder. I threaded my arms around his torso and under his wings. They fluttered as I touched them, but settled as soon as I stopped moving. I felt his face press against my chest and his hair tickle my throat. His weight was steadying to me and I felt more at peace then than at any other time in my life. Holding him in my arms as he slowly leaked his salty sorrows onto my shoulder, I needed nothing else.

I held him for the longest time before he lifted his head off my chest to look at me. I couldn't help myself. I reached up and stroked his face.

"It feels good to be touched again. It's been so long." He stroked my side and stomach, exploring my form. I've always been proud of my body, strong, but not barrel-chested like my father. I had grown to be a good six feet and three inches, and had a good layer of muscle on me. I was nothing if not muscle and bone. I felt his arm. It was strong, and lithe like mine. I wondered how he could exercise in such a small place. I felt his torso; he was thin, just like me, maybe a little thinner. I cautiously touched one of his wings, at the very base, where it connected to his back. He shuddered and I pulled my hand away. His head fell back to my chest and his hand found the bottom of my shirt. His hand rested on my skin, on my hip. "So very long."

"Did I hurt you?" I had no idea why he reacted so to my light touch.

"No, no. My wings are very sensitive, especially at the base. The feeling is, erotic." I wasn't sure what to do. My heart and body wanted to stroke and touch, and feel this wonder. But my mind said that this was another man, that I would go to hell. To hell with hell.

I stroked my fingers from the top of his pants, across the hollow of his back, up his spine, and in between his wing-bases. I gently drew my fingertips up the smooth skin that covered the supple muscles that gave him the ability to fly. He shuddered and pressed his face into my chest. I felt his groin press up against my hip, his length rubbing against my body. And what a length it was. I had never thought of a man like this, or even been curious about other men's organs, but I wanted to feel this one. I wanted to touch him, make him moan, feel him throb in my hand as he spilled his life's juices.

With this thought I wrapped my hand around as much of the base of his wing as I could, and, applying slight pressure, pulled it up the top ridge of that wondrous appendage. He groaned and arched his back, pressing his face and hips into me. His hand slid up my shirt and pulled us closer together. I stroked his other wing the same way and put my other hand on the back of his head. His hair was long, shoulder length was my guess, and smooth as silk. He groaned again as my fingers lighted on his tender skin. I let my other hand drift down and took one wing in each hand, stroking in time to my angel's labored breathing. Suddenly he shuddered and moaned into my shoulder, then lay still. I felt a wetness on my hip and smiled. I took my hands away from his wings and put them on his sides. He was breathing hard, trying to recuperate. I massaged his sides as he calmed and kissed the top of his head. Once his breathing had slowed, he began doing the same to me.

"Tell me, what is your name." He sounded drowsy, but content.

"Ferdinand. What's yours?" I felt slightly ridiculous asking this after we had shared so much together.

"My mother never gave me a name. I was disowned the moment I was born. But the man that took me as his son always called me, Aryan." I nodded. "You are the squire who rides all the horses, they thank you." I smiled.

"You are the winged man that saved my life, I thank you." I could feel him blush.

"I was watching you riding. I do that, hiding in the trees, soaring above. And I saw the fox. I could not catch you when you were thrown, but I picked you up and flew you to Carron's house. He has always been kind to me." He had been watching me? What a wonderful thought!

"Do you often fly around?" How was he never seen?

"Mostly after dark, but occasionally, especially during celebrations, when everyone is distracted. I go off and fly over the woods, or to the lakes, I even tried to get to the mountains once, but I wasn't strong enough." He rolled off to my side, no longer on top of me, but still touching.

"That's amazing. Is it hard, flying?" I couldn't imagine what it would be like.

"It's like dancing. It comes to me now, like walking, but when I was learning, it was difficult. You have to position your body correctly, then there is the sheer strength needed to hold yourself in the air, then you need to sense all the different up-drafts, and down-drafts, and gusts, and pockets, and adjust to the whim of the winds. It is very mush like dancing with the world." His voice was like a soft summer breeze caressing my soul. Somehow he had such peace in him. It was overwhelming, as if a cool tide seeped out of him and calmed anything he touched, including me. I no longer felt scared about what we had just done. Nothing so beautiful could be evil. Yet, he was scared, on the inside, afraid of the world. As he well should be. To one who did not know him, he would be frightening, and men tend to hate and destroy things they fear. But, somehow, he had managed to find joy in his life, maybe he was never truly trapped in this dark musty place, but was soaring through the skies, in mind, when not in body.

"You are so amazing." I stroked a wingtip and he nuzzled into my shoulder. "Your wings are very sensitive!" I felt his nod against my skin.

"They have to be, in order to sense the winds." I felt the outer ridge of his bat-like appendage, and was surprised at its feel. Imagine, a human finger, hold it before the first joint, really feel the bone and sinews that are inside, that was what the forward edge of his wing felt like. "I spent years studying them, hating them, loving them, and the only conclusion I came to was that they are two more arms, just different." He stretched out his wing, just the same way he had his arm, and drooped it over me, a blanket of human warmth.

It was indeed like a human arm. When it was folded close to him, well, let me explain it in human terms again. Imagine putting your arms at your sides, bend your elbow so that your hand is by your head, then point your fingers away from you and down your back. That is basically how he tucked his wings in tightly, except that everything from his shoulder to his wrist was skinnier, and all his fingers were longer, long enough to reach to his knees when in that position. My guess is that he had a wingspan of more than twice his height. I guessed that to be around six feet, a tall youg man.

When he put his wing over me, it was indeed just like his human arm. His "hand" laid on my side, just above his human hand, with it's long fingers pointing down my body, the fine membrane that stretched in-between his fingers and body covering me.

"You're so warm. Do you get cold often?" I stroked the membrane on the inside of his "elbow."

"My wings get cold. But the man I called my father always told me that I was warmer than other people." I could feel that from his skin, but again he mentioned this "man I call my father."

"Who was it that you speek of?" I felt the bottom of the membrane, it got slightly thicker near the edge, then curved gracefully, connecting with his side at the hollow of his back.

"My father? He was the man that took me in after I was cast out by my real parents." I felt tears coming to my eyes. I couldn't imagine the pain he must feel. I could hear it in his voice, the sore lumps, the scaring, left by long healed wounds.

"Please, tell me." There was nothing that I wished for more than to sooth Aryan's suffering.

"He was a servant at my parent's household. When the nursemaid came out with me in her hands he asked her what was wrong. She showed him my wings and told him that I was to be drowned. He told her that such a task was no business of a young girl like her, and took me. Instead of drowning me, he took me to his home, and snuck away. He was only sixteen at the time. He came here and worked as stable boy, for Carron, while raising me off of cow's milk and stolen porridge. He would hide me in this loft when anyone was in here, and I learned at an early age to stay hidden. He helped me find a way to exercise. His father had been a sword maker, and he was very skilled in the art of swordsmanship. He taught me everything he knew before I was six. I was flying by then and we used to chase each other around the stables for hours, practicing and sparring." The pain in his voice was clearly evident. "Carron found out about me, eventually, but was almost glad for my father, my soul's father. His name was Galadon. He was the most kind and loving person in the world." I felt a single drop of liquid come to rest on my breast. "He was killed. He had displeased one of Sr. Harrison's guests, and was flogged. He died a day later, in my arms." He was shaking now, in silent sobs. His sorrow was so great. The world, so unjust, a man with power and no heart, beat the kindest man alive to death. It made me cry, it made me want to seek revenge, it made me want to fix the world so no other would feel Aryan's pain.