Chapter Text
Once upon a time, in a quaint village nestled somewhere in the rolling English countryside - I cannot reveal its name or exact location, for reasons you will surely understand later - there appeared a boy none of the townsfolk had ever seen before.
He had no name and no address. He had never gone to school or learned the alphabet the way children normally do. He couldn't even talk - at least, not in any language you or I have ever heard of.
Don't believe me? That's okay - neither did Freddie when Roger and Deaky showed up at his house one sweltering afternoon in July with said boy in tow.
"We found him just outside the village," explained Roger, hands stuffed into the pockets of his shorts, "racing our bikes on the dirt road by Farmer Reid's corn fields. He was just sitting there by the side of the road, under a tree."
"You ever seen one of those abandoned baby birds on the pavement, all helpless and unable to fly?" Deaky added helpfully. "He looked a bit like that."
"Uh-huh." It was an accurate comparison on Deaky's part, Freddie thought as he studied the stranger who, in turn, was taking in the leafy lushness of Freddie's backyard - Mrs. Bulsara's pride and joy - with big, curious eyes. He didn't ask why they had brought him over to his house - the trio of them had been fast friends since their first year in school and even though no one pulled rank on anybody, the younger two often looked to Freddie to act as their leader in situations that required firm decision making. Finding a mute boy who was very likely lost definitely counted as one of them. "How old d'you reckon he is?"
"Dunno." Roger shrugged. "About our age, I'd say."
Freddie would have guessed the same thing. The lad was about their height, but something in the disproportionate lankiness of his limbs suggested that he might just start outgrowing them sooner rather than later. He was definitely unusual-looking, dressed all in brandless, possibly homemade white clothes that didn't look like anything Freddie had ever seen (and he took more of an interest in fashion than most boys his age, just one of many reasons why he was considered an outcast among his peers). On his head was a shock of long brown curls, framing his face and bird-like neck like a halo and gently brushing his shoulders with every movement of his head. You didn't see anyone with a haircut like that in their county. It would be considered quite outlandish.
Freddie's mind worked at warp speed. Maybe he was from the city. People dressed differently there. Maybe he'd run away from home. Or maybe his folks were visiting relatives in the neighbourhood and the local coppers were all over town by now looking for him. To Freddie's ten-year-old mind, the thought was somewhat thrilling, like he'd just landed in the middle of one of the adventure novels he liked to read under the covers until long after his bedtime.
"D'you think he's retarded, Fred?" Roger asked, a little too keenly. Finesse was not one of his strengths.
"Shut up, Rog. He's not deaf. He can hear you." They all studied the boy as he tipped his head back to watch a noisy bird fly overhead. He didn't seem scared or intimidated by his surroundings, merely curious - and a little bewildered, perhaps.
Feeling the others' eyes on him, waiting for him to take charge of the situation, Freddie cleared his throat and took a step in the strange boy's direction. For the first time, their eyes met properly and in that instant Freddie felt a tickle going down his spine, something unsettling and exciting at the same time. No, this chap wasn't retarded, quite the contrary - what he saw in those inquisitive hazel eyes spoke of a high, almost otherworldly, intelligence.
There must be some other reason why he wasn't communicating.
"I'm Freddie," he said, somewhat more confidently than he felt. "What's your name?"
"We tried that," Deaky said.
"I don't think he understands English," Roger elaborated. "He hasn't responded to anything we've said."
Freddie narrowed his eyes. This was going to be more challenging than he'd anticipated, but he wasn't discouraged that easily. The strange boy was still regarding him with an open, benign expression, so he decided to try a different approach.
"Me, Freddie." He pointed a finger at his own chest, then at the other two. "Roger, Deaky." Then he pointed at the stranger and raised his eyebrows in a wordless question, hoping he'd made himself clear this time.
His only answer was a slow blink. Not even a shake of the head or an apologetic smile from the other as a reward for his trouble.
"I told you," Roger piped up almost triumphantly, "he's not right in the head."
This time Freddie didn't tell him to be quiet, as he'd had another idea. He pointed at the house behind him - his house - and then at himself. Accepting the fact that the use of language would only confuse the stranger further, he jutted a finger at the boy and held his gaze. Where. Do. You. Live?
He could see the cogs turning in the boy's head, the confusion slowly lifting from his brow. He repeated the same series of gestures, nodding emphatically to encourage a response. Although the boy's expression hardly changed a flicker, he could see, finally, understanding blooming in those eyes. Silence stretched on and on. But eventually, the white-clad, curly-haired lad tapped his own chest with one long, slender finger, then slowly raised his hand above his head and, unmistakably, pointed that same finger at the wide expanse of sky overhead.
"Bloody hell," Roger said.