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“Why don’t you find something to eat while you wait? I won’t be long.”
Master Beldaruit called him a fast learner. Maybe he was, but that was no special talent or gift. That which kept him moving so quickly, which fueled his ferocious passion for learning, was cold and dank and dismal terror. If he didn’t learn fast, he’d be overtaken by the darkness again. And what were the odds he’d be rescued a second time?
Qifrey stood alone inside Deepwater Castle, right in the middle of the cafeteria—
caf-e-ter-i-a (n.): the place where a person went to eat food,
fists clenched and head throbbing, reeling from overstimulation. So many people were here. So many smells and types of food were here. Qifrey had never been alone here before.
He tried to read the signs, the lists of foods, but he wasn’t good enough at reading yet, and the signs were blurry and blocked by bodies. On one of them, he recognized one word. Apple. He knew he liked apples. But there were other words around it. What if those stood for things he didn’t like? When would Master Beldaruit be back?
A chatty group of witches elbowed past him, and he started to panic. He hated being so weak, so prone to breaking down. He drew enough eyes, fueled enough gossip as it was. Witch society didn’t need another reason to suspect him. But he sank to the stone floor, gasping and gripping his head, all the same.
Qifrey dug through mental static to reach his scant pile of memories, dug further down to reach the only bright memories he had, only three or four (so far, he feverishly promised himself, so far)—and found the one he wanted: sitting cross-legged by the fireplace at Master Beldaruit’s feet, leaning back on the cushions, hugging another cushion to his chest. Listening to Master Beldaruit’s warm and gentle voice as the man read from a list of names. Qifrey forced his breaths to match that easy rhythm. Carefully, slowly, one by one…
...searching together for a new name—a new identity—one weapon, small but vital, to carry and wield against total obscurity.
“...Qifrey?”
Qifrey’s head snapped up. A boy stood over him. His ebon hair fell into his eyes, and in one arm he bore a heavy-looking stack of books.
“Beldaruit’s apprentice, right?” The boy offered Qifrey a hand. “Sorry. Everyone knows you, but you don’t know me. I’m Olruggio.”
Ol-ru-ggi-o (n.): the boy with black hair and a lot of books.
Qifrey accepted his hand and staggered to his feet. He still wasn’t breathing right. He couldn’t think of anything to say to the boy—to Olruggio.
Olruggio shifted his books to his other arm. “I was gonna get lunch,” he said. “Did you eat already?”
Qifrey shook his head.
“Well...we could eat together.” Olruggio shrugged in the manner of a boy shrugging off his eagerness for a companion. “If you want to.”
Qifrey only stared. He didn’t know what he wanted. He waited for Olruggio’s suggestion to morph into a resolution; waited to be told what to do.
Olruggio blushed. “Sorry. We don’t have to! I get it—” He ducked his head and made to leave—but Qifrey, suddenly stricken, grabbed his sleeve.
“Wait!”
The tendrils of his terror had only just receded; he yet sensed them all around him, heard them slithering, winding through his nerves like snakes. He didn’t want—he couldn’t stand to be alone again. Olruggio waited, wide-eyed, concerned. Qifrey cast about for an explanation, one that wouldn’t drive Olruggio away.
“I, um...well, I only know…” He stamped down on his shame, brandishing his fear at it, threatening it. He pointed overhead to the sign nearest them. “I only know ‘apple.’ ”
“Apple…?” Olruggio’s brow barely furrowed before he lit up with understanding. “Oh! You mean you can read ‘apple,’ but not many of the other words yet?”
Something in the way Olruggio said it—‘you can read...you can’t read yet’—shone a beam of encouragement into Qifrey’s heart. He could read something...he would read many more words, and soon...just not yet. He nodded.
This prompted a smile from Olruggio. “Well, that’s no big deal! I have an idea!” He hastened to the nearest table, beckoning for Qifrey to follow. From one of his books he produced a blank piece of parchment, and from his pocket an inkwell and pen.
“I was thinking, I can help you figure out what you want to eat,” he said, speaking quickly, brimming with enthusiasm, “and at the same time, we’ll write down what you get, and draw a picture—so you have it for next time! Down the page, like this. I call it the Apple Ladder!”
“Apple Ladder…?”
Olruggio drew a squat little shape at the top of the parchment and wrote the word Qifrey knew, ‘apple,’ beside it. He presented it to Qifrey. “See! Like that. What do you think?”
Qifrey reached out and touched the pictograph before he could stop himself. Then he curled his fingers back into a fist and looked away. This overwhelmed him, but not with fear this time...with gratitude.
“Okay,” he said quietly. “Thank you.”
Olruggio beamed. “So,” he said, pen and paper in hand, “Let’s see. Where should we start? What foods do you like?”
Together they looked about the cafeteria. Qifrey returned to his meager mental catalog. Of the things he’d eaten so far, he liked…well, he liked…
“...bread?” he offered lamely. But Olruggio took it to heart, nodding with fervor as he drew a ladder line and scribbled down the word.
“Bread is good! Lots of meals have bread!” Olruggio assured him. “We could have pancakes. Or bread bowls with soup in them!”
Qifrey’s heart leapt, electrified by recognition. He blurted, “I’ve had soup!”
“Did you like it?” asked Olruggio.
“I did...!”
Olruggio grinned. “Then I know the perfect place,” he said. “Come on!”
Qifrey marveled at how excited he felt, how positive the feelings were inside of him. They still shot about, frenetic, lashing out like whips, like vines. But they were glowing. They were bright.
Ol-ru-ggi-o (n.): the boy with black hair and a lot of books; inventor of the Apple Ladder.
Several minutes later, the pair sat hunched over two steaming bread bowls from the bakery. They’d found a table against the wall, useful both for propping up books and shielding half a face from view. Olruggio’s parchment lay between them, already splattered with soup stains. Neither of the boys seemed to mind.
“Ahhh…” Olruggio sighed. “So good…!”
Qifrey mimicked him. “So good…” he said between slurps.
Qifrey felt happy. The Apple Ladder had helped so much. The next time he came here with Master Beldaruit, he knew where he could find a delicious meal. And he knew what the words ‘bread’ and ‘soup’ looked like, and many more vegetable words, to boot! He wanted to take the parchment with him, to memorize the words tonight. He could subdue his fear of sleep with some success, if he had something to study. He looked up.
“Um...Olruggio?” said Qifrey, just as Olruggio dunked a massive chunk of bread into his soup and stuffed the whole thing into his mouth.
“Mmph?”
“Can I take the Apple Ladder with me?”
Olruggio swallowed, a loud gulp. “Of course! ’S long as you bring it back tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” Qifrey paled. Would he be abandoned here again tomorrow, adrift and alone?
“Well, yeah. We gotta keep filling it out,” said Olruggio, before correcting his assumption and backtracking again, stumbling over his thoughts, “Sorry—I mean if you want to! I mean I’m here every day so I thought—but I dunno if you eat here every day or—”
Qifrey listened, content and filled up with a lovely meal, and a melancholy smile broke through. No—not alone. With Olruggio.
“Thank you,” he said. “Olruggio.”
Qifrey couldn’t elaborate, but that was okay. Olruggio understood. His eyes crinkled in a warm smile.
“Sure thing, Qifrey.”
Ol-ru-ggi-o (n.): the boy with black hair and a lot of books; inventor of the Apple Ladder; my friend.
END