The boy spends the better part of an hour lost in thought. He gets frustrated, then bored, eventually settling in front of his favourite window. Through it, he watches the drizzle stop. He watches the clouds clear. He watches the shadows grow. He carves another notch on the sill with his silver spoon, then ponders when it became his spoon instead of just a spoon.
The thought is immediately dismissed. He's a thief for crying out loud. If he's gotten away with stealing something for so long, it becomes his something. That means the spoon belongs to him and nobody can persuade him otherwise.
In summary, the boy is tired of milling about his room with nothing to do. And that is why he, despite all else that’s happened, decides to go exploring.
He opens the door a crack and scouts the hall through the slim opening. He stands a little straighter, a little more confident, he sees no one outside. He hears Myr shuffling above him, but it doesn't seem like the drunk will be coming down in a hurry. He’s not inclined to meet him either. They can stay separated on their respective floors, thank you very much. As for the foreigner, who knows where he is? The boy certainly doesn't. Wherever the silent man is, it isn't here. This leaves the boy alone and, more importantly, unattended. He's free to do as he pleases.
He gently closes the door behind him. He doesn’t want to bring Myr down on his head by making too much noise. In fact, he would be perfectly happy to never see Myr again. And so, he quietly stalks down the corridor, pressing himself against the walls and lurking around corners. He does reconnaissance in perfect silence. His survey is thorough. The fruits of his labour consist of the entire downstairs area.
He finds two other bedrooms nearby. They're carbon copies of his own. Across the hallway, he finds a coat room colonized by moths under the stairs. Next to it, he nearly falls into a yawning stairwell descending into the bowels of the house. Does Myr have a dungeon? He closes the door on the stairs beneath the stairs. He’d rather not find out. He moves on.
He finds a study in disarray at end of the corridor opposite the kitchen. There's empty bottles strewn around the room, which means Myr spends time here. Describing how close his sleeping quarters is to one of Myr's haunts as worrisome would be a gross understatement. The foreigner knows where he spends the night too. Perhaps it's time to move? He'll need to find a place to move to first. The visit to the study has given him much to consider.
He shuts the door and tiptoes into the main hall, travels along it, and turns into a branching corridor. The sitting room is on the boy's left and a massive dining room to his right. In between the two are more dead plants in pots.
He rummages through the sitting room first, noting every place to hide, every shining bauble. He makes funny faces at the stuffed bear in the corner, pretending it doesn't scare him, like many other things in the house. When he passses in front of the chesterfields, he stops altogether. He looks long and hard at the water stain on one of them. The sight gives him mixed feelings, none of which he can name.
He leaves for the dining room. He doesn't want to be in sitting room anymore.
The dining room has two large banquet tables stretching its length. The boy walks the aisle that separates them, dividing the room in two neat halves. Chairs are neatly pushed in, placed along all sides of each table. The tablecloth is covered in dust, like most things in the manor. The boy lifts a corner of it to peer underneath. There's lots of space under the tables, even with the chairs pushed in. He could comfortably crawl under and cross the room that way without a soul knowing he's there. Not even the floorboards would tattle on him, muffled as they are by the worn carpet that spans the area.
He releases the tablecloth and sends dust flying. He knows where he's sleeping tonight. He ignores the raised stage at the back of the room, exits through the set of doors next to it, and finds himself back in the main hall. He sees the front door all the way down on the far end. Meanwhile, on this end, next to him, is the manor’s back door; it opens to an outdoor courtyard ruled by unruly vegetation. The percussion of the rainfall floods him through the open door way. The deafening silence of the manor returns the moment the door closes.
There’s only one door left untouched on this floor. It’s the one across the hall from the second dining room entry. The boy’s staring right at it. It doesn’t go untouched for much longer after that. The door swings into the kitchen and comes just shy of hitting the foreigner behind it. The boy swears loudly at the sight of him and unsuccessfully hides behind a dead houseplant, almost knocking the stupid thing over as he does so.
The foreigner looks up from where he’d been stooping by the stove. Gives the boy a calm, measured stare. “Language,” he chides. Then he goes back to frowning at the stove, paying the boy no further mind, which is fine by him. He’s got his hands full at the moment with keeping the potted plant from tipping over.
He grapples with the thing and struggles to right it. It doesn’t help that he’s still a bit wobbly from this morning. He does succeed in getting the pot settled. Eventually. He steps away and pretends he wasn't doing a tango with it a second ago. Never seen that dead plant in his life, no sir.
But that’s enough about his embarrassing antics. Let's focus on more important things, like the foreigner. The man has no interest in what the boy's doing, so he's (sorta) safe to be around at the moment. The initial shock of the surprise encounter recedes, fear dims, and curiosity takes its place.
“Whatcha doin’?” The boy asks from several paces away. The distance won't do much in the face of the foreigner's swift pace, but it makes him feel better.
“I am attempting to light the stove, with little success might I add.” The foreigner raises his head and straightens slightly from his stoop to meet the boy's gaze. “I’m afraid your presence here is somewhat of a hindrance. I trust you are able to entertain yourself elsewhere?”
The boy quietly laughs at the foreigner's roundabout way of talking. “If you want me gone, you coulda said so.” He walks down the hall, leaving the foreigner to his own devices.
He hears the foreigner sigh. He hears a sudden fwoosh of igniting flame and he hears the stove box’s hatch clang closed. He hears the foreigner call after him a few seconds after. He’s calling him ‘John’. The boy twitches. Will he ever be rid of that accursed name? The foreigner calls again, closer this time. It's still 'John’. The look on the boy's face is indescribable. He tells himself it’s not worth it, that he should walk away. The third time's the straw that broke the camel’s back.
He snaps. “Would it kill you to stop callin’ me that?” He whirls to face the man, only to find him right in front of him. The proximity scares him enough to piss. He wishes he hadn’t turned to look.
The foreigner's brows jump a fraction upwards. “I beg your pardon?”
The boy's voice sticks in his throat. He swallows. “I said, stop callin’ me John.” His voice cracks on the first letter of the name.
The foreigner squints. “And why is that?” He asks quietly.
“'Cause it ain't my name, is why.” The boy follows the foreigner's example and lowers his voice too. There is someone listening upstairs after all. “I dunno why everyone keeps callin’ me that, but it ain't my name. Never was. Never will be.”
The foreigner blinks at the boy. “Interesting.” He crosses his arms. “If that is the case, why is it that Mr. Peddleson introduced you as one John Doe?”
The boy snorts at the mention of the toff. “Hell if I know.”
“Language.”
Who's talking here? The boy ignores the interruption and carries on. “The toffs called a lot of us ‘John Doe’ as they was sortin’ us out when the workhouse got shut.”
“‘Us’?”
“Yeah. Us. Me an’ the other boys who dun have names.” The foreigner doesn't cut him off, so the boy tells his story. “Pretty sure the toffs thought we'd only have, like, five ‘John Doe’s, tops. You know, they had to start givin’ us proper names once they got, like, thirty 'John Doe's. And they was expectin’ five. Can you believe it?” He chuckles at the memory. He doesn't have many nice stories, but this is a real funny one.
The foreigner blinks at the boy’s laughter. He doesn’t look nearly so entertained. “If they renamed the boys, why is it you received the name 'John Doe’?”
“‘Cause they only started givin’ the good names after thirty 'Doe’s. I was named before then. They didn't bother going back to the boys already named. Wish they didn't name me at all if that's the best they could come up with. Anythin’s better than an unlucky name.”
The boy looks the foreigner in the eye. That the man’s let him talk this long is reassuring. The foreigner's interested in what he has to say, he sees it in how the man holds himself. The boy doesn't want to disappoint. Heavens knows when he last had a good audience. “Now don'tcha get started on me 'bout how 'John Doe's a perfectly fine name and not one to be ‘shamed of. I heard it all before an’ it’s all bullshit.”
“Language.”
“Right. Anyway, I know the name’s bad luck 'cause almost every dead guy you hear 'bout got the name 'John Doe’. It dun matter what quarter you go to, there's always a 'John Doe’ somewhere who’s gone and kicked it. Now you tell me, if the name ain't bad luck, why’s every bloke who got it wind up dead?”
The foreigner says nothing.
“My point exactly!”
The foreigner shakes his head and sighs. “Be that as it may, you must have something for others to call you by. Surely there's another name you might go by?”
The boy shrugs. “You can call me 'Boy’.”
The foreigner immediately shoots the suggestion down. “There must be something.”
The boy doesn't reply.
“Anything?”
“None that I recall…” The boy shifts and diverts his gaze to the side. The foreigner’s insistence is uncomfortable. “I dun see why it matters.”
“Names are everything. Without a name, one cannot belong in the world. Names are proof of one's existence. They are what persist throughout all of time.”
The boy thinks of shallow grooves carved into a window sill. The only record of his being here, one coat of paint away from disappearing. He wants more. He wants some part of him to last. “Guess I dun exist then…” He whispers. He can't deny what the foreigner said.
There's that silence again. That heavy, sad silence from this morning. It’s not Myr who breaks it this time, it’s the foreigner.
“What do you think of ‘Casper’?”
“...What do you mean?”
“'Casper’. Do you like the name?”
The boy lifts his gaze back to the foreigner. “You… you're givin’ me a name?”
The foreigner gives a small nod. “So I am... Do you like it?”
The boy stares at the man. He must be hearing things. “I, uh… sure?”
The foreigner nods again. “Very good… Let's start again, shall we?” He squares his shoulders, raises himself to every part of his impressive height. The boy has no idea where he's going with this. The foreigner centers his fist over his chest and says, “My name is Balor.” He looks expectantly to the boy. “And you are?”
The boy stares dimly at the foreign- at Balor. Then it clicks. This is an introduction. He's supposed to introduce himself now. “Uh, my name, I…” He fumbles with the words. Thank goodness Balor the foreigner is patient. “Casper,” he blurts. “I'm Casper,” says Casper. He's not 'the boy’ anymore. He has a name now.
Balor nods. A trace of a smile tugs on his face. “Very good. It is a pleasure to meet you, Casper. Now then, I don't suppose you would know how to roast a pheasant?”
“Nope! Can't be that hard.” Casper grins, humoring Balor. If there's a meal in store for him, he'll play along with just about anything.
“I should hope not.”
They pile into the kitchen. They crowd in front of the stove. Casper peers around Balor where he can, seeking to better see the poor bird. Not once does he come within the man's reach. To say the pheasant turns out poorly is an understatement. When it comes out of the oven, it’s black and shriveled as a crow.
“You think it shoulda got skinned before we put it in?” Casper wonders outloud. Nevermind that it's Balor who's doing all the work.
Balor, for his part, grimaces at the charcoal bird. “I believe the suggestion comes somewhat late, Casper.”
Casper shrugs. “I'm sure it tastes fine once you pick the black bits off.” Just looking at it makes him hungry.
Balor gives him a look. “You must be joking.”
Casper's attention doesn't move from the burnt lump. He's drooling. He's too hungry for jokes.
Balor abandons the char roast to its fate. He wanders off to attend to his other duties, whatever they are. Casper is happy to peel off burnt feathers and chew on dry, stringy meat in solitude. He leaves the guts because they're full of shit, but otherwise eats just about every morsel he can pick off the bones, with one exception. He rips off one leg, carefully cleans it of black flakes, and leaves it on a plate for Balor as payment for the name and the food. It doesn't mean Balor’s a friend, mind you. It doesn't mean a small part of Casper likes him either. It's there to square away his debts. And if the man doesn't accept his offering… well, you can't say he didn't try. If the leg is still there by morning, it'll be Casper's breakfast.
Casper licks his fingers clean, savouring the grease on his tongue. He watches the stove fire shine gold in the evening gloom, then puzzles over what Balor burned to get a golden flame. Wood burns orange. Coal burns yellow. What burns gold?
He shrugs off the question. He’ll sleep on it. If it still bothers him tomorrow, maybe he'll ask Balor. Maybe. Today, the setting sun makes him drowsy. It's time for bed.
He opts for the bedroom he's been using instead of the dining room and shuts himself inside. It's getting late. He's tired and Myr is moving around more as night approaches, as is his wont. Now’s not a good time to move camp. He'll transport some of the blankets from the bedrooms to the dining room tomorrow. How much he gets done depends on how long Balor’s errands take him. Either way, he can't see himself finishing sooner than the afternoon. Moving might span several days.
Before tucking into bed, Casper carves one more notch into the sill. He looks at the collection fondly. He has four marks for four days, plus a name of his own. It's more than he had upon arrival. He falls asleep, reassured that no matter what happens, there’ll be something for the world to remember him by.
END OF DAY FOUR.
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