Peter and the Pauper

A man hobbled out of a hut on the outskirts of the village and paused, nose pointing upwards, as if trying to detect something other than the fresh night air. Brow furrowed, he limped as fast as he could on his stiff knee, to the old Ridley Manor.

At the same time, also unnoticed by all, a nine-year-old boy crept out of bed and silently tiptoed down the lonely corridors of the manor he lived in. Once Peter, the boy, reached the giant bay window, he sighed longingly. How he wished he was free, like his best friend, Jack.

Jack wasn’t a typical friend for a boy Peter’s age. He was the village pauper. He didn’t beg, but he lived in a canvas sheet propped up by a few sticks and logs and was despised by all the village’s inhabitants. All except Peter. Peter’s family was quite wealthy, but Peter didn’t like this wealth. He felt it weighed him down and almost wished he was in Jack’s shoes. That way he could roam free without being bossed around or babied by the maids. He wouldn’t even mind being mute, as Jack was, being so might stop him always saying the wrong thing at the wrong time. At any rate, that’s all his father ever told him: to bite his tongue, for God’s sake, and stop pestering him. With these thoughts, he sighed and dozed off, slumping against the window’s left panel.

It was warm. Too warm. In fact it was stiflingly hot. Peter drowsily sensed that he was violently being bounced up and down before he suddenly realized that whoever was carrying him had burst outside. The cool air refreshed him; it was like drinking a pitcherful of freezing lemonade on a dry August day.

Drowsily unsticking his eyelids, Peter realized he had just been saved from the raging tower of flame that had once been his house. He looked up at Jack and returned his watery smile.

It didn’t matter that Jack was mute. They both knew perfectly well how the other felt.