The Eyes of a King Read Online Free PDF Page B

coat, and with a snapping like a bat’s wing, it was in my hand. Another trick. It hurt my head to do that when I was tired.
    My grandmother moved faster than I would have believed she could. She snatched the coat out of my hand and threw it back as if it burned her. Her eyes flashed with anger and something else. Fear. It was exhilarating. She was scared of me, I realized. She was actually scared of me. “What do I have to tell you about those stupid tricks?” Her voice was high. “Go back and pick it up properly.” But I turned and marched out without a word, slamming the door behind me.
    When I reached the school gates, it was nearly six-thirty. I was shivering cold without my coat, and I half wished I had not marched out like that. I looked about for Stirling. A light was still burning in a classroom window. I had waited here earlier, but Sergeant Markey had caught me and sent me away.
    As I stood watching the buildings, a door opened and a small figure appeared against the light. It was Stirling. He trekked across the yard and through the gates. The snow was frozen in gray troughs and peaks, where many heavy boots had kicked it to slush during the day. I hurried to meet him as he stumbled across it.
    As he got closer I saw that he was shivering too, and therewas a blue tinge to his face that was not just the strange reflection of the snow. Two white points stood out on his cheeks, and I realized that they were beads of ice. Frozen teardrops. He stood still in front of me. “Look at you,” I said. “What have you been doing?”
    He shivered. I put my hand to his shoulder, leading him away. I could feel him trembling. “He made me stand out in the cold until I did drill,” Stirling said in a shaky voice.
    “Who? Sergeant Markey?” He nodded. “For how long?”
    “Since the end of school.”
    “But that’s three hours! It’s well below freezing point.” Stirling didn’t say anything.
    “So you did drill in the end?” I asked.
    “No.”
    “Why did he let you go, then?”
    “He was closing the school.”
    I looked at him hard. “Stirling, have you been crying?” I did not mean to sound reproachful. But boys in our country don’t cry. They just don’t. It’s a sign of weakness. Then again, Stirling was very small. He didn’t answer. “Did he hit you?” I asked him. Stirling put out his hand. I held it in mine, toward the light of the streetlamp. On the white palm, three raw stripes stood out. The skin shone where it had been struck. His hand was cold, so cold—as if he was dead—and so small.
    I let it go and shivered. “He didn’t have to hit you three times. Not if you cried.”
    “That’s not why I cried,” Stirling said.
    “Why, then?”
    “He was saying things. Mean things.”
    “What things?”
    He sighed shakily. “Just … mean things … It doesn’t matter now, anyway.”
    “Tell me,” I said. “I think I can take it.”
    He paused. “Just things about our mother and father. Nothing, really. It was stupid of me to cry, and—”
    I interrupted him sharply. “What things?”
    “He said … our mother was …” He glanced at me. “No better than a prostitute.”
    “No better than
what
?” I said, hearing my own voice rising.
    “I told you.”
    I could not speak. I tried to, but I could not.
    “He only said it to make me cry,” Stirling muttered.
    At that I found my voice again and began shouting.
    “Leo, stop it,” Stirling said. “Don’t shout at me. Don’t swear like that.” He looked close to crying again. “Leo, please. This is why I didn’t want to tell you.”
    “Sorry.” I kicked hard at the snow in the gutter. It was frozen solid, and I only hurt my foot.
    “You don’t have to fight my battles for me, Leo,” Stirling said, his voice still unsteady.
    “How will you fight them if I don’t?”
    “The way you’re supposed to.”
    “Which is what? Letting other people win? Turn the other cheek? Sometimes that’s the wrong thing to do. People