His back hurt. That
was one of the constants in his life.
Sometimes it burned or spasmed or shrieked up his neck or down his leg,
and usually it ached—as his spine crushed the muscles inside the curves and
stretched those outside and pushed his ribs around. He did not know what it was
like to be without pain; he had been born twisted.
His mother had been horrified, when he’d emerged, his ear
nearly touching his shoulder. Some of
his earliest memories were of horrified faces quickly withdrawn, of repulsed
voices asking what was the matter with him.
Nobody ever smiled.
In those days, his parents still had hope that he would grow
out of it, and subjected him to many agonizing traction treatments. But when it became clear the mutation of his
spine had damaged his brain, his parents topped bothering. What was the use? He would never be able to even speak clearly;
grunts and gesticulations were all he could manage. He was doomed to be the village idiot, no
better than an animal. And everyone knew
that animals didn’t have proper emotions or feel pain the way people do.
He knew he was inferior.
For years, he thought “ugly” as much his name as “Igor,” and responded
accordingly. He could not jump or dance
like the others; his every attempt at lightness ended in broad clumsiness.
Yet nature had another trick to play on him. Had he been straight, he would have been a
world champion; twisted, he was merely prodigiously strong. He could lift carts and sheep and fallen
trees, and in this way, he earned a slight living—enough that he neither froze
nor starved.
In this way, also, he made his tormentors afraid of him.
His heart hurt. That
was another of the constants in his life.
His heart hurt, and he hated everyone.
Then the stranger came.
He was tall and straight, with an aristocratic profile and sleek black
hair graying about the temples. He
arrived in an elegant black carriage with an unfamiliar coat of arms painted on
the side.
Immediately, Igor jumped forward to hold the horses, hoping
for a tip. The horses did not balk from
him as long as they remained under the stranger’s hand. But the moment the stranger jumped down, the
horses kicked and blew, wild to kick him.
Igor hung on grimly, grunting with effort.
The stranger observed this with dark eyes, then laid one
hand on the nearest horse’s neck. Both
animals calmed immediately.
“You are strong,” the stranger said, looking Igor up and
down. His voice was cool, neither
praising nor condemning, and Igor basked in it.
“I have business to attend do,” the stranger went on. “Watch my horses while I am gone.”
Igor nodded enthusiastically, even as the stranger strode
off. He remained there nearly three
hours, guarding the horses, not moving to the left or to the right.
The stranger returned and saw this. Without a word of thanks, he mounted his
carriage, and tossed Igor a silver coin for his service.
A silver coin was more money than Igor had had in his
life. He stared at it in awe, then
clutched it to his chest possessively.
The stranger came visiting often after that, and each time,
Igor leapt forward to hold his horses.
When other entrepreneurial souls tried to take his place, he beat them
back mercilessly, and the stranger did not rebuke him.
With his increasing wealth, Igor purchased a brush and
bucket so he could care for the horses in the stranger’s absence. He gloried in his newfound position. But the more proud he became of his duties,
the more hostile and suspicious the other villagers became. Young women had been sickening; some had
died. And always, it was worse after the
stranger visited.
It became so bad that the next time the stranger visited,
the villagers met him in a mob, bearing foul-smelling herbs, wild roses, and
crucifixes carved from mountain ash.
They surrounded the carriage, and Igor saw they meant to hurt him. He roared and lunged at them, swinging a
stick and breaking bones until they scattered.
On his carriage, the stranger watched coolly, not interfering.
“I’m told your name is Igor,” he said, when the last villager had fled.
Igor signed that this was correct. He knew the stranger’s name, too—Count Dinu.
“We are alike, Igor,” the Count mused. “At once monster and human. Come work for me. Do all I say, and you shall have food, live
in a castle, and have as much money as your shriveled heart desires.” And he smiled at him.
Igor would have licked burning coals for the Count. He prostrated himself and swore in gobbled
grunts to be his.
Two decades passed.
The Count did not treat Igor well, but he kept his word. Igor brought him supplies and showed him
where beautiful young women lived. He
was despised by all he met, and he despised them in turn. None could match the Count.
But Igor made a mistake.
The girl he found, a succulent sixteen, was courted by three men, two
foreign, each brave and upright. They
waited until noon and then stormed the castle while Igor was away. In Igor’s absence, they stabbed the Count
through the heart, sawed off his head, and stuffed his mouth with foul herbs.
Igor came upon them as they left, congratulating one another
and embracing the girl. Wild, hot agony
scorched him and searing cold flooded his brain. He tore all four of them apart and howled and
fell to his knees and beat his chest, but it was too late. His master was dead, and he could not bring
him back.
For a year and a day, he remained in that castle, feral and
agonized. And then he set out into the
world, to find a new master.
