The Moonlight Boy | Ferry's Tale # 1

Such an unusual child

Eileen reached out for her baby. But he bit her hand the moment she touched him. With trembling hands and a racing heart, she picked him up from his crib. That moment, he burst into tears. And he cried, and cried, and then cried some more. In vain she tried to breastfeed him, which used to bring him so much comfort before. In vain she sang or rocked him. In vain she walked him around the room for hours. The baby wouldn't stop crying. He didn't stop crying when his father came home; he was still crying several hours later when the night found the Donovans desperately trying to calm down their child.

"There's something wrong with our baby," Eileen said in a trembling voice.

Peter raised his eyebrow, watching his wife as she walked along and across the room with their crying son in her arms.

"It's nothing, don't worry. Little babies are fussy most of the time. Tomorrow morning it will be alright, you'll see," he said before heading towards the bedroom where he remained until the next morning.

That night, Eileen watched the baby writhing in his crib, trying to understand the sudden, strange change. The child eventually fell asleep, tired of too much crying. Yet he started all over again the next morning. And ever since that summer day, dark clouds came over the Donovan home. All this time, the baby wouldn't stop crying, tossing, and fussing in his crib.

Soon, even stranger things occurred. The parents watched the chubby pink baby turn into the most curious creature. His head grew bigger, and his ears looked like the ones of a feline with a small, white tuft on the top. His eyes seemed larger and sloping. His hair was incredibly long for a small child and it almost looked white. His skin became so pale and thin, that all the small veins on his body were now visible.

But the child's appearance wasn't Eileen's biggest concern. She also noticed odd things happening around him. Things that gave her the shivers and kept her awake at night. Objects in his proximity would appear and disappear out of nowhere. Crackling and sparkling came from all over the house. And if she put cookies or milk on the table near the crib, they would vanish into thin air.

In time, sick and tired of the noise his child made, Peter began to come home increasingly late. At the end of a hard working day, Little Folks tavern seemed somehow more welcoming than his own home. The noise and tumult of dozens of voices were more pleasant than that of his son. And the time spent at the tavern was getting longer and longer. So when he finally got home, sometimes late at night, Peter gobbled up something and then went to his bedroom to come out the next morning.

All this time, his tireless wife was taking care of the entire house and a restless child without the smallest complaint.

Soon, the small town found out about the poor Donovan child. After a beer or two at the tavern, Peter was willing to tell anyone about his sick boy. Because there was no doubt that such behaviour and appearance could only be the cause of a terrible sickness.

Following the advice of a well-meaning neighbour, Eileen secretly called the only doctor in town to see the baby. Dr. Goody examined him with great interest and curiosity. But he didn't find any evidence of illness. Not one that he knew of, anyway.

Then, tired of the little creature's bites and spits, he talked to Mrs. Donovan with great confidence as any doctor of his reputation should, "Oh, yes. A classic case of mental retardation combined with severe muscular dystrophy. And of course, albinism."

"What does that mean?" Eileen mumbled, wringing her hands.

"It means your child will never talk or walk. And he'll always be as pale as a sheet of paper. But don't worry," he added, "now there are institutions to treat such cases. They can offer help and benefits for the care of such... special children, like yours."

But Eileen Donovan didn't want to give her child in strangers' care. The mere thought of it gave her heartaches. So she paid the doctor with the little spare money she had and did what any loving mother would do ─ she decided to keep the baby out of everyone's sight.

Yet once this decision was taken, other changes occurred in the Donovan home. Tired of going up and down the stairs to her son's room, Eileen decided to move the child's crib in the living room. She could now watch him anytime, even when she was doing her chores. She then decided to sleep on the couch so she could always be next to him. These changes particularly seemed to please her husband. The matrimonial bedroom became his den where Eileen went in only once a week to clean up.

As for their child, nothing seemed to please him. Nevertheless, the crying and wailing were not that intense on sunny days or during the nights with a full moon. So Eileen decided to move his crib near the window leading to the front garden. This turned out to be a good decision because soon, the child started to giggle and laugh, trying to catch the rays of light with his skinny hands. Those were the only moments when the house was quiet. His mother could finally doze in her rocking chair, enjoying a well-deserved rest. Then, the moments of silence were getting more frequent and the Donovan home began to know some normalcy.

By the time he was three, little Andrew had never left his crib. He had never sat or stood up. Instead, he began to eat just about everything with an insatiable hunger.

"Soon enough he's going to eat us alive," Peter mumbled, watching his son's appetite. Eileen, however, would have gladly given up all her meals just to know her child happy.

At the age of five, Andrew Donovan had still not said a word. He had managed to sit while trying to catch a bug that entered the room, one spring day. And he even stood up too, trying to reach the flowers in the window. His appetite had fallen again. So much so, that he refused to eat anything but salad and green vegetables. The mere sight of meat caused him such repulsion, he almost fainted. But he absolutely loved puddings and soufflés and he never refused berries of any kind.

In time, the little boy conquered the living room step by step. His mother was now finding him in the most unusual and unreachable places: on the wardrobe, hanging on the paintings, or above the fireplace. The little boy almost never cried, and he seemed pleased even with the smallest spaces in the room.

His appearance didn't change, though. His hair fell down his shoulders in silky, white locks. Sometimes, it seemed like it spread an ethereal light when the moonlight came through the window. His eyes changed their colour depending on his mood. They were as blue as the most pristine sky when he was happy; as green as the first grass in the spring when he was curious about something; as grey as the darkest storm clouds when he was upset.

"Aren't you a curious child," his mother said to him one day, caressing his hair. "Curious and beautiful at the same time." That moment, the boy looked her dead in the eye as if he could understand every word she was saying.

But as the child grew older, things around him turned even more peculiar. Every time he touched an iron object, terrible wounds, burns, and blisters would cover his skin, causing him great pain. Luckily, his mother treated his wounds with a special lotion made out of healing herbs. Pushed by curiosity, the boy kept injuring himself, especially on his hands. Soon, his mother began to knit special gloves which Andrew almost never took off. She became so skilled in knitting that all the drawers were filled with gloves of all shapes and colours.

The changes the little boy was going through could not go unnoticed by his father. In the short time he spent at home, Peter did nothing but mutter, "So he can walk... What's the big deal? He can't do anything else, that's for sure. How is he going to work at the sawmill? How could I possibly teach him how to use the hammer or the chisel? He's nothing but a useless boy. When will you stop believing he's ever going to be a normal child, woman? He's not even answering his own name," he used to say before storming out the door.

Poor Peter Donovan. If he only knew.

Thank you for taking the time to read this book! I hope you'll enjoy Ferry's story and you'll join him and his friends in this magical adventure. Please vote and comment! Your opinion means a lot!

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