shift his attention to the crow until Dubykky softly encouraged him to return to the lesson. After they read all fifty-four pages, Dubykky closed the cover and told Junior to recite. He did so, flawlessly, every rhyme and fable, in an uninflected, leisurely, whispery voice, ending,
Come when you’re called,
Do what you’re bid,
Shut the door after you,
And never be chid.
“Why are you here?” Dubykky asked once more.
“This little boy is the bad little boy. And so are some adults,” Junior told him.
“Where is the bad one?”
It was the all-important question. How much did the echo already know? Only a little, it seemed. Junior held out his palm in the direction of Hawthorne.
“Who is the bad one?”
Junior did not reply. Jurgen shifted uneasily on Dubykky’s shoulder as the silence lengthened.
Who had caused the boy to appear in a desert town, a wind-blown valley, four thousand feet above sea level? Because someone had. After a human exploited and then murdered four others, purely for self-satisfaction, the lingering malevolence created a disturbance in that small portion of nature that was exclusively human, and rebounded. An echo. The echo of evil assumed a human form. Dubykky could not tell Junior who his target was. It was for the boy, not him, to follow the spoor; the mission was to tempt, lure, and trap the human monster. The echo killed that human and, if all went in accordance with evil’s intent, died in the process. The rules of evil, which bound Dubykky as much as Junior, recognized no other outcome, lamentable as that might be.
Dubykky’s role? That was more delicate. He would watch, certainly. He might teach, he might guard against error and inhibiting injury, but above all it was for him to ensure a clear, neat, final vengeance.
For the rest of the night—Dubykky could get by on almost no sleep—he taught Junior words and how to put them together and the rudiments of ideas and reasoning.
Before leaving, he mulled what his parting words ought to be. He might not get the chance to speak to Junior again. He could not predict how the events would play out. Except at the very end.
“When the time comes for you to kill,” he said carefully, touching Junior’s chest, “you will feel it here, and it will feel right.”
The boy blinked at him but gave no sign of comprehending. Dubykky did not expect it. But he did hope that when Junior fulfilled his destiny, his own role would be simply as a witness, not as an executioner. For Dubykky’s duty was just that. If either survived the echo-human encounter, he would complete the killing.
An echo’s existence was lonely and brief, sprung from violent death and ending in violent death. Whatever happened to Junior in between, Dubykky did not wish the boy to be companionless. And this did not have to be so. While Junior had taken in the dismal tutelage placidly, his eyes never wavering, he did show a flicker of interest whenever Jurgen repeated something. The young crow sparked emotion in the young echo. It pleased Dubykky, for that was exactly as he had hoped.
“Now I have someone I want you to get acquainted with.”
It was early on in the morning but before the eastern mountains developed a pale border of light, the little shack still dark beyond the yellow glow of the flashlight. Dubykky roused Jurgen, who was beginning to doze again, and guided him onto his wrist. Smiling at the crow, he pointed to his mouth and then said to Junior, “Smile.” The boy repeated the word dutifully. Dubykky pointed to Jurgen and spoke his name.
“Jurgen,” Junior repeated.
“Smile at Jurgen,” Dubykky told him, and Jurgen, grouchy from being awakened before dawn, also enunciated, “Smile,” if in a discontented scrape.
Junior made an attempt to imitate Dubykky’s broad smile, faltering at first so that his unexercised lips looked wormy, but then managing it. Slowly, crooning to the young crow all the while, Dubykky extended his arm until his wrist was right by Junior’s shoulder. He shook his hand lightly. The bird stepped across, then daintily lifting his claws turned himself around until he faced Dubykky again. As he did, his tail feathers brushed Junior’s cheek. The boy smiled once more, and it was unforced, natural. With the neck flexibility equivalent to a newborn infant’s, he swiveled his head ninety degrees and directed the smile at the bird. He crooned to it, emulating Dubykky meticulously.
He left boy, bird, and book in that sad cobbled-together shack feeling at odds with himself. Homely as he was, Junior had a winning smile, attractive because it was unworldly. Already, Dubykky was growing fond of him. Such a nice smile was typical for creatures like Junior, though, and made no difference in the long run. Only the fated dark, cruel end awaited him. It had been a lucky chance, then, that Dubykky had found Jurgen so that Junior could share what life was allotted him.
Yet something was awry this time. Always before, an echo came into being knowing the name of its target human. Junior had only a jumble of sounds to guide him.
That was one reason Dubykky was moved to teach Junior. It was not strictly out of necessity. Junior would follow his destiny one way or another, eventually. Dubykky taught nonetheless. To smooth the boy’s path in part and in part to discover why there was a muddle with the human name. That was not the entire truth of it either, though. Dubykky also taught for his own sake. Junior’s haziness about his destined human made Dubykky wonder about his own blighted, obscure origin in medieval Hungary. That was the real heart of it. At some point before memory, Dubykky must have been like Junior. He felt fellowship.
Three
For hours after the slender man left, the man who belonged to the sounds Dubykky, the boy-creature practiced words with the crow, Jurgen. In the course of it, he discovered in himself a new state of mind, which desired the bird to remain close, required it even. So most of all he practiced his new self-sounds, Junior. He pointed at himself, widened his mouth as Dubykky had taught, and spoke “Junior” over and over. Now perched on the shoe tip of the boy’s right foot, the bird paid strict attention. When he finally said, “Junior,” in return, the boy switched to a new instruction. He pointed at Jurgen and began to repeat, still smiling, “You are Jurgen.” Eventually the crow repeated the phrase exactly.
Too exactly. Junior sensed something wrong. He checked the book, thought over what Dubykky had taught him, and realized that he had used the wrong words. He should have taught the bird to say, “I am Jurgen.” But if he, who was called Junior, said that, it would also be incorrect. “I am Jurgen” and “You are Jurgen” meant different things. It would be like teaching the crow to say, “I am Junior.” That would be equally wrong for the crow to repeat because Jurgen was Jurgen, not Junior. Thinking further, Junior considered saying, “I am Junior, and you are Jurgen.” But if the crow learned to say that, it would be twice wrong. Possibly he should instruct, “I am Jurgen, and you are Junior.” But the boy couldn’t say that. It was not correct that he was Jurgen. He sat wordlessly a long while, puzzled.
An idea came to him from nowhere. He recognized it as an idea because it fit the description of ideas that Dubykky had given him. Junior pointed at himself and smiled. “Junior,” he said, and the crow said so too. Then Junior pointed at the bird, smiling, and said, “Jurgen.” “Jurgen,” agreed the crow. Junior dropped
