Wicked Angel by Taylor Caldwell Read Free Book Online Page A

surrounding Angelo. Mark had pointed out to her that less than three hundred yards away was the steep and dangerous bluff, falling sharply away and down some two hundred feet to a tiny, narrow valley filled with stones and scrub. Of course, Mark had had the edge of the bluff walled off by a log fence, the apertures between the logs were not wide enough for a small body; the fence extended not only just along the edge but a considerable distance on both sides where the land leveled; and the drop was easy and could even be climbed, and filled with trees. But still Mark was uneasy. He remembered his own love of danger when he was a boy, and he had visions of Angelo climbing up on the log fence to look down at the valley and the plum-colored hills beyond which faded away into a cool mist. A false step, a stumble, and a small child could tumble down the bluff, to be killed. The second year he knew he need have no fear. Angelo was excessively careful of himself; he was not in the least reckless; he understood the danger of the bluff fully. He rarely came within twenty feet of it. In fact, when Mark once wanted to show him the view, holding him in his arms, he had screamed and struggled and wrested himself free from his father, and had run, bellowing, to his mother. Nevertheless, Mark had the fence periodically inspected and strengthened, for after a rain or a drought the edges of the bluff were soft or crumbly. And he never failed to warn Kathy, who was even more aware of the danger than himself, and who never let her son out of her sight.
    Kathy gave what she called “nature studies” to Angelo, who listened avidly, as he listened to all knowledge. But, unknown to Kathy, he did not find the squirrels and the birds and the other creatures of the woods “cute,” as she did. He regarded them as weak enemies, to be chased and tormented and frightened. It gave him joy to see a small animal scuttle away at his approach, and the birds rise squawking at the sight of him. Once he had pursued a tiny lost fawn with a stick, until it had found its mother in the woods, and had hidden itself. When, in Angelo’s sixth summer, the boy had chased a young skunk with a rake, and the skunk had turned its terrible weapon on him in despair, Mark had laughed secretly and with an obscure satisfaction to himself. After that episode, which had resulted in hours of screamings, fist-flailings, vomitings, sobbings and stampings, and Kathy’s anguish and tears, and denunciations of all animals, Angelo always inspected any of his potential victims for the warning white stripes.
    At six, he was a big, strong boy, seeming, at first sight, to be at least two years older than his actual age. His handsomeness had increased. He was tireless and quick; he could climb a tree like a squirrel, there to demolish a nest, break eggs or kill the fledglings he found. The birds began to desert the area, and Mark wondered why, in the early dawns, he no longer heard the sweet calls close by, and the flutter of eager wings. For Angelo was careful never to let his parents know of his cruelties.
    He had not gone to kindergarten after all, after the first week of tears and rages, and the complaints of the teacher and the refusal of the children to play with him. So Kathy was keeping “her birdling” at home until the age of seven, when he would be compelled by law to go to school. “He needs other kids to play with,” Mark had protested. “All we need to do is to pound some civilized behavior and consideration into him.” But Kathy cherished what she believed was her son’s preference for her company to the exclusion of everyone else’s. “He’s so mature,” she would say. “He can’t bear the babyishness of other children, who are so dull and stupid. They bore him to death.”
    In a way, this was quite true, as Mark admitted. At six, Angelo could read and write fluently, for Kathy had been an assiduous teacher and had delighted in teaching him. He could even draw