Free The Philosopher's Apprentice by James Morrow

intruder and extract his throat.
    â€œMy name’s Donya,” she said, stroking her guardian’s broad, rocky skull. “And this is Omar.” The dog had been spared the modifications to which breeders commonly subjected his kind—bobbed tail, ears forced erect by scar tissue—but he looked plenty scary without them. “What’s your name?”
    â€œMason,” I said, cautiously extending my hand, palm down, toward the Doberman. “Hi there, Omar.” The dog sniffed my fleshy offering, then issued a semantically complex snort. I was not to be entirely trusted, but at least I’d followed the proper protocol.
    Surveying my surroundings, I saw that Donya’s intention to launch her kite that afternoon was not unreasonable, for we were standing on a windswept scrubland broken only by distant ranks of cypress trees and the occasional lone acacia. To have a successful kite-flying experience here, one need merely avoid the concrete wall and the forest beyond.
    â€œI’m five years old, and I’m having a tea party with Rupert and Henry and Deedee,” Donya said, starting away. “Would you like to come, too?”
    â€œSure.”
    Crossing the scrub, Donya at my side, I looked in all directions, hoping to spot an adult. Apparently the child was playing unsupervised. What sort of dumb-ass, irresponsible parents would abandon their preschooler to the perils of an island wilderness? Was Omar really equal to any threat that might arise?
    My hostess guided me toward a banyan tree as vast and sprawling as its Indian cousins, the naked roots arcing from trunk to earth like ropes anchoring a circus tent. Cradled within its branches was a clapboard cottage, white with yellow shutters, scaled to Donya’s proportions. The child deposited her kite at the base of the trunk, told her dog she’d be back soon, and directed me up a zigzagging wooden staircase to the porch, where the other guests awaited. Donya made the introductions. Rupert was a velveteen giraffe boasting red fur covered with yellow polka dots, Henry a stuffed koala bear dressed in a Come to Queensland T-shirt, and Deedee a plush chimpanzee wearing a Florida Marlins baseball cap.
    Stooping, I entered Donya’s diminutive domain. The raw materials of a tea party—four white china cups and saucers, a small silver pot, a stack of peanut-butter sandwiches, a plate holding chocolate-chip cookies and vanilla wafers—covered a table adorned with Ernest Shepard’s classic drawing of Christopher Robin descending the stairs dragging Edward Bear behind him, bump, bump, bump. Donya brought Rupert, Henry, and Deedee in from the porch, propping them up in their little cane chairs, then installed herself at the head of the table. Given the frailty of the chairs, sitting was not an option for me. I crouched in the corner.
    â€œMight I infer you’re here on vacation—or are you a local resident?” In my efforts to avoid condescending to children, I commonly burden them with my most tortured diction, but Donya nevertheless understood me.
    â€œI live here,” she said, offering me a cherubic smile. Freckles decorated her cheeks like sprinkles of cinnamon.
    â€œWith your mother and father?”
    â€œJust my mother. I don’t have a father. Henry and Brock visit every day.” Donya upended the silver pot, poured out a measure of red liquid, and set the teacup before her stuffed chimp. “The other Henry, I mean. Henry Cushing, not Henry Koala.”
    â€œIs Henry Cushing a person?”
    â€œOf course he’s a person. He gives me my lessons. Brock does, too.”
    How strange to think I wasn’t the only tutor on Isla de Sangre. I wondered how many of us there were, and whether we all worked for Edwina.
    While my hostess filled two more teacups, passing one to Henry Koala, keeping the other for herself, I increased my crouch ten degrees and peered out the window. A grand and