Free Children of the Wolf by Jane Yolen Page A

she followed, standing upright and taking timid half-steps.
    Open and flat, the maidan had once been used to drill soldiers when The Home had been headquarters for the Second Rajputs, an Indian regiment. There were now bushes growing up along the parade route, and a few spindly trees. It was a good place to play ball.
    When Kamala realized how wide open the maidan was, she refused to move farther and stood there, trembling. She grabbed onto my arm and nearly pulled me over. I had to remove her hand from my elbow forcibly. Then I looked into her eyes, those frightened, shifting animal eyes.
    “Kamala, come,” I said. “We are going to walk around the maidan . The sahib Welles has ordered it so.”
    At Mr. Welles’ name, she looked over her shoulder back at the orphanage. I pulled on her hand and the leash simultaneously and began to drag her with me. “Kamala, come.”
    The maidan was dry, and our feet raised soft little puffs of dust. Kamala twisted around to look at the prints we left behind.
    I pulled her forward.
    About halfway across the maidan we came upon the carcass of a cow. Vultures were already at it, tearing greedily at its rotting flesh. Kamala stopped and sniffed the air, turning toward the dead beast. She licked her lips, started to pull at her leash.
    “Kamala, no,” I said sharply, giving the line a quick tug.
    She broke suddenly from my grasp, tearing the leash from my hand and ran—not toward the cow, as I feared, but back to the open gate—crablike and scrambling on all fours.
    I ran after her as fast as I could, but I could not catch up.
    She stopped at the gate and pulled herself erect, using the wall. She was scarcely out of breath, but by the time I reached her, I was breathing heavily, and my stomach heaved.
    “Kamala,” I panted, raising my hand, prepared to scold.
    She smiled that strange animal smile at me and put her hand out, touching my chest.
    “Mmmmdas,” she said. She pointed to her own chest. “Kmmmmala.” Then she pointed in toward the compound. “Home,” she said, as clearly as if she had spoken the word every day of her life. “Home.”

WORDS
    O H, THE RIVER FLOW of words that followed amazed us all. She was never easy to understand, but slowly we all learned Kamala’s peculiar way of speaking. She would concentrate her effort in her face, muscles straining, forehead wrinkled, pushing out a single word at a time, often foreshortened by a syllable or two. She never learned true sentences, and curiously enough, she never learned to say the words yes and no. Just a narrowing of her big eyes indicated no; a wide-open grin meant yes. Everything she said was in the present tense, as if the past did not exist for her. After my name, her name, and “home,” she quickly learned these words: milk, rice, meat, flower, tree, dog, bird, glass, hand, egg, cow, goat, cat, water, bath, mirror, dress, dirty, ball, horse, cart, garden, in, out, shoe, doll, give.
    “ And whatsoever Adam called every living creature ,” intoned Mr. Welles in his Bible-quoting voice, “ that was the name thereof .” He puffed a cloud of pipe smoke into the air.
    “I hesitate to see where a shoe or a ball or a cart is a living creature, Mr. Welles,” Mrs. Welles said, laughing. Indeed, we were all laughing as Kamala went around the courtyard touching things and naming them back to us.
    She was like a large baby, and we rewarded her efforts as we would those of a small child, clapping and encouraging her further. She responded by going faster and faster.
    For an afternoon she was a wonder, and we played the naming game with her. Even Cook joined in, our laughter bringing her away from her rocker. She came out with a plucked chicken in her hands and pointed to it, saying, “Meat, meat.”
    Kamala answered by trying to grab the uncooked fowl from Cook’s hand, and Cook ran back to the kitchen screaming, and that was the end of her participation.
    After an hour of the game Mr. Welles put his hands up