The Execution (5 page)

Bludgeoning the snout of the boar with
his bare fists, he finally caused it to release its teeth from the
girl’s limb. She had bled so much that for a fortnight it was
dubious whether she would survive at all.

Ravan went mysteriously missing,
though no one noticed this with all the commotion surrounding the
injured girl. The Old One eventually left the crippled girl’s bed,
hopeful that she would survive. He was mortified when he found the
boy crouched in the corner of the pigsty, a blood drenched
plowshare clutched in his hands. The boar, three times the size of
the boy, was unrecognizable, a butchered mass in the boggy
muck.

It disturbed the old man that the act
of killing had gone beyond death, for there remained no
recognizable shred of evidence of the animal’s species—the act had
been so violent. All Ravan could whisper was, “It shouldn’t have
hurt her,” and then, for a good long while, he again ceased to
speak.

This was the one and only
manifestation of this kind the Old One had ever witnessed. This was
not hunting, and it went beyond protection.

This was the first and only time he
had seen Ravan kill.

He told no one, but coaxed Ravan from
the sty and washed him off in the butcher shack, away from the
house. Wrapping the boy in a blanket, he went for clean clothes and
burnt the bloodied ones. No one else ever knew. It remained their
secret and the Old One wondered if the boy recognized the gravity
of this.

There were also those rare times, when
he looked into the shadowy eyes of the boy and he did not see a
child, but a man—dark and brooding. The mystery of ages seemed to
be gazing back at him. He wondered at the depths of the child’s
thoughts, wondered where his mind went when the child looked so
lost and far away.

Most of the time, however, he was
overwhelmed with the innocence of the boy. He would watch Ravan
scamper up the hill with his bow in hand, his quiver of arrows
clattering against his thin frame, pausing to wave at him before
disappearing into the woods. As of late, his treks into the woods
had become longer, and the child might even be gone for several
days at a time.

Now the Old One frowned as the
Innkeeper pitched his sale. The big man was determined to have his
way.

Ravan had always been quiet, gentle,
and fiercely protective of the other children at the orphanage. It
was his sanctuary, his safe haven, and to let him go was to free a
dove to a hurricane.

He sighed and glanced at the mangers
where he knew the boy sneakily spied out at them and saw the dark
head disappear quickly.

The boy peered from behind the
mangers, squatting comically back on his heels to shrink his frame,
as though this would prevent him from being seen. His charcoal eyes
glistened hungrily from beneath a smudged and disheveled face. He
chewed straw, sucking from it the sweetness and spitting the fiber
out, only when it became so fine as to cut the side of his
tongue.

The Old One smiled inwardly. To him,
the children were the one pure thing, the one goodness in a bleak
world. Ravan had worked his way secretly and profoundly into a
special corner of his heart.

This made the decision difficult. He
knew the boy found a purpose and, more critically, acceptance
amongst the other orphans. He thought that Ravan likely identified
his purpose with how much he helped provide for them
all.

A decision must be made, however, and
he was convinced each child should be given the chance to fly, to
venture into the majesty of the world, good or bad. This was
Ravan’s chance.

For this reason, he ultimately
acquiesced in the wishes of the Innkeeper and his Fat
Wife.

A mere half an hour later, the Old One
wiped a tear from his eye, his hand raised in goodbye—but the child
never looked back. He watched until the carriage bobbed and
eventually vanished from sight. Standing for a lost amount of time,
he finally turned and hobbled away to tend those who
remained.

* * *

Ravan left the orphanage that chilly
afternoon with two sets of clothes, his bow and quiver of arrows,
flint and steel, and a copper ring the Old One fashioned for him
one bygone Christmas. He quietly twisted the ring round and around
on his finger, as was his habit when he was unhappy. In his boot
leggings, another treasure lie hidden, one which no one knew
about.

It was a knife he'd made long ago,
from the plowshare he used on the killer boar. Ravan had taken the
plowshare to the woods and hammered the steel into a blade with a
river-hardened stone. He’d built a fire by the river, and after
heating and reheating the metal repeatedly, for several hours, he
created the courage of the blade. It glowed red and angry with
life, and Ravan stared into the beauty of it for a good long
while.

Later, he took the blade to the mill
wheel in the barn, ground it coarse and carefully honed it to a
smooth edge with the chalkstone he'd found along the cliffs. Then,
using an old leather harness strap, he meticulously buffed the
blade to razor sharpness.

Finally, the boy seated the blade by
hammering its shaft into the burned-out marrow of a magnificent
antler tine. The antler had smoked and burned, a sweet glue smell,
as Ravan heated the poker and seared out the core.

In his hand, when his task was
complete, he held a thing of elegant and deadly beauty. It was a
weapon which would cleave a cloth laid across it, simply by the
weight of the fabric—it was that sharp. Little did Ravan know that
metal smiths in Asia had suffered years to craft such a blade. It
was a gift, to be able to create such a weapon. It was born of him,
fashioned from his soul, and now it lay carefully wrapped in
oilcloth. He felt the familiar heaviness against his calf as he sat
swaying in the carriage, little boy with his bow between his
knees.

Ravan did not look back but went in
submissive silence as the carriage ascended from the small valley
and slowly disappeared along the crest of the eastern hills. His
dark head was bowed as he turned the copper ring round and round
upon his finger.

CHAPTER THREE

†

D’ata was adopted at birth, or so he
was told. It never occurred to him to question it as his parents
offered few details of the event, at least none which would have
linked him to his birth parents. Not much was known about his real
mother and father, only that he'd been mysteriously left in
swaddling rags on the steps of the church. Such a stir it
created.

There had been a young couple in the
congregation, who had no children of their own. Such a divinely
ordained phenomenon this had been, the congregation murmured. A
vast empty spot loomed large in the lives of this childless couple,
and so they were genuinely delighted when the parish suggested they
take the baby. It was only natural! Supremely intentioned, God had
reached down from the heavens and created divine
serendipity!

At a time when so much was uncertain,
the Church offered stability to its congregation. Such was the
continued purpose of the institution and, in the case of this
couple, it worked like a charm. Never mind the fact that they were
rich beyond all reasonable means, and all would be gratified by
watching the child grow up washed in wealth. It was a wonderful
diversion from the struggles of everyday life.

The event was very dramatic. Such an
affluent couple as the Cezannes, unable to have children who, by
the grace of God, were given a baby. D’ata had already heard the
story repeated many times in social circles. He was embarrassed as
he became older and witnessed the story grow and take on a life of
its own as it became increasingly sensational.

Now, surrounded by such wealth and
luxury, there could not be a more perfect existence. Such a perfect
life and such a perfect child.

In return for his epic salvation, it
was understood that D’ata should try very hard to please his
parents and do their bidding. Indeed, he delighted all those around
him as he was a kindhearted boy and full of life. It was very easy
to love him.

His parents were fair and blonde, both
of them noble and very wealthy. How unusual it was to see the dark
haired boy sitting between them in mass, kicking his silk, stocking
clad feet to-and-fro.

Having been practically born on the
steps of the Church, it was only natural that the Church remained
an important and ever-present stronghold in the boy's life, and
because medieval society built the Church, they had much influence
on the business of it. How dangerous would it be to tempt the hand
of God in these matters? Therefore, it was a holy ordainment when
D’ata became a Cezanne, and—a literal child of God.

As the years went by, the machine of
divine providence groaned on as planned. D’ata’s mother and father
watched with pride as he stepped in and out of the robes of altar
boy, choirboy, and bishop’s assistant. Finally, he was to enter as
a postulant in the fall.

Their son was a source of wonderful
fulfillment for them. They greatly enjoyed the comments from their
fellow parishioners on Saturdays, 'Monsieur and Madame Cezanne,
your son has grown into such a fine young man. How proud you must
be that he has been chosen for the clergy. God has blessed you and
our church...'

How fitting it was that their son
should follow such a perfectly appointed path.

As his ordainment progressed, there
were no detours, no entangled side trails, and no deviations from
the master plan. D’ata accepted his fate and seemed the picture of
contentment in his role as the good son. There were no waves in
this sea of tranquility and everything was a perfect, glistening
calm.

That was before, though, before things
so abruptly changed. It was before the onset of the emotional
paraplegia that was soon to become his reality...

* * *

Yvette left the chickens after
slinging the feed. There wasn’t an overabundance of grain these
days, and she tried to scatter it well so all could share. When the
larger pullets pecked and savaged the smaller ones, Yvette scolded
them and kept them at bay by swishing her skirts, allowing the
weaker ones a longer time to feed.

The growing season had been so short
this year, the winters had been cool, but at least there were many
insects with the cool and wet weather. The chickens seemed to be
getting enough.

She had been sitting for a bit,
watching them, feeling sorry for the cockerels. These young males
had been separated from the pullets, the less than year old
females, and would be slaughtered tomorrow. They didn’t seem to
know, or care. They scratched the ground and pecked at each other,
posturing for more space in the confinement of the small cage they
now shared.

Yvette thought to herself, in the
brief wisdom a four year old can sometime possess, that to be male
and human was good, but to be a male chicken was a poor
draw.

Besides that, the cockerels were cute,
with their fluffy little tail feathers trying to grow all long and
fancy, their bright red combs and silly little nubbins for spurs.
She knew they would eventually be roosters and knew that roosters
could be a force to be reckoned with—especially when they hopped on
your back and pecked you on the head. But for now, the youngsters
were fairly adorable.

Frowning, she hopped up. She suddenly
wanted the company of her sister and wandered into the house
looking for Julianne.

“
Why do we have to kill
them?” the child asked her older sister, who stood with her back
turned, washing up dishes from early breakfast.

“
What are you talking
about?” Julianne asked, a bit cross.

It seemed Julianne was cross a good
deal these days. Yvette wondered if it was because of the books her
sister was reading, the ones from which she would not read aloud to
her. Her sister’s mood did seem to be tempered by whatever she was
reading at the moment.

“
The little boy
chickens—why do we have to kill them tomorrow?” Yvette had decided
that there was only one who could explain something as wrong as
chicken murder—Julianne.

Julianne reached up with the heel of
her hand to sweep away a stray lock of hair that must have been
annoying her for some time now, the way she batted at it. “We have
to Yvette. What would we do with all those boy chickens when they
are grown?”

Yvette wasn’t convinced. “It just
seems mean that we have to do this—how would you feel if we had to
axe our brothers tomorrow?” Her chin jutted out in defiance,
although truthfully she would have been quite satisfied to smack
her brothers a good one from time to time. But that would never
happen. Yvette was the youngest, and small, even by fourteenth
century standards.

Julianne dried her hands roughly,
pulled a chair out from the table and motioned for Yvette to have a
seat. When her little sister was settled across from her with a
glass of milk and a day old biscuit, Julianne closed her eyes and
exhaled. “Yvette...it’s just the way things are. Things have to die
sometimes—they have a place, a purpose, and a time to be done in
this world. Chickens aren’t brothers.”