The Execution (6 page)

“
Why?” Yvette asked, not
about the chickens not being brothers, but about the ‘world
purpose’ idea. “If somebody said you had a purpose, that working
the cows was all you would ever get to do—your purpose, would that
be good enough for you?”

The five year old’s question was
dumbfounding, innocent, and sincere. Julianne’s mouth fell open,
speechless. She was evidently considering her answer carefully for
she said nothing for a long while. It was a harsh question, ‘Was
this all the future held for one like Julianne? A dairy
farm?’

Julianne started to piece together an
answer, started to mumble a poor explanation, but the child saw
through her and all was lost.

She shook her head and pleaded,
“That’s just stupid. We could just go free them into the
woods.”

Julianne tried to push the question of
a moment before from her mind and laughed outright. “Yvette, if we
did that, soon the woods would be all full of feisty boy chickens!
Nobody could even walk there! The roosters would jump all over us
and then what would we do?”

Yvette giggled and just like that, she
changed course. “Can we just go read again? About the princess and
the prince? Pleeeze?”

Julianne smiled, tossed the dishtowel
onto the counter and stood up to take Yvette’s hand. She shook her
head, “Yvette, why are you so romantic so young? Don’t you realize
that life is—complicated?”

Giggles, again, were all the answer
Julianne got and she said with a grin, “Come on, Yvette, you’ll
make us late. We have to get ready for church.”

* * *

A beautiful April Saturday greeted the
worshipers and the sun shone extra bright through the stained glass
of the church. Outside, the cottonwoods shed their sticky fuzz. It
collected in downy mounds in the remote corners of the cathedral,
magically softening everything and giving the space around it a
dreamlike glow.

It was warm inside and D’ata stood
blanketed by the colors cascading through a window of stained
glass, the light dancing red and purple off the inky black of his
hair. The congregation filed in slowly, more than a few of them
scrutinizing him as they made their way to their pews. The bishops
had commented on more than one occasion regarding how attractive
their young apprenticing priest was. It was a source of ill-guided
vanity for a share of them, and they knew it ensured the presence
of more than a few at mass.

‘
Not only is our young
priest appointed by God, given to us on the steps of our church no
less, he is beautiful. Make no mistake, he is ours.’

Although Christians believed that the
afterlife was superior to their current fate, vanity of the
here-and-now did not willingly invite renunciation. D’ata was
coveted by the congregation.

This morning, he was to serve
communion. His hands absently separated the bread as the
parishioners filed to the altar boards to kneel and contemplate
their rosaries. The warm sweetness of the bread made his belly
growl and as hunger pangs threatened, he regretted having skipped
breakfast to spend the morning with Henri in the
stables.

The soft strains of a sweet acapella
filled the massive hall as the ritual began. D’ata was content,
preferring the child’s voice to the heavier adult choir. The sweet
and tender music lifted his thoughts from his growling belly, away
from the confines of the church, out the checkerboard glass windows
and across the downy cottonwood grounds.

He was lazy today, his mind meandering
briefly from his task to the upcoming afternoon, when he might take
one of his father’s fine horses down to the river and enjoy this
rare warm spell. His duties were simple as his parents were quite
wealthy.

His father, the Baron of Cezanne, had
close to sixteen thousand acres and a fleet of trade ships.
Monsieur Cezanne did not boast a genealogy of nobility. His title
was not inherited, but had evolved of brilliant commerce. He was
wealthy by his own means and whereas nobility could be granted to a
superior human being, his title was largely and inarguably earned.
No one disputed his power.

The Baron employed thirty-two knights
and held court in royal style. He kept upon his estate a falconer,
grand stable master, vintner, chef and master butler. There were
countless servants, including squires, pages, cooks and handmaids.
His payroll included teachers and musicians; he even employed an
astrologer.

Flax and wool were the main exports of
the estate. These were woven into linens so fine as to compete with
the very best of England. The Baron owned the weave shops as well.
The quality of a Cezanne bolt of cloth exceeded all expectations
and was a coveted possession, even as far away as
Russia.

Over time, the Cezanne estate had
developed a fine reputation. Upon the grounds were bred some of the
best horses in the region and the estate carried its own coat of
arms. The township eventually bestowed to Monsieur Cezanne the
title of Baron. He was wise at business, with a strong character
which allowed the estate to flourish. Also, as trade was
compensated almost entirely in silver and gold, the Baron coined
his own money. This gave him enormous power.

The grounds were pristine, impeccably
groomed. The daily routine marched along like a precision clock
with breakfast at seven, cider at ten-fifteen...great expectations
at every turn. The mansion was polished and immaculate, the white
Moroccan marble gleaming against the green backdrop of the southern
hills of the Marseille.

The black walnut finishings were oiled
daily, taking on the polished purple effect which no other wood
possessed. There were grand fireplaces in every room, vaulted
undergrounds linking servant's quarters to the immaculate courts,
and lavish furnishings, fine as coin could buy. The outside boasted
fish pools, equestrian centers, gardens, a hedge maze and several
substantial guest homes. Separate quarters stood for the servants,
who provided attendance for the massive estate and its
occupants.

Furthermore, the Baron was generous.
As a result, the highest nobility and royalty, from all over Europe
and even from the Far East would visit the Baron and
Baroness.

The Cezanne Estate enjoyed access to
the entire Mediterranean trade routes and used the Rivers Rhome and
Loire to trade north. The Baron shared cordial honors with the
nearby Avignon papacy and strongly preferred his Mediterranean
ambiance, visiting Paris and London rarely, only when business
dictated.

As an employer, the Baron commanded an
estate worthy of a lifetime of allegiance. His knights were loyal
and fierce. The Baron Cezanne had forged the very belt and spurs
which held his crest; there was prestige, honor and money to be had
by fidelity to this fief. As a result, there was little turnover of
employment, and familiarity only added stability to the machinery
of the Cezanne estate. It was a fine domain, one of the finest in
France, fine as fine could be, and D’ata completed the agenda
perfectly.

There were no chores as the servants
attended to every need, and they adored D’ata. He was a generous
child, never hesitating to lend a hand when Raphael was carrying
wood in for the kitchen stoves. The boy particularly enjoyed the
stables and was not averse to mucking the stalls on occasion just
to be able to chat with Henri.

Henri was the stable master. He was
small like a terrier, with wiry white locks escaping from all
directions beneath his woolen cap. His eyebrows were thick and
wild, hanging feral above his clear and sparkling, pale blue
eyes.

He lived in and ruled the stables with
a no-nonsense agenda tempered with kindness. His firm compassion
agreed with the animals as well and his fine eye and horsemanship
showed in the quality breeding and stamina of the fine beasts
stabled there. A Cezanne stallion was a work of art. Henri,
however, seldom rode anymore as scoliosis twisted him thoroughly.
He walked only with the help of two canes.

Though there were other stable hands
to help with the labors, D’ata particularly enjoyed helping his old
friend. Henri was quick witted and teased the boy. He also provided
the fatherly advice and intuition that the Baron, on occasion,
seemed to lack.

D’ata also loved the animals, loved
the smell of them and the way the earthy steam rose from their
backs when he pulled the saddles after a ride. They were noble
creatures, elegant and free, even when caged. It was no mystery to
him that, in the horse, God created a creature capable of lifting
even the most wretched heart from mediocrity to brilliance. D'ata
was privileged to take the horses out at any time for a gallop over
the countryside.

He would sit for hours with Henri,
polishing the harnesses and bridles until the bits shone and the
leather was as soft as his own expensive goatskin gloves. His
father disapproved of the menial labors, however, and D’ata was
careful to do them only in his father’s absence. He knew the
routine well enough—knew who could be trusted and who could not,
though those were few. He feigned a bored meandering when a rare
one of those approached.

D’ata was at home on the estate. Young
women were sometimes interested in him, visiting daughters of
family friends, passing nobility or royalty. For the most part,
D’ata was innocently oblivious of any adoration cast his way. His
purpose did not allow it and his focus was steadfast.

The Cezannes expected him to excel in
his studies, and he did, dutifully. He played the violin
beautifully and, most of all, accepted his calling to the
priesthood, studying hard and praying at least five times a day,
and six the next if he fell short. He was faultlessly obedient, and
had always been so, for D’ata knew nothing else. He was content, as
the mighty cottonwoods are content. What else do they know but to
stand and allow the seasons to come and go?

His life was peaceful in a very
stagnant sort of way. A bird would never fly off its course; to do
so would cast it off its bearings and place it at risk for a bad
winter—or worse. The unknown is not safe, and one should never
venture there.

D’ata performed like the well-timed
clocks in the mansion. His future was set, his role consecrated,
his life tidily disposed. Other than a few expectations, his time
was his own, and this particular afternoon looked to be a pleasant
one at that.

He finished dividing the bread, his
thoughts returning to the task at hand. The sweet yeast smell made
his stomach growl again, and he closed his eyes, briefly enjoying
the moment.

Stifling a yawn, he opened his eyes
and glanced up, suddenly glimpsing an image so fair that he caught
his breath. She sat five pews back and it was not her beauty which
so caught D’ata’s attention, but the way the light seemed to attach
to her. She was willowy, but strong, and there appeared to be a
glow about her as she sat with her head bowed.

He could not recall seeing her before,
and he was mesmerized. Her hair cascaded softly in loose strands
around her shoulders where it had escaped her worn velvet ribbon.
It looked as though she tied it back too hastily, as if perhaps it
annoyed her at times.

She appeared almost as if she were
sleeping as her lashes, sun-bleached on the tips, rested against
her face. Her skin was rosy as though she spent too much time
outdoors and had scrubbed hard to remove the dirt. The very
lightest wash of freckles danced across her nose, another gift from
the sun. He was entranced—she seemed so comfortable, so
composed.

D'ata marveled at how the light played
upon her honey-streaked hair as though lit by a glorious halo. He
could not pull his eyes from her as he watched her lips silently
mouth the words of her prayer...Oh, to be those words.

He stood frozen and watched her, as
she lifted a hand to capture a stray lock of hair, which brushed
against her cheek. The congregation stirred and whispered—D’ata saw
only her, forgetting his task completely. He was transfixed, broken
bread dangling loosely from each hand.

Her simple and worn dress was
off-white gauze, not brown or black as was expected of common
peasantry, but the lines were delicate and graceful, most likely
hand sewn by its wearer. A young girl sat next to her and she
leaned down to speak quietly into the child’s ear. The child nodded
and looked happily up at her.

His heart caught in his chest as she
suddenly stirred to stand. She was tall and slender, moving slowly
and purposefully with an unnatural elegance. It was graceful,
effortless and poised.

There was an unfamiliar stab in his
groin as he watched her gather her gowns to squeeze by an older
couple, making her way slowly out of the pew. She smiled and
touched the old man gently on the hand, leaning close to his ear
and murmuring something as she stepped carefully past. The old man
patted her hand gently before releasing her on her way. D’ata
struggled with this image. He found the gesture oddly sensual in
its compassion.

He also noticed, just then, three
other young women, primped and preened to excess, sitting across
the aisle from her. They pointed at her worn shoes and snickered,
hands hiding their mouths, as she walked past.

She ignored them effortlessly, her
expression composed and impervious. For the most part, she didn’t
appear aware they even existed, as though they were less than
significant. Instead, she gazed briefly towards the stained glass,
as if seeing it for the first time.