He thought of the orphanage and wondered how the Old One was managing. He thought of the other children and wondered how they were negotiating the winter. They had all been so kind to him and it warmed his heart. The orphans—they were each in some way like him and he considered them all, in a singular way, part of him...of the same cloth. When one was hurt, it hurt him. When one was happy, it made him happy too. He wondered if they thought of him, if they would know of his circumstances—of what had happened. He frowned and hope they did not, for it worried him that it would burden them. There would be nothing worse than to shoulder even one of the orphans with more worry or pain.
It was tragic that one so young as Ravan should worry about such things, to have such sadness, such deep and convicting sorrow. But it was becoming more a part of who Ravan was, and there was no escaping it now.
As his body convalesced in and out of reparative sleep, he sometimes dreamed that he was somewhere else, hunting in the deep forests, or fishing along the creek banks. The forest had been inviting and strangely safe, considering how wild it was, and despite his terrible fall.
He tried to remember before the orphanage, before the Old One had come for him, but the memories were more like faded portraits, nebulous and vague. The only certain memory he had of his mother was a feeling. Lately, he couldn’t even remember her face. He’d told himself he would not forget her face, but time, especially for one so young, can steal things such as the memory of a face or the sound of a voice.
Leaning heavily against the windowpane, his eyes lost some of their fire as he watched the birds. It was a crime to imprison another creature and more so for one like Ravan. His spirit needed the great wildness of wandering free. Perhaps if he could get back to the woods he would remember her better.
His heart, for the moment, was free despite his current dismal situation and he gritted his teeth, vowing patience. Now, it was evidently determined that he was healthy enough to make the trip east, and he knew it would not be long before Duval came for him. He analyzed his resources…none. He considered his allies, also none.
Barn swallows picked at the ice between the roof shakes, drilling for insects, a mere arm’s length from him. Ravan tapped lightly on the windowpane with his fingernail, sending the swallows swooping from the shakes, free—as they should be.
He limped back to his bed, dragging the sheets behind, and was not surprised when Pierre came through the door with a familiar set of clothes and boots.
Tossing the clothes on the floor next to Ravan, recognizing it would be difficult for him to bend over to pick them up, he snarled, “Get dressed you little bastard, you’re leaving.”
Ravan made a point of avoiding the man’s eyes and instead, looked directly at the wound on his face. He painted upon his own face a look of benign satisfaction and eased himself onto the edge of the bed, splinting his left side still, determined not to let Pierre see his pain.
Pierre gloated, as though satisfied at the situation’s ugly turn of events. He seemed gratified that Ravan was injured, and it appeared that his intent was to injure him more.
Ravan winced, but managed a dispassionate grin without ever giving Steele the courtesy of eye contact. “Do you enjoy being Duval’s little bitch?”
Pierre’s grin vanished.
“I’ll wager you bend over to him, too. Is it hard for you to sit?” Ravan continued, matter of factly.
Pierre bristled instantly, stunned at the audacity of the boy. He was frozen in his rage. Then he bellowed like a stupid, insane bull, stabbed by a dung-egret into an open sore. The jagged wound across his face turned from brilliant crimson to a deeper, hideous purple. Spittle sprayed and little flecks of frothy snot spotted the sheeting across Ravan’s lap.
Standing up, Ravan struggled to stifle the agony of even this effort and faced Pierre full on, eye to eye.
A pearl of saliva glistened on Ravan’s cheek, offsetting the grisly green of his bruised left eye. Pierre plunged towards Ravan, fists raised, but then—he stopped short. He trembled visibly, swaying in space as though tethered on invisible twine, his colossal mass shuddering like a mountain in an earthquake.
Ravan did not flinch, not one bit. His smile vanished, and he regarded Pierre with a venomous, acrid stare. If he’d looked into the looking glass hanging on the wall across the room, he would have seen that his eyes had turned black as onyx. His hatred settled about Pierre like blood left too long in a slaughter pit, disturbing, thick, and deadly sick. “Kill me, Pierre. Kill me, you pathetic bastard—you know you wish to.” He hissed, his lip curling back with loathing and contempt.
Pierre’s pale green eyes grew transparent as his rage peaked, but held. Even as witless as he was, he took notice, for he'd never seen such a stare as this before. He stood for an agonizing moment, controlled his rage only with great difficulty. Finally, charging from the room, he spewed words of wicked intent, his threats falling weak and broken upon the one left behind.
Snorting, Ravan smiled to himself—a test. Interesting...Duval did have control of his men after all. Then, he frowned as he realized how perilous this meant his situation really was. He would never underestimate his captor. If Duval could so quickly gain control of the likes of Pierre, it bode poorly for Ravan. His frown intensified as he stomached the incident with Pierre. His hatred was very young—juvenile, in fact, and it was uncomfortable to invite such an emotion into his being. It was, as of yet, too raw, too feral, and he was confused, not quite grasping the power of it.
* * *
True to her word, the Fat Wife found the knife and buried it in the barley barrel. She rubbed her finger along the smooth flat surface of it and tested the edge with her thumb. A tiny crescent shaped sliver of skin flaked outward and she marveled at it. She never felt the cut but the wound welled up with red. ‘How had Ravan come by such a weapon?’ she wondered. The blade held a balanced and dangerous weight to it, and there was something else she sensed. It lived, as if it needed to kill.
She decided there were many things she didn’t know about the boy—such a child, such a man. She was fiercely protective of him and overcome with worry. In a private moment, she told Ravan the knife was safely hidden, and he seemed relieved to know, nodding silently. She wished there was more that she could do for him.
Now she wrung her hands as she watched the men bind the boy’s wrists and feet and drag him outside, lacy snow canyons left in the snow where his feet dragged along. He struggled against the men but was still very weak and easily overpowered. The mercenaries mounted their horses and assembled around the captured one, watching, pointing, and laughing at the drama before them.
She had sewn him a new overcoat of sheep’s skin with a precious ermine collar; Ravan had trapped the exotic creature himself. Having worked tirelessly on it while Ravan convalesced, she now ran to give it to Ravan so that he would not suffer the trip north in the cold, but one of the men snatched it from her.
Laughing, he shoved her viciously away as he pulled his own waistcoat off, tossing it aside. He yanked and pulled, trying to force the overcoat on. It was too small for him and he scowled, tossing it onto the ground where he stomped upon it.
When she was shoved, she stumbled backwards and fell unceremoniously into the snow, her bulk shuddering. She struggled to get her feet under her and to compose herself, shaking the snow from her hands as she got up.
* * *
“Leave her alone!” Ravan shouted, furious that another should touch her, that they disrespected her this way. He twisted to see her as he was forced roughly into the box. “I will see you again! I promise you this!” he called to her as he struggled to maintain composure. But his voice broke with anguish and he sobbed, half out of breath, half out of anguish.
Pierre cuffed him hard and shoved him easily beyond the door of the hold.
The horses pawed nervously at the tension in the air.
Ravan collapsed, fighting for breath, his thigh erupting in a hot blaze. Pain overwhelmed him, daylight spun ab
out him while he lie paralyzed on his side and vomited, retching only bile as his appetite had been so poor.
The transport rig was little more than a cage on wheels, locking, with rails and a cover of canvas over top. The tarpaulins stunk with the rancid smell of pig fat. The makeshift mattress was only burlap stuffed with straw and would prove to be of minimal comfort. It was flea-infested, but there were a few tattered blankets. Ravan would not freeze to death on the long and bumpy journey to northern France, but that would prove to be poor consolation on the trip ahead.
He stifled his retching and grasped the rails as the cart lurched and started to leave the courtyard of the Inn. Struggling to see her, he jerked his fingers in just before one of Duval’s men rapped the cart sharply with a scabbard. He ignored the threat, hurriedly returning to the rails, grasping them and pulling himself around. He strained but couldn’t see her until the cart was turned almost completely about in the small courtyard.
Duval, splendid on a striking roan stallion, rode close enough to the cage to toss something at him. “Here—a reminder.” Duval paused to make sure the token had landed into the hold. “If you fight me, if you disobey me, the next time you’ll get what’s attached as a bonus.” He laughed heartlessly and spurred the stallion hard.
Ignoring Duval, Ravan continued to look for the Innkeeper’s wife. He finally saw her and reached out, his thin, outstretched arm wavering like the strut of a ship’s mast in a storm. He saw her lift her fat little hand to wave, saw her cover her mouth with her hands, her small eyes appearing so red, even from the distance.
She bent over as she wept, sobs shaking her round shoulders.
Next to her stood the Innkeeper, a fat sack of gold in his hand. He was loosening it, fingering the coins even as the band of men left.
She had been his friend, had cared for him. He reached, watched, his heart stopped. The carriage rattled out of sight. “No,” the whisper escaped, wretched, from his lips. The feeling that enshrouded him was dreadfully familiar and his heart sank into despair.
The cart careened, left the yard and turned down the lane to start the long trek east. Ravan lay for an indeterminate amount of time, frozen in space, grieving his separation from her. As the carriage rattled along and the hours blended, his heart started slowly beating again. Eternity eventually thawed and sound dully returned. He pulled his sagging arm back into the hold, shaking the numbness from it.
Watching with vacant eyes, he saw the forest close in, a dark curtain against the road while Duval’s men carried on in fine humor around him. His apathy and despair were great, and he abandoned any ideas of flight. After an awful eternity, Ravan looked into his lap to notice what Duval had thrown at him. He turned gently in his hands the thin, gray braid that the Innkeeper’s wife normally wound tightly at the back of her neck. He held it up to his nose. It was a coarse little rope, silver and black. He could smell the kitchen, could smell her and feel the warmth of her kindness.
Feeling utterly alone, the boy collapsed against the railings, gasping a single sob. Order was gone. The universe was chaos. God was not here.
Closing his eyes, he pressed the braid to his cheek and wept silent tears.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
†
Next Saturday, there were murmurs in the congregation as D’ata’s absence was strikingly conspicuous. The whispers continued all morning, and there was an agitated electricity in the air. No one, however, spoke of it to the Baron and Madame Cezanne.
The Baron and Baroness avoided conversation at all costs, staying close to one another instead.
The congregation’s suspicions were confirmed. The young priest was smitten with the Lanviere girl, wicked creature, and now he was gone!
Women were criticized for drawing attention to themselves, either intentionally or by mere accident. Sadly, these same women were guilty of judging each other. In essence, they ate their own, devoured them and spat them out, fragmented and shunned.
It was Julianne’s fault, in the eyes of the congregation, and to protect D’ata, to protect the church, he had been sent away for a time, perhaps forever.
All eyes fixed on Julianne—she was responsible. She had caused their lovely young priest to be sent away! The congregation seethed. It became one massive, angry entity. Never mind it was irrational, as ridiculous as arresting the prostitute but not the serviced.
Julianne noticed none of them. She was engulfed in the river of loss that was her own torment. She heard not a word of the mass as her mind raced. The Latin fell soundless upon her and she sat wringing her hands. Her eyes welled up with tears as she forced herself to stare down at the words from a page of her prayer book.
She was unprepared for this. It was an impossible situation and she’d awakened this morning with a clear head. After thinking long and hard on the whole affair, and then sleeping on it, she decided the right thing to do was to terminate the blossoming romance—but to remain friends. A friendship would make the whole situation so much more neat and tidy, and God would not disapprove. Then, they would still be able to see each other, to talk.
It was irrational, but it was a contract of necessity to suit the moment. In truth, it was really only a barter, pure and simple, and it gave her reason to come to mass and speak to him again. This would allow her to look at his face and breathe in the whole of him once more. That was what she really desired, and recognition of this truth choked the breath from her.
She wrung her gloved hands again. With D’ata gone, she was immediately panic-stricken, totally absorbed with the awful notion of never seeing him again. This was unacceptable, and yet her rational mind grappled with her irrational heart. She tried to fight back the tears, but they broke and streamed like salty insults down her cheeks. Swallowing hard, she tried to choke back her emotions. Everybody watched and no one understood. Nobody extended pity or compassion—except one.
Yvette sat at her side, silently, and in her own small way grieving the loss of her lovely, pretend suitor. She reached for Julianne’s hand and said with deep sincerity, “I would have gladly been your chaperone.”
* * *
Northwest of Marseille, in Nimes, D’ata served mass under a new Parish. He’d been sent to St. Aloysius with Monsignor Leoceonne. He was numbed. His father, true to his word, had forced him to the new parish, determined that his ordainment would not be disturbed by his son’s foolish trifling with a farm girl.
D’ata had argued bitterly with his father while his mother wept uncontrollably, praying aloud that God should right her son’s errant ways.
Steadfastly defiant, he refused to accept that God would disallow love between he and Julianne. “No God of mine would be so cruel,” he’d insisted, refusing to succumb to his father’s beliefs.
In the end, the Baron had D’ata beaten. It broke the Baron’s heart to do such a thing, but the question of obedience remained a commandment of God. Children shall honor and obey and be subject to their fathers. It is by such obedience that they gain the favor of God and the favor of God must be obtained at all costs, even if it is cruel. It was a sanctified barter which would guarantee eternity. Monsieur Cezanne had tolerated quite enough of his son’s outrage and would accept no further insolence. It was for his own good.
Henri, unable to watch his young friend suffer, had been uncharacteristically absent from the stables as D’ata was held and beaten by four of the estate guards. Brokenhearted, he returned only to dress the wounds. Raphael brought soap and hot water from the house while Henri gently rubbed horse salve into the open welts. “You’ve brought this upon yourself, you know,” the crippled old man chided him gently.
D’ata said nothing, but winced under the ministerings. He remained mute and did not even look up when his old friend said goodbye.
A great sadness fell over the estate that day. Almost all were aggrieved to lose their favorite son, and many watched secretly, with tearful eyes, as their beloved child was sent away.
D’ata arrived at Nimes stiff and bruised. Hi
s robes covered his wounds, but not his broken heart. It was Monsignor Leoceonne who’d accompanied D’ata there. He was instructed to maintain close scrutiny of the young priest-to-be, and so he filled D’ata’s days with prayer, scripture and penance. It was a daunting task, but he believed it would spiritually lift D’ata from the incident and set him on the path of righteousness.
He found D’ata terribly apathetic but refreshingly honest. At times, it appeared that he seriously wished to atone for his transgressions and worked very hard towards that. At other times, however, he was gravely silent and sometimes went for days at a time with scarcely a word. There was a brokenness to him, a splintering of his soul. This deeply concerned the monsignor. Such events were capable of enshrouding a priest with dispassion. It would not do to have the young priest insincere—would not do at all.
Monsignor Leoceonne had lectured him gently on the conventional sins of women. “Wherever beauty shows upon the face, there lurks much filth beneath the skin.” The barrage continued, “St. Augustine himself said that celibacy and virginity are the preferred states as they permit the total love of God, allowing the soul of man to be married to the soul of the trinity—Your mind has been corrupted, as the serpent corrupted Adam, for beauty can only be found in accepting and suffering!”
D’ata nodded but endured the ministering in silence.
The Monsignor wondered if his words fell on deaf ears, but it was the confessions that disturbed the elder the most.
“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. I have dreamed of her again and thrice satisfied the desires of carnal flesh myself, wishing that I was with her. I wish to purify my thoughts and actions, but I love Julianne—more than anything,” D’ata confessed.