The Execution (16 page)

Meanwhile, Ravan had obstacles of his
own. There was no moon, and where the dogs had a keen sense of
smell to propel them along a path, he stumbled blindly through the
darkness, trying to remember the lay of the forest.

He thought of the blind child at the
orphanage, how the boy’s ankles and shins were always a smattering
of bruises and, strangely, it gave him comfort to think he had
something in common with the orphan—something more than
loss.

He talked to himself, verbalizing his
plan. Could he possibly afford to set another trap? He knew forty
square kilometers of the forest and had managed to set three traps
so far.

Ravan plunged on, ‘can’t give up,
can’t stop.’

What sweet relief it would be to find
a burrow of sorts, to curl up and give respite to his aching body,
to sleep, but not now—not yet.

It was at this point Ravan started to
call upon himself for the strength which comes when muscles lose
their fuel supply. It is an awe-inspiring strength, strength from
the heart. Of this, Ravan had an abundance, but fear threatened
evermore.

Ravan knew this stage well, had seen
the noblest of creatures tap this resource. And he knew that
eventually, they almost always succumbed. He prayed silently now, a
prayer of gratitude and thankfulness that he’d been part of the
lives of the magnificent creatures he hunted. He saw them in a new
light, more hallowed than ever before. He choked back tears as he
gave thanks—thanks for the abundance they’d provided. He was
grateful that he had never taken more than he needed.

Ravan melted another mouthful of snow
on his tongue, quickly chewed a piece of salted ham, and stuffed
the remainder of the meat and cheese into the rolled cuff of his
pants, down into his boot. He then shredded a length of the sack to
wrap around his face.

Running in the cold, as he had been,
was burning his lungs. He could feel his breathing thicken, needing
to spit the thickness from the back of his throat more frequently,
after coughing it up. He needed a barrier to cut the bitter cold
from the air he sucked into his chest. With the cloth wrapped
securely about his face, he pressed on and resigned himself to the
fact that he would die this night. He believed he would be caught
and when the time came, he would fight until his death. There was
no dishonor in this.

A strange calm settled over him as
fear faded from his mind. A quiet acceptance replaced the fear, and
a warmth settled over him. Ravan was nearly fifteen years old and
had many times been the hunter. Many times he'd seen the last
expression of his prey, as the creatures’ eyes glazed over, giving
in to the birth of their death. It was the pattern of things. It
was natural.

Now he spent precious moments
recounting to himself the things that seemed important to him—the
things that really mattered, and he realized, quite surprisingly,
that they weren’t things at all.

He marveled at this realization, as he
bent another sapling over, stabilizing another snare. This snare
should efficiently trip its prey, hopefully impaling it on the
sharpened stakes just on the other side of the snare. They would
likely be running; he’d chosen a small downhill. He knew he must
change the style of his traps, so that he stood the greatest chance
of thwarting Duval, and he gained not a small amount of
satisfaction at the thought of costing them the loss of another dog
or man.

He also marveled at this thought. When
had he so suddenly included the loss of a human life as an
acceptable part of his walk upon the earth?

He looked up from his task, heard the
wail of the hounds. The traps were time consuming, but his only
chance, if indeed he even had one. He knew he must even the odds
and get rid of the hounds.

* * *

Duval was incensed. He now had three
dead dogs and two wounded men, one mortally, and he scowled, more
at his losses than at the sacrifice of life. The chase had gone on
for nearly seven hours and the expense was mounting. He'd endured
enough of this game. His patience was gone and he wanted the boy!
At this point, his pride played the better part of furthering the
chase and he kicked the twitching carcass of the not quite dead
dog.

He snarled, his eyes reddened with
rage. Ravan would pay for the inconvenience and expense he'd cost
him. He was a man used to getting his way and not entirely averse
to soiling his own hands. He’d originally joined the chase just for
the fun of it, but his humor had long run out. He stooped to
examine the hound, then peered into the night.

Duval’s eyes were close set in front,
like a creature of prey. He was blessed with hideously crooked
teeth and a massive jaw, so he looked like he could crush bones.
But it was his expression that instilled fear. Duval’s face carried
a countenance of merciless death. He loved death, fed on it.
Carnage was his and upon it he feasted.

His men feared him, worshiped him,
would die for him. To the mercenaries, any death at battle was
preferable to the wrath that would pour down onto them should they
disappoint Duval. If they failed him, they would die at his hands.
It would not be honorable, and very likely they would
suffer.

* * *

The cliffs were as far as the boy had
ever wandered. Ravan squinted to see beyond the ledge, to try to
gauge the sheerness of the drop. The absence of trees told him the
drop-off was steep and perilous. Even in the dark, he saw white
patches be-speckled with black where it was too steep for even the
snow to cling.

He knew it was dangerous, a risky
chance, but he was to the point where a reckless chance was all he
had left. He peered over the edge and squinted, looking down while
remembering what she’d said, ‘Give them the run of their
lives...’

He smiled to himself, exhausted, but
overcome with a calm sense of pride. He had done as she wished—of
that he was certain.

Ravan hesitated on the edge of the
precipice and heard the dogs in the distance behind him. He knew
they would be surprised he’d taken this route. He hoped it would be
horribly inconvenient for them. He wished that if they found him,
it would only be a mangled corpse.

Trembling, he reached into his tunic
and clutched the ring. He thought of the orphanage and closed his
eyes briefly as a warm summer’s day flooded his memory. He could
hear the other children teasing and trying to coerce him into a
game. Somewhere not so distant, he could see his mother.

His heart softened, his body relaxed,
and he ceased to tremble.

The dogs bayed. The howls were clear,
having lost the echo of distance. The time had come. He opened his
eyes, and then he took his best guess. Taking a deep breath—he
stepped off into the abyss and fell...

At first, the drop was what Ravan
suspected, very sheer, but loose dirt. His heels dug into the
sloping cliff wall as he careened downwards, his hands grasping at
roots, rocks, and branches. Very abruptly, however, it became
treacherously steep. He lost his footing and plunged down, soon
head over heels as falling rock and snow cascaded with
him.

As he fell, the loose debris of earth
and stone surrounded him. The sack he’d wrapped around his nose and
mouth was torn violently away. He’d miscalculated the height of the
cliff. His fleeting thoughts acknowledged this, and he briefly
wondered how much this miscalculation might increase the chance of
his own death.

It seemed he fell forever. A boulder’s
sharp edge slammed against his side, breaking ribs, the thunderous
impact heaving the breath from him. He gasped, struggled to pull in
air, shocked at the amount of pain it inflicted.

His world turned violently this way
and that as he was thrown mercilessly about. A wicked branch
glanced cruelly across his left eyebrow, leaving an open gash; this
he didn’t even feel. Blood ran into his eyes making it harder to
see anything in the tornado of black earth and stone. He tasted
blood in his mouth, didn’t know where it was coming from, and his
right thigh had a sharp burning to it as though someone was searing
it with a fire poker.

Finally, thankfully, the avalanche of
distortion and pain stopped and all was black. Ravan’s awareness
was silenced as the earth, in a blanket of rocks and damp soil,
laid him to rest at the base of the cliff.

CHAPTER
ELEVEN

†

It was well after dark when D’ata made
his way into the courtyard of the Cezanne Estate. Henri was in the
stables.

D’ata stepped in to check that the
chestnut gelding had made its way home safely instead of stopping
to drink and succumbing to colic.

Henri looked up from rubbing the horse
down, his eyes showed worry. He scrutinized what appeared to be
further assault on the face of his young friend, but he said
nothing.

“
What?” D’ata asked. “What
is it?”

“
It is not for me to say.
Your father is waiting for you.” Henri stopped grooming the horse,
resting his forehead against the smooth shoulder of the animal,
tapping the curry brush against the sole of his boot to loosen the
dirt and hair. He looked so fragile, his bent old body resting up
against the magnificent fitness of the gelding.

The horse turned its head in the cross
ties, as if to ask why his old friend had ceased with his
cares.

Henri turned so he could face D’ata.
“I have watched you grow, have seen you change in many remarkable
ways—and you have been like a son to me,” he paused as though he
were searching for the right thing to say.

D’ata shifted his weight,
uncomfortable with the conversation. It was like the words were
suspended, hanging above him, and could crash down at any second in
a bad way. Why did Henri feel compelled to say such things, as
though he may never again have the chance?

He sensed that it all had to do with
Julianne. No matter though, he would make things right again. He
would make them understand, and things would be better than ever.
Even if things weren’t the same, even if they didn’t understand, it
didn’t matter what happened as long as his fragile link with
Julianne was preserved. This he’d decided beyond any doubt, on his
long walk home.

He scowled. He hadn’t really given
much thought to the dynamics of it all, about how his father would
react to the situation. Of course things would be discussed,
changes made, circumstances negotiated. But he was sure they would
understand.

On the late evening walk, his thoughts
had been filled with only her. Even now, as he allowed her memory
to drift into his thoughts, his heart swelled with happiness and
his beaten face beamed.

Truthfully, for all he knew, Julianne
may have come to her senses, deciding never to see him again.
Nothing was certain and yet he was happier than he'd ever been!
D’ata leaned against one of the enormous, roughhewn timbers in the
stable and listened as Henri continued.

* * *

The stable master was struck at the
sudden resolution of his young friend. Leaning against the beam
like that, he seemed in control of his own destiny.

And why shouldn’t he be? Who was to
say he should not have a choice?

Henri shook his head, as if to shake
away this heavy chain of thoughts. It was dangerous to become too
involved, and sometimes things were just meant to be. He
reconsidered the direction he'd intended to take with the
conversation. “D’ata, the Baron waits for you in the house and he
doesn’t know where you have been, that you’ve gone to see the
girl.”

D’ata stood up immediately and
blurted, “I didn’t go searching for her—I just found her. It is as
if God has placed us together.” He pressed, eager to make Henri see
his line of thinking, determined for him to understand, desperate
for an ally. He paced the floor in his agitation. “Of nothing else
in my life have I ever been sure, but of this, I am! I was meant to
be with her—and she with me.”

He stopped his pacing and addressed
Henri again, directly, “I’ve decided—it doesn’t matter what anyone
else thinks. I know this in my heart!” His expression was so
suddenly distressed. He sighed, his shoulders dropped. “I love her
Henri. How can God disapprove of such a thing? And I must see her
again!”

The horse stomped, uncomfortable with
the new tension in the air.

D’ata’s gaze was swept away. The
gentle hand of the stable master touched his shoulder, and he
turned to look down into the soft, pale eyes of his dearest old
friend.

“
I am an old fool, young
master; I know the beasts and little else.” He gently shook D’ata’s
shoulder. “But this I do know, that I have loved you. For you, I
wish only happiness.” He released the shoulder and stepped back.
Then, he sat precariously down onto the edge of a crib-feeder,
perched like an old chicken. “This, life has taught me, that you
must follow your heart. But be prepared for the battles your
choices will create, my friend.” He raised a finger, his head
turned sideways and his eyes narrowed as he spoke. “Life can be
unpredictable—and not always what you bargain for.”