The Execution (4 page)

Making it to the orphanage did not
guarantee a child’s survival. Illness was always beckoning and
frequently not survived. However, here at the orphanage, death was
accepted as part of the ritual of life, and illness was treated
with love and dignity until death arrived, or mercifully passed
by.

Ravan was aware that his days at the
orphanage were numbered. He knew older children were not easily
adopted. Truthfully, no child was easily adopted, but as he was
approaching thirteen, it was possible he would be chosen as an
apprentice if he was fortunate, or a laborer if he was not. No
options were ignored. Change was in the wind. Room must be
made.

Times had not been easy in France, and
with the plague, many were left without sons. Ravan watched closely
as the stranger and the big woman argued with the orphanage’s
caretaker, the Old One. Life at the orphanage had always been
meager, but the Old One and his three daughters had been kind.
They’d taught the children how to garden and to keep a small lot of
pigs, a flock of chickens, a dairy cow and a few sheep.

The children quickly fit into the
treadmill of survival. Few townspeople interrupted or even noticed
the daily comings and goings at the orphanage. It was an island and
few would care, or even notice, if it were swallowed up
altogether.

The children, however, grew to
recognize the orphanage as the salvation it was, and each
inarguably did their part to help. The smallest ones tended the few
chickens, geese and turkeys, and helped with the laundry. The older
boys cut wood, repaired fences and roofs, hunted, and fished. The
older girls helped cook and tend the larger animals.

They traded milk when they had it, and
pork on rare occasion, for other necessities. The smaller ones
clambered after the older ones, eager to learn, eager to help in
any way they could, looking up to and admiring their new, older
‘brothers and sisters’.

All of them worked the rocky soil,
growing twisted little turnips and carrots, woefully small cabbages
and onions. They toiled hard to sustain a small oat field and
ground the grain for bread and porridge. They would mix the
porridge with the dried and ground bone of any and every
slaughter.

There was an apple tree, but because
apples were a luxury, the tree was harvested for the better off, by
servants from the nearby town. The children collected what few and
partially rotted fruit was left behind on the ground and pulped
them into sauce.

There was plenty of work for all, and
they led a meager but sustaining life. There would be no scholars,
artists, or national diplomats from this lot, but love grew in
abundance.

In the evenings, especially in winter
when the daylight was scarce, the Old One, his daughters, and the
children would huddle together in the kitchen to tell stories. None
of them could read; there was no time for that, and there was no
one to teach such things anyway, but it was habit to relate
stories.

Each child was allowed to spin
whatever fantastic tale they wished, if they so chose. Sometimes
one child would leave off and another would carry on. These moments
allowed each one, in his or her way, to escape from the harsh
reality of life.

Ravan did not speak—he only listened.
In his mind, however, he spun fabulous stories which placed him in
wonderful worlds, far away. He was content and, in his silent way,
almost happy.

The older children would help to keep
up with the smaller ones. It was family born of casualty; there was
no fighting. All had come to the orphanage by tragic means. Each
had an unspoken, woeful story, and life had blanketed these young
ones with maturity beyond their tender years—maturity from pain and
loss. If one looked deeply enough, it showed sadly in the eyes of
each child.

Their circumstances served to bring
the children close together. There occurred an uncommon symbiosis
and to watch it on a daily basis, one might realize the symphony of
it. None but those who lived there would ever hear it.

Ravan lost his mother at the age of
five and his four sisters had been taken elsewhere to work, or so
he told himself. He'd never seen them again and knew by the
expression in the Old One’s eyes that they were not to be
found.

He had been the youngest, with no
father, at least none that he knew of. His last memory of his
family was of his sisters dragging him sobbing from his mother’s
breast, while he clutched at her, denying her death. She had taken
on the Black Death, the horrid wounds appearing around her armpits,
throat and groin. Finally, she lost her life’s blood as it flowed
sick, oily and black from her.

When she died, Ravan lapsed into the
deepest of despairs, and the few who noticed were certain he would
die, but none cared.

Subconsciously, he'd resigned himself
to this notion as well, and weakened as the days went by. His frail
young body, with its ancient soul, waited for the moment when he
would leave the wretched earth. Then he would finally be reunited
with his beautiful mother, surely the fairest and most loving
creature who had ever walked upon the earth.

His sisters were gone, and he didn’t
even know where. They had simply—disappeared.

Ravan was, for the first time in his
life, alone...

* * *

The Old One lifted the frail body of
the child from his death bed and carried him, wrapped in a worn
fleece, to a small ox cart.

Harnessed to the cart was an aged
gelding, short but stocky, and swaybacked. The horse was a plain,
flea-bitten gray, and it hobbled along with a limping, shuffling
gait, from the time it had foundered after getting into the
corncrib. It nickered softly as the old man rubbed his hand along
the animal’s back and withers, checking that the harness was proper
before the long trek home.

The pony had instinctively plodded and
hobbled along the rutted, muddy roads, reins dangling loosely in
the harness guides, heading for home. The Old One cradled the child
gently in his arms, cushioning him from the bumps in the road,
protecting him from the intermittent rain with his own
body.

Sometimes, he whispered to the boy,
sometimes he spoke gently to the horse, and then he would hum
softly to both of them. Between the three, the miles faded away
slowly, unnoticed by anyone who might pass.

Two days later, they arrived at the
orphanage. The child was an emaciated skeleton, a victim of
terminal despair. The Old One knew, however, that if God existed,
it was in the souls of small ones such as this. Over the years,
he’d seen society ignore the importance of the orphans, for they
were expendable. Not to him, though. To him, this child was as
important as any king.

He sat with the boy for three days,
cradling him in his arms and singing softly to him. He stroked the
dark and unruly locks, brushing his lips against the forehead of
the child to make certain the fever was not excessive, and sponged
his frail body when it was.

At intervals, he eased broth and
carrot mush sweetened with honey between the boy’s lips,
encouraging his wasted body to live. The daughters spelled their
father, and the hours turned into days.

Ravan lived, nourished from the broth
a small bit, but nourished from the love of the Old One a great
deal. Ultimately, his soul could not find the freedom to flee from
earth when another cared so deeply for him. He slowly returned from
deaths’ beckoning call, back to the world of the living.

As time went by, the Old One worried
for this mysterious child, for he remained silent for almost four
years.

In his silence, the boy was an enigma,
answering only to the old man that hobbled about the orphanage.
Ravan was obedient to the daughters, for they were always kind to
him, but he would seek only the Old One when he needed the
companionship of another, which was seldom.

The other children of the orphanage,
in their merciful ways, accepted the silent one, never urging a
change or invading his private, unspoken realm. All of God’s
creatures have their demons, some more apparent than others. At the
orphanage, all were granted a special gift in that no one judged
another. Demons could dwell there as well.

Simone ate next to nothing, even when
there was plenty. Edgard chewed his nails to the quick. Radouin
pulled tufts of his own hair out by the roots, and Ravan...did not
speak.

During the unraveling eternity of
summer days, when there were rare moments of abandon, the children
cavorted. Ravan preferred to tend to his chores, instinctively
knowing what was expected, what was to be done, never having to be
asked to do it. Afterwards, though, he would almost always seek his
own solace.

Sometimes, when the work was done and
the afternoon quiet, he could be found down in the meadow floating
twigs in the stream. Lying on his side on the mossy bank, he would
watch as, one by one, the ripples lapped their silvery tongues over
the little brown stems, bobbing them away to somewhere fantastic
and far away. When the others came upon him, they left him alone
and Ravan preferred it this way.

The Old One taught him to fish, and
Ravan became an unexpected excellent provider, even in the winter
months. This was a gift very warmly welcomed at the tables. Once,
Ravan accidentally slipped from a snowy bank, into the creek. It
was a treacherous jog home—Ravan kept running, so that he wouldn’t
freeze. He crashed into the kitchen, icicles hanging from his
clothing, but smiling broadly with hands outstretched and a small
stringer of fish to show for it. After that, he learned how to
build fire and always had his precious flint and steel with
him.

Eventually, he also hunted, but it was
not the addled tripping after a doe or wild boar, perhaps taking it
with the luck of hounds. He was a predator. No creature was safe
once the boy caught their trail, determined to catch his prey. It
was uncanny, and the Old One watched as the predacious instincts of
the child matured—an unnatural, wild, and frightening
gift.

With an uneasy apprehension, the Old
One marveled and watched as Ravan became a consummate killer. He
also carefully guarded the skills of the boy, lest the sportsmen of
the town become curious of his unusual gift. Few men hunted with
the flawless fatality of this child. There was seldom a morning
when he left the orphanage, bow and arrows in hand, that he did not
return with game.

Sometimes it was rabbit, sometimes
pheasant, but it was always a source of amazement and unsettled
mystery to the Old One. He would watch from the frosted kitchen
window to see the small form of the child struggling to drag the
body of a great stag from the edge of the woods towards the
cottage, killed by a single arrow to the heart.

Ravan never killed more than the
orphanage required, taking careful stock of their supply and
demand. They cured and salted hams, smoked roasts and sausage
links, and dried jerky from everything he brought back. Meat became
abundant and the children were, for the most part, robustly well
fed. In the summer, the daughters even took extra sausages to town
to sell at the market. It was a time of plenty, even in the long
winters.

When the child finally spoke, it was
quietly and infrequently, and now at twelve years of age, the Old
One knew that Ravan should soon make his own way in the
world.

These were his thoughts as he stood
arguing with the Innkeeper and the Fat Wife.

They were offering a warm hearth and
apprenticeship for the boy. Ravan would learn the ways of the Inn
and would be well kept, the big man promised, his Fat Wife nodding
in assurance. They had no children of their own and were in need of
a young, strong arm around the Inn.

The Old One knew of the Inn, had
passed it that cold, rainy afternoon long ago when he’d cradled the
dying child in his arms. He knew that elite travelers preferred the
dwelling and it made a good coin. Even so, he must be assured that
Ravan would be well cared for, never hungry, and would have ample
opportunity to steal away to the forest, as was so important to
him. The Innkeeper nodded that he would.

Clasping and unclasping his gnarled
hands, the Old One struggled. He knew that this would be an
opportunity for the child to make a fair trade, perhaps even learn
how to read and write. It was a bold step into the world. The Old
One realized how important this was. He believed that each child
deserved such an opportunity; after all, maybe one day the boy
would grow into a man who would help the orphanage because of the
wondrous things he'd learned.

Nevertheless, the Old One found it
hard to part with the boy. Ravan’s brooding silence and dark eyes
had worked their way into his heart, and when that quiet and rare
smile crept across the boy’s face, it was a thing of great
beauty.

The Old One knew the mischief and joy
that was hidden somewhere underneath the lonely shell and held a
warm kinship for the lanky child. He was fond of Ravan, and didn’t
realize how he'd come to depend upon the quiet presence of this
particular orphan, frequently somewhere close by, as he tended the
orphanage.

He worried for the boy as well. There
was one cold November evening when the boar pig had attacked one of
the children. The girl had slipped from the fence into the reach of
the tremendous-tusked beast. The monster pig had seriously mangled
the child’s leg and ripped an ear from the side of her head before
Ravan was able to pull her from between the slats of the
pen.