The Execution (8 page)

The rain ceased, and the night became
clear, inviting honesty. The brothers edged closer together, as was
reasonable. Time turned and walked slowly away from them. Truth
started to open itself like the pages of a book, and the story
began to fall from it.

CHAPTER FIVE

†

The Inn

Ravan was confused. He'd been at the
Inn for several years, but only minimally expected to work beyond
the mundane management of chores. It had been difficult for him
when he first arrived. The cadence of the Inn had overwhelmed him
and he’d become withdrawn. His silence was interpreted as idiocy,
and unkind patrons pushed the child away or kicked at him, throwing
cruel slurs his way.

There was little room for patience in
the hearts and minds of the patrons, and the Innkeeper did not
intervene. The dark child who spoke seldom was out of place and
quickly learned the nooks and crannies he could disappear into. He
kept his head down, his face turned away and escaped, again—to the
woods.

He’d been invited to learn nothing
about the business of the Inn and he wondered about this. He
thought often about the Old One, how he’d said that Ravan was such
good help at the orphanage. It was this good work ethic which kept
him committed to the simple tasks that now lay before
him.

Ravan was to keep the wood chopped, a
detail he gratefully accepted as it kept him away from the noisy
raucous of the drinking guests. It felt good to work hard. He would
split and carry the wood to each guest’s room and build the fires,
leaving them warm and ready for retirement. Now he stood behind the
Inn, bent on his task.

He swung the double-edged axe easily,
cleaving the timber with a crisp crack. His aim had improved over
the past few years. The pieces fell apart easily and his arms no
longer ached from the chore. He relegated himself to several hours
of this every day and was nearly done for the day.

Even now, he could hear the loud
laughter and slurring voices of men drinking too much and the
high-pitched shrieking of their female counterparts. He knew the
moment would come when, in the late of the evening, glasses would
break and the drunkenness would reach a staggering crescendo. Then
the guests would stumble off to bed and Monsieur LaFoote would
collect the money, cap the kegs, and bar the doors.

Ravan’s breath puffed in white plumes
as dusk settled over the Inn. Color and the sharp edges of daylight
gave way to shades of misty gray. The wood stack climbed ever
higher behind the building, a small ligneous mountain threatening
to overcome the doorway. He knew he would soon be out of a wood
splitting job. He was days ahead of this chore and wondered what he
might do next to pass the time. The axe made a dull thwack as he
sank it into the chopping block.

He paused, looking up at the heavens,
trying to pick out stars, but the night was blanketed and the
clouds kept their secrets. He sighed, shaking his head to toss the
dark bangs from his eyes, and gave up his search.

Ravan used the stairs behind the
building to gain access to the second floor. It occurred to him
that he’d somehow became distracted today and forgot to replace the
spent candles in the rooms. He meant to do the task now and chewed
his lip absently while his mind wandered again.

Perhaps in time, the Innkeeper would
feel it important to teach him the comings and goings of the
business. Really, there was nothing but time, creeping ever so
slowly. It was thick and smothering and threatened to consume his
fourteen-year-old mind.

At times such as this, he missed the
orphanage terribly, missed the children, and especially the Old
One. His role there had given him a strong sense of responsibility,
a purpose. He knew that the Old One had depended on him for many
things. A wonderful feeling it was, to be needed. Somehow, his life
there had helped him to hold onto the memory of his mother. He
struggled with it now, the vision of her increasingly vague.
Sometimes, he closed his eyes, forcing, willing it—to come back to
him.

For some reason, at the orphanage he
thought he might be one of the lucky ones, the ones who would
remain there forever. It was not to be so.

Some nights, he would lie awake in the
tiny room of the attic, wondering how they were managing. He liked
the little room, his haven. He especially liked it at night, with
the small dormer window looking out over the countryside. When the
moon was out, and it was bright as day, he would use the window to
sneak out onto the rooftop and would sit with his bare legs bent
and his overcoat wrapped around them. If he got sleepy enough, and
stared long and hard enough at the familiar night constellations,
he sometimes forgot he was at the Inn and imagined he was home,
back with the Old One.

Ravan knew he must try hard to do well
in his new surroundings. He didn’t blame the Old One. He’d tried to
do right by Ravan, to help him find his way in the world. But Ravan
sensed that he was different from the others. He fit in well enough
in the protective sanctuary of the orphanage, but now he was lost,
suspended in between worlds. Perhaps there was no proper fit for
him after all.

He pried another candle stub from its
holder.

Quietly, observantly, Ravan had
watched the comings and goings of the Inn, assuming certain tasks
without being asked. He collected the dirty dishes from the tables
after the travelers went to bed and drew water from the well behind
the Inn. He would carry it in buckets, dumping them into the giant
kettles to be heated for washing the dishes.

Ravan also made sure the fireplace
flues were always emptied and clean. The Innkeeper grunted his
approval but said nothing beyond that. The big man seemed pleased
to discover the stables raked, with the patron’s tack soaped and
hung neatly in rows, next to the stalls. Ravan liked the stables
and stood for long periods brushing the clients’
animals.

The horses displayed an immediate and
strange kinship to the boy, which had nothing to do with the oats
he tossed. They would nicker quietly in greeting whenever he walked
into the barn and sniff him up and down, as though his presence
agreed with them. He thought to himself that one day, perhaps he
would own such a fine animal for himself to ride into the woods.
Oh, how far he could run then!

Ravan also
liked the warmth of the kitchen, it reminded him of the cottage
kitchen and he didn’t mind standing at the kettles, washing the
dishes, allowing the hot water to turn his tanned hands a deep red
as he worked. He would wince as he plunged his hands into the hot
water, refusing to submit to the pain, and
he marveled that the Fat Wife submerged her own arms
to the elbows, apparently oblivious of the heat.

Increasingly, Ravan found himself in
the kitchen during the late hours of the evening. These were
usually busy hours for the wife. She did not try to elicit
conversation from the boy; perhaps she sensed that he was not one
for many words. It didn’t seem to matter to her though. For this,
Ravan was grateful. He spoke to her more with his demeanor—with his
eyes.

On more than one occasion, when he’d
first came to the Inn, she would step between him and an ill
mannered patron. Making excuses to the guest, she would then
shuffle the boy away to a safer spot, usually the kitchen. There
she would shake her finger at him, “I told you, child—you stay away
from them when you hear it get rough out there.”

After only a few short months, they
developed a strange wordless dance in the kitchen, he moving aside
as her bulk hustled and bustled from here to there, tending the
succulent meals she prepared. He was fascinated at how she would
take the carcass of whatever he hunted and, within moments, would
be well on her way to creating what, in his eyes, was a masterpiece
of a meal.

Sometimes, he just sat on the stool in
the corner by the pantry, his knees tucked under his chin, his
chocolate eyes following her around the kitchen. Occasionally, he
would drift off to sleep like this, his arms crossed around his
legs and his hands with the fingers under the balls of his feet,
braced and balanced. Sometimes, when he started to drift off, he
would notice her stop and watch him, rubbing the back of her first
two fingers on her chin.

At first, she seemed fascinated with
him. Then, as several years passed, she became strangely protective
of him, and Ravan preferred her company to the company of Monsieur
LaFoote.

The boy found excuses for being in the
kitchen. He busied himself sweeping the stone floor, collecting the
turnip peelings which mysteriously found their way to the corners
of the room. He would stand for hours, silently stirring the cream
puddings in their ash-blackened pots as they bubbled slowly over
the coals.

He'd become familiar with the Fat
Wife, with the way she twisted her long, graying, mouse-colored
hair into a thin and tight braid, coiling it neatly on the back of
her head so that from the front it appeared as though she had very
little hair at all. Her white, lace-trimmed bonnet framed her round
cheeks like a happy sunflower. Her face was steamed and reddened,
and despite her generous size, her feet were tiny.

Ravan grew exceedingly fond of her in
very short time. He saw not a middle aged, obese innkeeper’s
wife—he saw a friend. In his eyes and mind, it was only
beauty.

With a series of grunts and glances,
she approved or disapproved of this or that behavior, and so their
extraordinary kitchen dance evolved. She became his safe haven.
Sometimes, when he struggled to hold onto his own identity, she
seemed to know and would help to gently pull him back. Lately, he
strongly identified more of who he was by what she meant to
him.

As time went by, she saw to it that
the boy enjoyed the choicest scraps of meat, delicious pies, and
stewed vegetables. On occasion, when she set the bowl in front of
him, she would rest her hand for just a moment on his arm or his
shoulder, and a smile would tug at her rosy lips. It gave him a
happy and warm feeling when this happened, and his heart was more
at peace than it had been for a long time.

It was true he provided the game that
the Inn required. He brought goose, quail, duck and venison. Some
days he brought rabbit, or delicious steelhead. His bounty became
the method to her art for the masterpieces she would create. Most
of all, he provided an unwavering and sincere friendship to her
that was without judgment. At first he thought she seemed surprised
by this, but then seemed to accept it for the gift it
was.

His young and growing body consumed
the nourishment as fast as it was received, his appetite recently a
roaring furnace. He removed the copper ring from his middle finger,
as it had become increasingly too tight, and wedged it onto his
pinky. She mentioned that she noticed this, as one might notice
such things about someone they have grown to love.

One late afternoon, the Fat Wife very
matter-of-factly handed him a wrapped up piece of faded blue satin.
In the same manner she might pass the heavy ladle to him to stir
the stew, she shoved the small package into his hands without
looking at him.

He took her gently by the arm, turning
her back towards him so he could see into her small, puffy eyes,
and then he carefully unwrapped the satin. It slipped softly in his
hands, uncoiling by itself, and he nearly dropped from it the
lovely, thick silver chain.

His eyes widened with astonishment and
he looked at her in dismay. Ravan shook his head and started to
refuse the gift but she chided him firmly, “Put that ring of yours
on it and be wearing it about your neck, under your shirt-clothes.
And don’t be boasting of it. It’s our little secret, ya’ hear? Now
off with you and bring in some kindling.”

The smooth silver chain slid against
his skin as he sorted the candles in the upstairs linen room,
gently filling a pillowcase with the fragile, elegant tapers. They
clinked gently against each other, a strangely appealing sound
which made him want to snap them in half just for the fun of it. He
reached up and touched the dimple the copper ring created beneath
his shirt and his heart warmed.

The boy ventured into the main dining
room seldom because his quiet presence was an odd contrast to the
merriment of the guests. For the most part, he was invisible to the
travelers. Sometimes the patrons got too boisterous and he could
hear the raucous fights coming from downstairs. Monsieur LaFoote
was skilled at breaking up such disturbances. One night, Ravan
watched the big man effortlessly toss two rowdy patrons, one in
each hand, out the front door.

He avoided crossing paths with the
guests in the halls as well, taking the outside stairs down to the
kitchen instead. He was like a child ghost when the Inn was busy,
and seldom seen. He preferred the quiet steadfastness of the
Innkeeper’s Wife, and her presence in the warm kitchen kindled his
soul as well as his body.

True to his promise, the Innkeeper
allowed Ravan time to wander the forests behind the house, an
opportunity the boy seemed to take increasing advantage of as the
days went by. It settled him, to wander deep into the woods, to
smell the wild earth and learn the lay of the land. But,
increasingly, it gratified him more—to hunt.