The Execution (44 page)

He prayed and he prayed, hoping that
ultimately God would just take away the pain in his chest, the
agony in his soul. He prayed to forget, he prayed to remember. He
prayed he would die. He pondered ending it himself, but deep in his
heart he feared God would then plunge him into oblivion, never to
see her again.

At times, he wondered if it had all
been a dream. He questioned his memories, but eventually cruel
sanity would return and dash the truth down about him, just as
Raphael had believed.

His knees became thick, leathery and
calloused, oddly out of place on what were now his spindly and weak
legs. His face was gaunt, drawn. His hair fell out in patches, but
most horribly, his eyes lost the spark of life.

D’ata never saw color again, after
that terrible day. Rarely, he would walk along the river which used
to give him so much joy and comfort. He was bewildered by his
joyful memories. Now he couldn’t comprehend why, and after a while,
he never went back to the river. It never occurred to him that it
was strangely gray. It seemed to him that it was how everything
should be, how it had always been, like her dress, and her face.
The slate-like color of his world seemed sadly normal to him
now.

Several years passed and insanity was
gingerly replaced with devastating remorse and cruel despair. D’ata
gained some weight back. His hair grew, first in patches and later,
more evenly. He would not shave his skullcap as the other priests
did, but let it grow long and thick around the nape of his neck. It
seemed that it was so cold all the time, regardless of the season.
To D'ata, it just seemed better to let it grow that way.

He gladly accepted the tasks given
him. He tended the one horse in the parish stable, out behind the
rectory. He would stand for hours brushing the old animal until its
coat shone like a young colt. He held the kiln-dried apple chips,
flat-palmed, so the old fellow could lip them up, crunching them
contentedly. The gelding happily searched his new companion’s
pockets when he came around, unaccustomed to such
kindness.

When the limbs of the black walnut
trees scratched at the beautiful stained glass windows, it bothered
D’ata somehow. There was something odd about the sound they made
and he could endure it for only so long before he would trim them
away. ‘Where had he heard that sound before?’ The windows were no
longer beautiful to D’ata. It just seemed peculiar to him now, that
someone would put together such a random assortment of cut glass
and make such a fuss about it.

Going to the prison, he would give
last confession to condemned prisoners, a task he particularly
hated, but one he undertook willingly. Rarely, it seemed to have
purpose, and so he was glad for the small comfort he could
sometimes give. And these men were truly no more condemned than he
was.

D’ata grew to believe that the only
sanctuary for his soul, the only hope for relief from the pain, was
to become a truly good priest in the eyes of God. Only God could
remove the pain, and D’ata thought it might take several lifetimes
to finally achieve grace and forgiveness.

No one spoke of the transgression, at
least not openly. There were murmurs in the congregation and
amongst the other priests. They didn’t need to speak of it to him.
D’ata heard of the great sin in his own head as surely as if it
were spoken at mass, every day—aloud. It wasn’t necessary to remind
him, for he lived it every waking day, every sleeping night, with
every breath he took. It became a part of him, his second skin, and
there was not a moment that passed when it did not define
him.

As more time went by, he prayed more
to forget. He tried to force the memories from his mind, whenever
they surfaced. Sometimes, he would forget, would awaken and brew
tea, sit to read, or step outside to see the day.

Then, inevitably, something would
trigger a memory. It would collide into him with devastating
reality, and after a few paralytic moments, he would stagger back
to his room. Curled up on his bed, he would then lay with arms
tight around his head, trying to shut it out again. God tortured
him, allowed him to live, which was agony—a living hell.

D’ata was damned, as surely as any man
ever was.

* * *

The priest’s robes hung in heavy
woolen folds, damp from the fog, as the young man made his way
along the muddied streets of the sleeping town. D’ata wished for
the Marseille. The cotton underlinen clung uncomfortably to his
body and his collar chaffed against the back of his
neck.

Drawn to the light of a street lamp, a
moth spiraled downward into the miniature lake left by another’s
footstep. D’ata watched as the moth thrashed upside down, its wings
tacked to the surface of the muddy water. Its efforts rippled to
the edge of the tiny lake and he stepped onto the insect, impaling
it into the muck, finishing its fate. It was a gesture of mercy, a
mercy killing to be sure.

In the distance, the looming shadow of
the castle appeared beyond the town square. It was black and
ominous and looked like it did not belong in the tiny French
village.

The castle housed the criminals of the
state for five townships. Tonight, it was also the end-stage of the
holy man’s pilgrimage. Only one prisoner remained to be seen. The
mercenary, murderer, the one to be hung, the evil
one—Ravan.

CHAPTER
THIRTY-FIVE

†

Adorno raged, his face reddened with
poorly justified indignation.

The giant turned his deaf ear to the
din; it annoyed him, and now things were changed.

Adorno didn't seem to notice as the
giant left the room. LanCoste made his way to go collect his few
things from his quarters.

Looking about himself, LanCoste saw no
evidence that Ravan had even been there, except for a
note.

There was something new about him now,
a feeling of confusion that beset him recently. It was
uncomfortable, almost painful, and the giant was gravely unfamiliar
with it. He’d never experienced this sensation before. The notion
of loss was new to him.

Silently gathering his belongings and
heaving the axe onto his back, he tucked the hand scrawled note
inside his vest. Mounting the Belgian, he rode from the castle.
Alone, he made his way across the drawn bridge and into the night.
He hadn't been dismissed. In truth, he simply left.

No one tried to stop him. Adorno had
always considered him daft and thought little more of it, other
than to hurl a few insults from a window high overhead at the
retreating mountain of a man.

People stepped back, turning from him
as he made his way to the edge of the castle grounds. No one at the
portcullis tried to stop him as he rode through and crossed the
moat to be swallowed up by the dark forest beyond.

The journey was long for the giant.
Even though the rains continued, he rode steady and hard, nearly
fifty miles the first day. The roads, what roads there were, were
muddy and treacherous. But he focused on his journey and thought
only of Ravan. He puzzled and even brooded, but mostly questioned
the wretched vacancy within his heart. He'd never felt this before
and he required a greater understanding of it.

Removing the note from his vest he
stared at the words, unable to read them but comforted in a small
way by the knowledge that it was from Ravan’s hand.

Duval’s forthcoming reaction to the
news was scarcely even a concern to LanCoste. It was what it was,
no more, no less. Perhaps, Duval would kill him for his inability
to restrain Ravan and prevent his flight. This didn’t matter to
him. Death was inconsequential. What mattered now was that Ravan
was gone.

His massive forehead furrowed with
consternation. The rain ran unnoticed down the scars and creases
that were the roadmap of his face. It seemed his heart weighed too
much in his chest and a heavy sigh breathed forth from him. It was
sixteen days before he rode into the orphanage.

* * *

The Old One gasped at the shadow cast
by the man on the war-horse. It made one believe mountains could
move and as the brute descended the hill, his presence only seemed
to increase.

It was evening and the Old One
squinted into the sun at the horrible sight that rode over the
knoll and down toward the orphanage. He shooed at the children,
swooshing the air with his hands, scattering the orphans like wild
chickens to the root cellar, barn, cookhouse and woods.

They fled to wherever they imagined
they might be sheltered from the horrible certainty of the one who
now came upon them. In truth, there was no such place. The frail
and bent man spoke a silent prayer, that God would protect them. He
prayed that if the children should be found that he would take them
quickly and without pain.

He didn’t know why the giant
approached; only a few had purpose for the unwanted children who
lived here. So the Old One thought it must not be good, whatever
the reason.

The barbarian approached and the Old
One took an unconscious step back. His eldest daughter held fast
beside him. “Avon, go! Hide with your sisters, with the children!”
he whispered,

“
No, Papa. I stand with
you. If the coward slays you, he will have to strike a woman
first.” She swallowed dryly and took her father’s leathery and worn
hand into her own.

The old man prayed that the mercenary
would know and harbor the code of chivalry. He hoped for a miracle,
that despite his horrid appearance he would be a knight of honor.
By the looks of the barbarian who approached, it was not a prayer
likely to be answered for he wore no coat of arms. He held tightly
to Avon's hand. “My daughter, I love you child, as I loved your
mother.”

“
I know, Papa,” Her voice
trembled in fear, but her eyes remained fixed on the intruder who
descended onto them. Taking a deep breath, she bravely stood her
ground, squeezing her father’s hand tightly.

* * *

LanCoste rode straight up to the pair
and whoa’d the monster steed, the beast’s armor rattling briefly as
the chinks found their resting places.

No one spoke. It was an odd moment,
almost as though all present had expected it.

The wind whistled lonely through the
trees. The winters had been longer and colder than usual these last
few years. He breathed in deeply of the late autumn. The wild
cherry had already dropped their leaves and days were shortening by
strides now. Evening approached, It would be dark soon and he had
miles to go.

LanCoste paused, peering at the nearby
forest, squinting as he struggled to gathered words that came only
with great difficulty on even his best days. His battle-scarred
hands lie enormous, crossed and casual, across the pommel of the
saddle. Surprisingly, for his great size and strength, the giant
seemed almost tired.

Still, no one spoke.

When finally it appeared that time had
groaned to a halt and they were as still as salt pillars, LanCoste
peered down at the face of the Old One. Slowly and casually, he
shifted only his eyes to look at Avon.

Avon’s hand tightened upon her
father’s.

The Old One began, “Please—she is my
daughter, have mercy on...”

“
I know Ravan,” LanCoste
interrupted, his voice was thunderous and deep. It echoed the sad
wind, and even the earth seemed to shift as he spoke slowly and
deliberately, choosing his words carefully.

The Old One’s eyes, aged with
cataract, shot open in surprise. There was a moment of stunned
silence. “Ravan? Dear God—you know the boy?” The Old One
involuntarily dropped his daughter’s hand and stepped
forward.

LanCoste’s deep brow rose in mild
surprise; he shifted his weight on the great horse. “I know him. He
is my...” He'd started to say confederate, “He is my
friend.”

Avon gasped and put her hands to her
mouth.

Her father stepped forward. “Oh, dear
Father in Heaven! Is he well? Do you bring us news?”

LanCoste hesitated. He wanted to speak
the truth; if Ravan was alive, it would not likely be for long—not
after Duval knew of his flight.

Instead, he said, “Ravan sends his...”
he paused, looked again to the sad and bare fingers of the naked
cherry trees, made even longer by the shadows they cast. He cleared
his throat. “He sends his greetings.”

The Old One gulped, his old, blue eyes
damp. His hands hung open and frail. “But, is he well? Does
he—”

LanCoste interrupted again, an
uncommon gesture. “He is leaving, a great distance. I am
LanCoste.”

Before the old man could go on,
LanCoste reached up to draw the hand-scrawled note from his
vest.

Instinctively, the pair stepped back
as the giant withdrew the note.

“
Can you read this?” the
giant implored, unable to wait any longer.

Avon shook her head. “No, we can’t,
but...”

* * *

Just then, she stepped from the
cookhouse, drying her hands on a towel.