The Execution

by Sharon Cramer

  The children gathered the feathers from the chicken and turkey houses to make new pillows or blankets. In the summer, they collected thistle down from along the river for the mattresses. When there was a feather shortage, they stuffed the blankets with straw.

  There were no windows in the barracks as glass was expensive. Neither was there any heat source beyond the simple fire chamber at one end. As it seemed the winters were colder lately, the children pressed more of the clay between the cracks of the building to windproof the little structure.

  The beds were littered with small tokens that identified each child, a particularly lovely stone, a piece of blue sealing wax, a broken shard of colored glass. Each treasure was tucked away safely about the bed of the child to whom it belonged so that the beds had the appearance of rows of blessed shrines. Each was taken special care of, in the fashion that only a child can. Should a child die, the treasure accompanied him or her to the gravesite, buried carefully with them, or left dangling upon the cross.

  Recently, the orphanage was full, as the plague had left many young ones. A good third of the population between India and Iceland had succumbed to the Black Death of the mid-fourteenth century, and the plague recurred at heartless intervals.

  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 da
ys.

  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.

  Bludgeoning the snout of the boar with his bare fists, he finally caused it to release its teeth from the girl’s limb. She had bled so much that for a fortnight it was dubious whether she would survive at all.

  Ravan went mysteriously missing, though no one noticed this with all the commotion surrounding the injured girl. The Old One eventually left the crippled girl’s bed, hopeful that she would survive. He was mortified when he found the boy crouched in the corner of the pigsty, a blood drenched plowshare clutched in his hands. The boar, three times the size of the boy, was unrecognizable, a butchered mass in the boggy muck.

  It disturbed the old man that the act of killing had gone beyond death, for there remained no recognizable shred of evidence of the animal’s species—the act had been so violent. All Ravan could whisper was, “It shouldn’t have hurt her,” and then, for a good long while, he again ceased to speak.

  This was the one and only manifestation of this kind the Old One had ever witnessed. This was not hunting, and it went beyond protection.

  This was the first and only time he had seen Ravan kill.

  He told no one, but coaxed Ravan from the sty and washed him off in the butcher shack, away from the house. Wrapping the boy in a blanket, he went for clean clothes and burnt the bloodied ones. No one else ever knew. It remained their secret and the Old One wondered if the boy recognized the gravity of this.

  There were also those rare times, when he looked into the shadowy eyes of the boy and he did not see a child, but a man—dark and brooding. The mystery of ages seemed to be gazing back at him. He wondered at the depths of the child’s thoughts, wondered where his mind went when the child looked so lost and far away.

  Most of the time, however, he was overwhelmed with the innocence of the boy. He would watch Ravan scamper up the hill with his bow in hand, his quiver of arrows clattering against his thin frame, pausing to wave at him before disappearing into the woods. As of late, his treks into the woods had become longer, and the child might even be gone for several days at a time.

  Now the Ol
d One frowned as the Innkeeper pitched his sale. The big man was determined to have his way.

  Ravan had always been quiet, gentle, and fiercely protective of the other children at the orphanage. It was his sanctuary, his safe haven, and to let him go was to free a dove to a hurricane.

  He sighed and glanced at the mangers where he knew the boy sneakily spied out at them and saw the dark head disappear quickly.

  The boy peered from behind the mangers, squatting comically back on his heels to shrink his frame, as though this would prevent him from being seen. His charcoal eyes glistened hungrily from beneath a smudged and disheveled face. He chewed straw, sucking from it the sweetness and spitting the fiber out, only when it became so fine as to cut the side of his tongue.

  The Old One smiled inwardly. To him, the children were the one pure thing, the one goodness in a bleak world. Ravan had worked his way secretly and profoundly into a special corner of his heart.

  This made the decision difficult. He knew the boy found a purpose and, more critically, acceptance amongst the other orphans. He thought that Ravan likely identified his purpose with how much he helped provide for them all.

  A decision must be made, however, and he was convinced each child should be given the chance to fly, to venture into the majesty of the world, good or bad. This was Ravan’s chance.

  For this reason, he ultimately acquiesced in the wishes of the Innkeeper and his Fat Wife.

  A mere half an hour later, the Old One wiped a tear from his eye, his hand raised in goodbye—but the child never looked back. He watched until the carriage bobbed and eventually vanished from sight. Standing for a lost amount of time, he finally turned and hobbled away to tend those who remained.

  * * *

  Ravan left the orphanage that chilly afternoon with two sets of clothes, his bow and quiver of arrows, flint and steel, and a copper ring the Old One fashioned for him one bygone Christmas. He quietly twisted the ring round and around on his finger, as was his habit when he was unhappy. In his boot leggings, another treasure lie hidden, one which no one knew about.