The Execution

by Sharon Cramer

  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 witho
ut 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.

  The Fat Wife also seemed to watch him, as the Old One had, as Ravan disappeared into the woods for hours on end—to kill.

  Monsieur LaFoote looked surprised when one evening, shortly after his arrival, Ravan carried a wild pig through the back door of the kitchen, dropping the gutted carcass onto the stone floor. The animal was enormous, a dangerous and tasty prize.

  LaFoote nodded in odd approval, not so much for the meat, but perhaps for something else altogether.

  Ravan noticed the odd expression but was unable to decipher it, his adolescent intuition serving him better in the forests than amongst men. He shrugged it off as he felt did not know Monsieur LaFoote well enough. After he’d dropped the large boar to the floor, the Fat Wife had quickly turned away, and it was her reaction that perplexed him more.

  Now he puzzled over the distant event as he made his way to the second room, carrying the candles carefully lest he chip or fracture them.

  As time passed, he’d continued to play out his existence at the Inn. The Innkeeper had little to do with him, other than an obsessive vigilance about his whereabouts. He was never unkind, just—indifferent.

  Sometimes at night Ravan could hear the couple arguing downstairs. He would try not to listen, as he lie in his small room in the attic, his orphanage blanket tucked up under his chin, bare ankles and stocking feet sticking out. The Old One’s daughters had woven the blanket for him, a birthday present, and now it was tattered, too small—and dearly loved by the boy.

  Seldom did the orphans really know their actual birthdays. The Old One allowed them to pick a day. Most picked summer days, anticipating outdoor games, warm evenings and swims in the stream. Ravan had picked January twenty-nine—the last day he could remember seeing his mother.

  On the nights when the couple argued, Ravan lay still, breathing shallow, his eyes closed tightly. Troubled, he wondered what he could be doing—what might create such discord. During the day, there seemed to be no disappointment from either of them about his work ethic. The big man nodded his approval whenever he happened to notice the boy at some task.

  Ravan wondered if they might eventually see him as a son of sorts. But, he only thought this on very rare occasions, when the distant memory of his own mother tapped softly upon the doorway of his mind, reminding him that he'd been somebody’s son.

  His hair grew long and one quiet afternoon, shortly before Christmas, the Fat Wife sat him on the stool in the kitchen. With a pair of boning scissors, she snipped the thick locks away until it again rested above his shoulders. The dark tufts fell silently to the floor.

  The child sat, feeling the gentle tug as her fingers worked with the comb, wonderfully comforted by the basic grooming. He closed his eyes and absently wondered if mothers combed their young ones’ hair with their fingers, or if lovers combed each other’s hair in such a way. The moment was warm and complete—a good day. He closed his eyes while she hummed and worked. Perhaps there was a place for him in this world after all.

  Quite abruptly, she was done. Before she could busy herself with another chore, he pulled from beneath his tunic a gift. He possessed no money to buy proper wrappings, but it was beautiful the way he presented it, wondrous as earth’s treasures often are.

  He had enclosed the gift in late autumn leaves, having picked them carefully for their most brilliant color. They were still soft and leathery, not having had time to dry out properly. Weaving their stems carefully into each other, he created a lovely, colorful wrapping paper. As a finishing touch, he tied the bundle neatly in braided horsehair. The tail hairs were gently plucked from a white, brown, and black animal, woven so each colored strand gratified the others beautifully.

  With a soft smile and bursting with pride, he handed the package to the big woman.

  She gaped at him in surprise, her small mouth rounding with a silent ‘Oh.’ She turned the package over in her hands, loosening the twines. The leaves unfolded and in between them she discovered a lovely pair of fox fur mittens. The leather was a smooth suede with the fur turned in for warmth. They were made to carefully fit the thickness of her plump hands.

  Holding them near, her small eyes peered closely at the detail of his work. The stitching was magnificent and in between the mittens was a darning needle and skein of thread. They had disappeared some time ago from her sewing cabinet. Slipping the mittens onto her hands, her eyes flew wide.

  Ravan had tried them on himself before wrapping them. It had been like plunging his hands into softened butter.

  She smiled despite herself—and he beamed.

  Ravan noticed how she went to market without mittens. When the late autumn chill became bitter with the first snows, he watched as she held her hands between the folds of her heavy skirts to keep them warm. He also noticed how the wealthier townswomen sported lovely, warm, fur-lined jackets and mittens. This was something he knew the Fat Wife would never allow, for vanity to require such a thing for her.

  Society demanded such fine fur be worn only by royalty, nobility, or wealthy aristocracy. Ravan knew nothing of this, and cared even less, but he noticed how she held her chin high and poked through the produce, her roughened, scalded, red hands instinctively picking the best when she filled her basket.

  He had worked meticulously on the gift, trapping eight fox alive and releasing them before two of just th
e right animals found their way to his snares. They were a matched pair with perfect coats. After carefully pelting the animals out, he roasted the fox on a spit and spent the whole day in the forest, eating fox and meticulously scraping the hides.

  Using fire-ash and fox brain to tan the pelts, he stirred them gently, finally weighting the pelts down into the water with stones. No one missed the barn bucket he tanned them in, and it was some days later when he pulled the hides from the buckets and staked them into the creek to rinse for a full day.

  Later, back at the Inn, he painstakingly rolled the hides gently back and forth across the foot rail of his bed, softening and pulling the skins to and fro until they were an immaculate suede on one side, with the fur on the other—the loveliest fawn color with black tips.

  After carefully preparing the hides, he laid them neatly on his bed, comparing their color and size. They were a perfect match. All the while, he paid particular attention to her hands, measuring in his mind the dimensions before cutting the leather. When she was baking and pushed the dough down, shoving the balls towards him to form and lay onto the oven peels, he held his hand next to the imprints, gauging widths and lengths.

  Quietly, he sat up at night, guiding the needle, each stitch perfect as he fashioned the gift. He turned the cuffs out so the roll of fur acted as a windbreak at the wrists. Truly, there were no finer mittens in all of France. Finally, he wrapped them in the leaf wrapping, with the ties arranged perfectly, the little horsetail tufts positioned like a bow.

  This woman had been kind to Ravan and he would remember her kindness always. He'd grown quite fond of her, comfortable and happy whenever her great form plodded into a room. It gave him such great pleasure to present the gift to her, his mouth widening into one of his rare and glorious smiles, his chest puffed out with pride.

  Her eyes became instantly damp as she turned her hands over, admiring the beautiful gift, her rosy face reddening. Suddenly, and without warning, she pulled the mittens from her hands and stuffed them carelessly into her apron pockets. She turned, averting her eyes from Ravan, perhaps to disguise her feelings, and hastily took up a cleaver. She turned her attention to a mutton roast on the nearby butcher block.