The Execution

by Sharon Cramer

  She yanked her arm free of his hand, instantly outraged, her eyes burning. “I suppose God told you it would be all right?” She shocked him with her outburst. “How pretentious of you! And what made you think you could do this to me? Place me in such a position with my family—and the parish! Do you presume this has only to do with you?” Her fury seemed to mount as she stomped her foot, but it made her appear very vulnerable in the wild expanse of the meadow.

  Now D’ata experienced an emotion very new to him. It was an odd mixture of excitement, aggravation and fear—fear that she might reject him. It had not occurred to him until now that he would ever even see her again, that he would feel so suddenly and completely possessive of her. He struggled greatly with it. He didn’t like the way the conversation was going and instinctively approached the situation with raw honesty. He stepped towards her.

  D’ata was entirely unprepared for these feelings, consumed with his need to be with her—logic and rationality were suddenly gone. The universe was chaos, bits flying about in disorder. There was no God, no ordainment, no plan. There existed only this moment. He was fragile as glass and she could easily shatter him if she chose to, of only this was he certain.

  He reacted without thought, grabbing her by the arms, pulling her roughly to him, pressing his lips to hers.

  Her eyes shot open, enormous with surprise.

  Having never done this before, he kissed her roughly, clumsily. It lasted for only a mere fleeting seconds before she slapped both hands upon his chest, pushing him away. She shoved hard at his chest, feeling for only a moment the expanse of muscle under the white cotton shift that hung loosely in the spring breeze.

  Julianne looked stunned, without the self-assurance she appeared to possess just moments before. She said nothing, the amusement gone from her eyes, a look of explicit anger on her face. This was obviously an unexpected turn of events for her, and she had evidently grossly misjudged him!

  She stared at him, wide eyed, her hair flying wildly about her face. She held the back of one hand against her lips. She was breathtaking. Wisps of her sun-streaked hair clung damp and elegant around her neck.

  D’ata’s breathing had become deep and ragged. He stepped towards her again.

  Julianne reacted instantly, perhaps consumed with anger, perhaps a profound doubt of her own failing logic. She struck him, sudden and hard. It was quite swift, as if it were a reflex. D’ata’s head jerked to the side and he closed his eyes, her blow landing squarely across the bruise his father had left that morning.

  Her eyes shot open in genuine surprise, apparently at how hard she hit him. She staggered backwards to regain her balance, shaking her hand, as though from the burning impact of the blow. Tears threatened as she winced and let go a sob.

  He seemed frozen in place. There was an awful amount of time where everything stood still. Then, slowly, he turned to look again into her eyes.

  There was a new expression on Julianne’s face now, as though she saw for the first time the burning passion in his eyes. She whispered, “No...” and stepped backwards.

  Both were speechless for a few brief seconds, eyes locked onto one another. Then, reading her mind and before she could speak, he snatched at her, grasping her wrist so that she couldn’t run. He pulled her again to him, breathing in the all of her.

  Julianne struggled against him, started to object.

  He wrapped his arms about her, pulling her waist against his groin, pinning her arms against his chest, twining his fingers into her hair, and pulled her head back so that he could bury his face into hers.

  He pressed his lips against hers, this time fully committed to the kiss.

  She fought angrily, pressing her lips tightly together to deny him, arching her body away from his. The rough stubble of his beard scratched her chin. She struggled, trying to release her arms, to twist away from him while tears escaped the corners of her eyes and caught on her lashes.

  In mere seconds, she went from outraged to confused, and then to a blankness as she remained unmoving in his arms. He couldn’t make sense of what was coming over her, but moments later, he found her succumbing to him. D’ata was uncertain whether she softened from desire or relief and safety. She allowed him to pull her closely, relaxed so that his strong arms molded her against him.

  Oh, to hold her this way, it was glorious!

  She breathed in. Her soft lips parted as his tongue pressed against them. He thrilled as she submitted to his passion, allowing his kiss to consume her. Then, quite unexpectedly—she kissed him back, her hand reaching softly up to his face, gently caressing his jaw.

  Then something happened. Somewhere, somehow, a sliver of his ordained destiny threaded it’s nasty hook into him and tugged. As abruptly as he’d advanced upon her, he suddenly released her, shoving her roughly away. She stumbled backwards, shaken, obviously stunned by his unpredictability and her own inability to maintain control.

  Her fury was unmistakable. She said nothing, only stood there, her hand to her mouth, tears streaming from her eyes. She was visibly unsteady on her feet.

  The horse, nervous from the humans’ erratic behavior, threw up its head and yanked the reins easily from her hands. Recognizing its sudden freedom, the animal bolted away. Across the meadow it charged, holding its head high to keep from entangling its legs in the reins and galloped eagerly for home.

  “No!” D’ata cried as he lunged after the horse. Then, realizing the futility of chasing the animal, turned back to Julianne.

  Years ago, when D’ata’s voice had first squeaked his adolescent changes, and his body had taken on that youthful, awkward gangly appearance, he’d experienced the first of those mystifying dreams that young men have. Those dreams had embarrassed him and yet, had left his body quenched. Afterwards, he thought it dirty and sinful, and he innocently questioned his eligibility to pursue his quest to be a disciple of God. However, there was another part of him that secretly marveled at those dreams.

  Eventually, as he matured and his voice stabilized to a throaty baritone, he came to accept those dreams as a gift from God. After all, he could purify his thoughts during his waking hours and walk a holy path. Then, in his slumber, his soul could enter that limbo plane beyond his control, and the smoky, vague images could stir. He knew in this state he could be vulnerable to the whims of God, or Satan. It just seemed much easier to accept those dreams as gifts from God rather than sins from Satan. Consequently, he would not have to pray for them to leave and risk losing them. It was fundamentally an irrational argument, but for D’ata, it worked.

  Now he looked at Julianne in much the same way as when he first marveled at the dreams. However, he was not decided from whence she’d came. “Who in God’s name are you, really?” he asked her. “Where the devil have you come from?” He was simply mystified that this woman could so possess his mind and body as she had in the last few hours. His questions were sincere, if unkind.

  She roughly brushed the tears from her eyes with the back of her hand. “How dare you! Who am I? Who the hell are you!” She didn’t give him a chance to answer. “And do you always use your divine power to exploit women?” She was screaming at the top of her lungs. She seethed, clenching and unclenching her fists. “Bastard! You’re a bastard! And, and I hate you!” Her eyes brimmed as she gulped in a half sob.

  This outburst shocked him and he was very anxious, with an urgent need to quiet her, to comfort her. He had in all honesty, never heard a woman raise her voice before, much less rant as this one was. He was shaken, and as rational thought returned, he regretted all at once his terrible behavior. He made to reach out to her.

  She pulled away screaming, “Get away from me! Don’t touch me, you—you monster!”

  D’ata ignored her pleas. It crushed him that she might truly think of him in that way. “Julianne, please forgive me. I’m so sorry!” He reached for her.

  She stumbled and sobbed as she lost her footing, crashing backwards onto the ground. He bent down for her and she
kicked at his outstretched hand, then scrambled to pull her legs under herself. As she leaned forward to regain her balance, D’ata was already on his knees, pulling her close, this time to protect her.

  “I hate you,” she sobbed as she collapsed against his chest.

  His lips brushed against her hair, her dusty fragrance filled his soul. “Julianne, don’t cry—please. It’ll be all right, everything’s going to be all right. You can hate me if you wish.” He smoothed her hair with his hand as he pulled her close. “You’ve nothing to fear. Please, listen to me—Shhh.”

  Her sobbing quieted a small bit.

  “I swear by all that is sacred to me that I’ve known you forever,” he whispered into her ear, “I would never hurt you. I would never lie to you, and this is going to be all right.” Gently touching her chin, he turned her face up towards his. His eyes searched hers as a sudden and deafening realization made the universe, once again, tilt even. “Julianne—I love you.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  †

  Ravan sat cross-legged on his bed in the attic, his hair disheveled from the incident downstairs. He frowned and picked at the loose threads on the hem of his sleeve, recalling the evening’s events. Outside, snow started to fall.

  As is the human way, he replayed repeatedly in his mind what had happened, imagining the revenge he would enact on Steele for the liberty the man had intended to take with him. It disgusted him thoroughly.

  As the threads of his sleeve unraveled, so did his resolve, and his melancholy deepened. He’d grown mistrustful about the motives of monsieur LaFoote and it devastated him to think that she might be a part of it. Who was Duval and what did this unknown person care about him? What did it have to do with the Innkeeper? Why had they lied to him?

  He was indignant and angry, and down in the deepest recesses of his being—he was afraid.

  The boy absently rubbed the red scratch marks that Pierre left on his arm and reached down to finger the weight of Pig-Killer in his boot, comforted by its presence. ‘It would seem the blade has specific purposes and was suitably named,’ he thought to himself wryly.

  He remembered the horrible wound across Pierre’s face. What a spectacle it had been! The fat nose that was practically detached, flopping down over the screaming mouth, blood streaming down the folds in his jowls. The blood had glistening with blubber as it ran off, the fat oozing into the red, the oiliness of it greasing the chin and chest of the detestable man. Dark scarlet and vulgar, it was not at all like the blood of hunting, not bright, not pure. It did not run as it did from creatures that were truly alive.

  His stomach turned again as he recalled Pierre’s awful intentions. Ravan was no stranger to the notion of rape. More than a few of the children at the orphanage had been sexual victims of their homelessness before coming there. Those particular orphans carried with them a wound which would never heal, an eternal mistrust. It was in invisible scar, painful and ugly nevertheless. Ravan would rather die, he thought to himself.

  As his rage seethed, he held silent satisfaction at imagining the hideous wound the man would forever wear, a badge of cowardice, and he had given Pierre the mark. People would point and whisper now when they saw Pierre, and this gratified Ravan a great deal.

  Bellowing erupted from the kitchen below, probably as the Fat Wife sutured Pierre’s face back together. It enraged Ravan that she should even have to touch the pig-man. His eyes narrowed and a new thought occurred to him—he had an enemy for life. This was a first for him, and it tasted foreign. He allowed the awareness of it to settle somewhere into his subconscious, a new gift in his growing repertoire of slanted experiences.

  Next time, he would not wound Pierre—he would kill him. Then, he would leave the carcass for the creatures of the forest to finish off. His mind twisted as he figured his future. Next time, it would not be Steele’s nose he would sever! Ravan sneered, his lips parting, and quietly, very insidiously, hatred planted its first seed in his belly.

  He tossed Pig-Killer back and forth, lightly, one hand to another, familiarizing himself even more with the weight and balance of the elegant weapon. He scowled at the quiet rapping at his door, sheathed the blade and dropped it into his boot. Sliding from the bed so he would be standing when he confronted the Innkeeper, he tossed about in his head what he’d already rehearsed, what he intended to say.

  It was not the Innkeeper, however, who spoke softly from the other side of the door.

  Ravan unbolted the lock and was greeted by the Fat Wife.

  Her face was drawn, her eyes damp, and she promptly looked away as she pushed her bulk into the room, turning to re-latch the lock.

  Ravan softened immediately. She seemed distressed, and he briefly looked her over to make certain that the monster, Pierre, had not tried to hurt her as well. For that, he would kill him tonight.

  As she turned back to him, drying her hands on her apron, it occurred to Ravan that she’d probably only just moments ago washed the blood of Pierre from them.

  “Get your things together, you’re leaving.” Her voice trembled and she moved quickly to his night chest, carrying a flour sack.

  “Why?” Ravan moved between her and the chest.

  “Because, if you stay—you will belong to Duval. You have to leave before he comes for you.” She said it as if Ravan should have known all along, “He wasn’t going to just yet, didn’t think you were ready, but Steele has sent word to him, and he is in town already—close by.”

  Ravan reached out, grasping the flour sack, forcing her to look at him.

  She paused, her round eyes dreadfully sad and pale.

  The branches from the giant pecan tree scratched on the windowpane, a lonely and ominous sound that seemed to say, “You must listen to her—you must leave.” The wind moaned in agreement. Snow whipped past the window as the evening light faded.

  Ravan took her hand. “You have been kind to me, a friend. I’m going nowhere.” He continued, grasping at purpose. “I work hard. I provide more than I take. I don’t know who this Duval is, but he doesn’t frighten me. I want to stay!”

  He tried to produce a smile, secretly knowing she loved when he smiled, but the edge of his lip quivered sadly and he failed miserably.

  “You can’t, child.” She pulled her hand from his and took him by the shoulders, shaking him gently. “Ravan, you don’t understand. Duval isn’t a man you can fight. He buys what he wants, and he wants boys—men, like you.”

  Ravan looked fierce and unyielding into her eyes.

  She released his shoulders and with a heavy sigh sat down on the bed, flopping her hands onto her lap.

  The bed creaked beneath her weight, and Ravan eased down next to her, more comfortable sitting by her than standing over her. “I don’t want to go. I’m happy here, as happy as I think I can be.” He defended his position. “Besides, there are other boys. I would die before I would let him touch me like that!”

  “Ravan, it’s not like that. Duval is a man who...” She frowned. “He doesn’t want you for…” She struggled before continuing, then cut straight to the matter at hand. “He enlists forces, men, into a mercenary army that he owns and trains.” She looked out the window as she spoke. “He will take you and break you. He’ll make what he wants of you—a killer. You will become a tool for whatever his needs are, and his needs are plenty.” She turned to face him, pivoting her weight on the bed. “The likes of you will feed his ego and line his pockets. I can’t let that happen to you.”

  Her urgency was not lost on the boy, but he persisted. “You have little faith in me if you believe another man can so easily govern me.” Ravan tossed his head back in defiance. His voice belied a courage he did not totally feel.

  “Ravan.” She smiled, possibly warmed by the fire in the young man. As if to make her voice more convincing, she softened it. “I have no doubt you could defend yourself from the devil himself—if it were only him that’s come, but you are underestimating the danger that you are in.” She looked away, h
er mouth cascading into a frown. “It’s not just Duval. You see, he will come with many, however many it takes to make you bend to his wishes, and if you don’t?” her voice caught, “he will kill you.”

  Taking a deep breath, she struggled to control herself. “This is a terrible burden to place upon one so young, but you don’t have much time, child. Duval has paid for what he believes to be his, and he is close. He doesn’t choose someone lightly, and you were singled out. You were chosen long before you even came here to the Inn.”

  Ravan took only a moment to process the implications of what she said and then bolted from the bed. “What? You mean while I was at the orphanage?” He was incredulous. “It’s been planned out for me since before I came here?” He believed himself horribly betrayed. Who had deceived him so? When had this all been decided? And now—who was to be trusted?

  She stepped in without delay. “No, I mean, yes, I mean—child, the old man knew nothing of this. You must believe me on that, but your abilities, your instincts, with the hunting and such,” she paused, “that hasn’t been something easily hidden from the men in this town. Envy is a terrible thing, Ravan. A mountain stack of bleached antlers is not going to go unnoticed,” she paused, ashamed to have to tell him, “even if it is hidden behind a barn at an orphanage.” She hesitated, “They want you because of what you do, Ravan.”

  Her face was drawn, her pale blue eyes fading to almost clear. “You must listen to me. You’ve been followed for some time, by men who work for Duval. They will come for you now that they think it is time.”

  Ravan had come to recognize the moods in her eyes, and he knew she spoke with deep intent. He thought hard, recalled the circling sets of footprints in the forest—men’s footprints. There had even been a time, when he’d doubled back, crisscrossing his own trail and then scampered up the stream to elude the strange visitors who’d invaded his beloved forest.