by Marian Unn
Chapter 17
At the end of Mass that Sunday, we dawdled round the door, our hoods pulled tight over our heads. Jobel and I have to hide our identities whenever we go anywhere, especially to church. Our faces may be known. It was dangerous to let others see us. They could spread rumors, and all rumors eventually touched Merek’s ears. I knew this well and was fearful each time we crept out of the flower shop’s back room and down into the little underground sanctuary. Although more was at risk than ever, I felt somewhat lighter. Mass was very different than it had been before. I talked to the others, speaking of casual things, things I would never have dreamed I would speak of again. They were simple things, like how to wash clothes, or which ingredients to use or not to use for cooking, which materials were more durable and cheaper than the less durable, expensive ones. We even spoke gossip! It was so much fun! So much simple talk of petty things made me feel as if I was in another life, an eternity away from the troubles of my present.
“And you know,” Bernadette whispered, the wrinkles around her eyes twisting her face as she spoke, “I hear that Mr. Garter is going to have a sale this Wednesday on hats, the ones from France!”
“Really?” a younger woman placed her thin hands to her round rosy cheeks. “I just knew he was going to have one soon. I just knew it! Those prices were just too much! He was bound to place them on sale. I just can’t wait to go and pick one out! All of those lovely feathers and colors! Oh! They are simply the light of this dull little town!”
“Well, I wouldn’t say it’s dull,” Bernadette nodded to me, “Some of us have quite an exciting life in this little ol’ town.” She winked at me, her great green eyes twinkling.
“Oh, yes.” The young women nodded to me in agreement with Bernadette.
I waved her off. “Oh no, it is not as extravagantly exiting as you believe.” I covered my lips, “Well, perhaps that is not true.”
“Oh, don’t tell lies here, young madam!” Father Bart came behind me, laughing for no particular reason as he often did. His strong hands resting on Jobel’s shoulders, he squeezed them like a father does to one’s son. Jobel reacted in his usual manner now. Lifting his head up slowly, Jobel stared at the Father for a moment then bowed his head back down, his lower lip sagging a bit as if he were dumb.
“Your grandchild is as quiet as ever I see, poor thing.” Bernadette leaned down to pinch his cheeks, a rotten habit of old women. “It is hard to believe, so young as you are, you are already a grandmother!”
“I am not as young as I appear,” I laughed with her and the young woman.
“Oh stop it! You modest little thing,” Bernadette tapped my shoulder. I blushed, squeezing Jobel’s limp hand a bit tighter as Bernadette leaned down once more to pinch his cheeks and comment something about his behavior again.
With a sigh, I peered down at Jobel. “It would be nice if he would show some sign of something. However, I know he will not. Something happened to him, something traumatic, and ever since then he has been like a doll.”
Bernadette pursed her dry lips. “Yes, well, I suppose there are painful things that can do that to a child, my dear. But at least he’s not tearing through the house. They are at that age you know.” She smiled playfully.
With a kind gesture towards the narrow stairs, Father Bart graciously brought up another topic, letting me compose myself as we walked up them. Grasping the rickety pipe, I stepped up the steps slowly, tugging at Jobel to keep up. He was trudging behind today.
Reaching the top, the women met their husbands who were waiting impatiently. Their coats on their arms and hats on their heads, each man suppressed the urge to shout out at their gossiping wives.
“Ah, Miss Rosetta, how have you been?” one young man called out to me, waiting for his elderly mother. It was Bernadette’s son. “Why, hello, Owen, I have been well.”
“That’s good, Madam.” He smiled, holding his eyes on me while he flipped the bangs from his face. “I was wondering if you would be so kind as to finally take up my offer for dinner tonight.” He held out his hand to me.
“Oh, Owen, you know I am much too old for your foolishness, now go on to your mother, talk with the girls your age.” I tried to shoo him away. This young man has been flattering me from the moment I came to this little church. Only recently did he begin to become more aggressive in his advances, asking me to dinner and other such foolish things!
“Age is of no matter to me Ma’am. As long as two people care for each other very deeply, what does age matter?”
“Owen, you silly fool, I cannot marry a boy!”
He blushed, placing his hand to his heart he pulled out a gold watch. “I got this from my father. It is an heirloom passed down in my family when we reach twenty one. It is a sign of becoming a man. If this is not proof that I am no longer a boy, then I don’t know what is,” he stubbornly replied, holding up the little watch for all to see, a prideful grin on his face.
I laughed. “You silly little boy, no little trinket can make you a man, and if you believe it does, well that makes you all the more a boy!” I do not mean to be so harsh with him, so please do not think me badly. I simply cannot allow this boy to grow so confident about such things, especially in the serious matters of the heart! It is best to let his love die now, while the heart is still young and like clay, able to be molded and changed with presses against or touches on it. Yes, it is best now to mold it to a different shape before it hardens and dries, and where trying to reshape it will only shatter it to pieces.
“Well, then, how can I prove my love for you is real?”
“I need no love as you offer, thank you,” I told him as kindly as I could. “I have my grandson and Father Bart, and all of the people here as my friends. Anymore love will be too much of a burden on my heavy old heart.” He pursed his lips to speak, but I shushed him. “Besides, you have never seen my face fully. How do you know that I am not hideous and old? Did you not think I may hide my face because I am an ugly or evil person? You should not be so trusting of me. I am not whom you think I am.”
“Why does that matter? How does any of that matter? You could be the wife of the King himself and I would not care! I love you!”
My body shook. Such strong passion. It is so like the young to be bold and blind in their speech, not knowing how close to the truth they really are.
“Now, Owen-” Father Bart came to my rescue, but a loud voice thundered over even his.
“Not my wife, I assure you.”
All heads turned to the broad shouldered man standing in the door way, his black eyes scanning the faces of the men and women in the room, but they did not touch me. He stared at the crowd with a glare that could kill a thousand cattle if they had the unfortunate chance of meeting his harsh, scrutinizing eyes.
“However,” he directed himself towards Owen, who trembled as soon as he had heard the voice. With shaking knees he knelt before him. Merek lifted his chin high, grasping the boy’s head he pulled it back, digging his fingers into his skull. Owen cried out in agony, “Please your Highness, I-”
“Who are you?” he asked coldly, ignoring Owen’s cries for pity.
“I-I am the son of Sir-”
“That is not what I asked you.” He clenched his fist tighter. “You should not interrupt people while they are talking; it is very rude.” He threw him to the ground. Digging his heel into Owen’s neck, he kept his head raised high as he spoke, “At least, that is what my Mother taught me.” He did not look at me but leaned closer to Owen, his eyes unchanging, their darkness burrowing into the boy. Tears flowed down his bruised cheeks.
“And so I must ask again.” He grasped my arm. Tearing off my hood, he pulled me up for all to see. “Who are you that you insist on pestering my poor, foolish old Mother? The Mother of your King!”
As their eyes fell upon me, I attempted to hide my face. But what was the use? What would it matter? And so I stood tall, my head turned from Merek as he waved his finger, signaling the gu
ards who rushed in and proceeded to catch the screaming and cursing people.
“You traitor!” they cried. “You snake! You weed!” “How dare you! How dare you come here and destroy our peace!” “Why! Why have you done this to us? We were your friends!”
No words or profession of my innocence would change their opinions of me. So I silently stood. I had shooed Jobel to Father Bart. I only hoped they made it out in time.
When all had been caught, and most likely sentenced to death or already dead, we were left there alone. Merek’s heel was still digging into the neck of Owen. Although he trembled, his pleading had ceased. Had he given up? Had his will already been bent to Merek’s?
“Have you any last words? I shall give you that much worth,” Merek said to him, his voice still bearing that ever constant harshness.
“Merek! Merek, I beg of you please! Please do not kill him! Merek!” He ignored me; his only reaction was his tightening on my wrist. “Merek!” I cried, “Merek, stop it! Please, Merek! Merek, it hurts! Merek!” I tried uselessly to wriggle away, forgetting how merciless he was. His grip only grew tighter the more I struggled.
“Merek!” I sobbed, as I could no longer hold myself up. I had to lean against my monstrous son for support, since he would not even release me to fall to the ground.
“Let the man speak. He is a man after all, Mother. Give him the credit of it.”
“Merek,” I coughed through my tears, pulling at his shirt, “Oh, my Merek!”
“I-I,” Owen began. I chocked on the sobs as they rolled down my cheeks with every word he spoke. “I am g-glad I got to see y-you.” He breathed heavily as Merek’s boot seemed to drive more fiercely into his throat. “I am glad I got to see you in the light before the end. You truly are just as beautiful as I thought.”
Merek was silent. Pulling his sword from his sheath he held it above Owen’s heart.
“No!” With the rest of the little strength I had left, I tugged at his hand, trying to move it away from Owen. It was then that for the first time since he had come to this place that he finally looked into my eyes. It was this look that truly caused my heart to crumble. His eyes were ever so much colder, so much harsher than I remembered. Truly everything I knew of my son, everything that he was—it was all lost now, all of it. Nothing remained of my little boy. Nothing.
He threw me aside and a guard caught me. “I want her to see this,” he ordered. The guard then forced my head towards him. I shook and fought.
“No!” I struggled. “No, Merek! Do not do this! Do not kill him! Merek! Merek, please! Please Merek!” The tears clouded my eyes. I only wish they could have blurred my vision more than they did, for I could see it all!
It happened so quickly, but the seconds it took were like hours.
I thrashed about in the grasp of the guard, while right in front my very eyes Merek raised his sword high. Somehow breaking free from the guard I ran towards Merek who swung down his sword, my hand reaching that of Owen’s who smiled bravely at the face of his slayer’s mother. His blood sprayed forth from his heart as the sword sliced through his flesh. It washed over me. His shaking hand already stopped when my fingers touched his. And Merek, splattered just as I in his blood, looked down at me. The shock and terror froze on my face, as he, the blood drenched predator, loomed over me, his prey. And in that same voice with those same downcast eyes he spoke smooth and cool words which smashed the shattered pieces of my heart into lifeless sand.
“How weak you have become, Mother.” He turned back to me as the soldier lifted my limp body. “It must have been those children at that orphanage. They made you soft. Don’t worry. I will take care of them and my treacherous wife who dared to steal my son from his training. I suppose he is rather unfit to fight now. I will have to break that little hypnosis he is under. A clever trick she pulled, but that is to be expected of my wife.” He coughed. “Well, my soon to be late wife.”
Wiping his bloodied sword, he marched from the room. Without hesitation, without remorse, without even a glance towards me, he simply walked away. The air of a murderer was about him as he stood tall, holding his head high. He was a King fresh from conquering...from suppressing...from massacring.
What a thought, my son, the King with a tyrannical rule.
What a memory, my son, a murderer in the house of God.
Return to TOC
