“I hope you’ll talk more when you live with us.”
Luc laughed, “I will, I promise.”
“Shoes?” asked Beatrice, pointing to the boy’s feet again.
“You always wear them.”
“Only because Mattie insists. But Pons never does. Except to church.”
Luc nodded. Beatrice frowned at him. He smiled and put a finger to his lips. Beatrice rolled her eyes.
The sun set before Luc waved good-bye. As he headed back to the olive grove, he stopped now and then to rub Cadeau’s head. It had taken Luc less than an hour to run down to the village, but the walk home was uphill, and he didn’t run, so it took more than twice as long. The sky was dark, and the moon was high when he reached the farmhouse. Hervé was sitting on the ground outside the door with a blanket wrapped around his shoulders, scratching in the dirt with his knife. He jumped to his feet when he saw his brother.
“Where’ve you been, Luc?”
Luc didn’t answer. Instead he asked, “How is Pierre?”
“He broke a tooth, but it’s just a milk tooth. Where were you? The fishing village?”
Luc nodded.
“Father is passed out in the courtyard. Help me drag him inside,” said Hervé.
“No,” said Luc. “Why should I? Let him sleep in the dirt all night. Besides, I’m too much of a weakling to move such a big man. Even with your help, Hervé.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Fishing
AFTER CHURCH ON Sunday, Pons climbed to the olive grove. The door to the house was open, but no one was inside, and there was no sign of Luc or his brothers. Pons found Blanche in the courtyard, drawing water from the well. When he asked to see Pascal, she led him wordlessly through the back of the house to the garden, where Luc’s father was sprawled against the trunk of a tree, drinking from a wineskin. A breeze rattled the leaves, and they floated to the ground around the man. As Pons spoke about taking Luc as an apprentice and teaching him to fish, Pascal glowered. When the old man finished, the sullen man rose, mopped his red face with his sleeve, and, without a word, staggered back inside the farmhouse, banging the door behind. Pons waited a good while for Pascal’s answer, but the door remained shut, so he returned home.
At dusk, there was a knock at the fisherman’s cottage; Beatrice opened the door and clapped her hands. Luc was on the doorstep with a wagging, whimpering Cadeau at his side.
“My father said he won’t pay Pons anything.”
“I never asked for anything,” said Pons, coming to the door.
The banked orange embers whispered and popped under the stew pot. Mattie led Luc to the table. Beatrice dished up a bowl of warm turnips and broth. She sat across from Luc and smiled as he gulped down the soup. Beatrice filled the bowl again, and Luc finished every drop. Pons cleared a corner of the cottage, where he unrolled an old straw-filled pallet; Mattie handed the boy a blanket. With a full belly and Cadeau curled against his side, Luc fell asleep easily.
When Luc opened his eyes, it was dark; the hearth lit only one corner of the dim cottage, but he could pick out the silhouettes of fish overhead. He rubbed his eyes, stretched, crossed himself, and smiled. Luc went outside with Cadeau, and when he returned he saw Mattie by the fire, filling a loaf of bread with hard yellow cheese. She tied it in a cloth bundle with four apples. Nearby, Pons baited the last of his hooks with salted fish. Each time a hook was baited, Pons spit on it. Only Beatrice was missing as Mattie handed Luc and Pons bread and mugs of linden-blossom tea.
“Why do you spit on the bait?” asked Luc.
“My father always did,” said Pons, shrugging and looking at the boy. “Well, Luc, it’s your first day as a fisherman. Are you ready?”
“But it’s still dark,” said the boy.
“Sun will be up in a few hours. After midnight the wind stops blowing, and the fish start feeding. Early morning is the best time to fish,” said Pons as he sipped his mug of tea.
“Where is Beatrice?” asked the boy.
The old man pointed to the loft. “Ah, now, she sleeps well into daylight, like a regular lady, on a bed Mattie made for her, with a feather-stuffed mattress. It’s the only part of the girl’s day that hasn’t changed since she left the house of her father.”
“Her father?”
Pons nodded. “He served Count de Muguet.”
“Who?” asked Luc, blowing to cool his tea.
Pons dunked his bread in his mug, and Luc copied him. Mattie added sticks to the fire, and the flame brightened.
“You don’t know who Count de Muguet is? He’s a powerful nobleman from over the mountains,” said Pons, shaking his head. “Owns land everywhere. The count owns this village, and his holdings in the northwest would take you more than two days to cross. Your father used to serve him. You and your parents are from up north.”
“Me? From the north?” asked Luc. “No, I’ve always lived in the farmhouse on the hill,” he said, pointing in the direction of the olive grove.
Pons cocked his head. “No, boy. You’re from the same place as Beatrice. Count de Muguet gave the grove to your father.”
Luc frowned. “I’ve never heard any of this. Why would a count give my father an olive grove?”
“I’ve told you all I know,” answered Pons. “Your father must have earned it. The count is anything but generous. He’s a cruel and dangerous man.”
Luc shook his head and dunked some more bread in his tea; then he frowned and asked Pons, “You said Beatrice is from there too? She’s not your family?”
“No. Mattie was her nurse. Beatrice’s father was one of the count’s knights. She’s noble born.”
“Her father is a knight?” Luc asked, tea dribbling down his chin as he chewed.
“Like I said, her father was a knight, but now he’s dead, and her mother might as well be. Poor girl still has nightmares about her father’s death.”
“Shhh, Pons!” said Mattie. “The less said, the better.”
“Right, Mattie. Let’s be off, Luc. First thing we need to do is teach you to row. Don’t suppose you can swim?” asked Pons.
“Enough to keep from drowning. For a while, anyway. Sometimes I swim in the river with my brothers.”
“Then you might just live long enough to grow a beard,” said Mattie, thumping the boy on his back.
“I don’t think I’ll ever grow a beard,” said Luc, grinning and rubbing his chin. “I’m about as hairy as an eggshell. But you should see my brother. He—”
“The fish don’t care. Let’s be off,” said Pons.
Luc patted Cadeau, and held his palm over the dog’s head. “Stay, boy. Stay.”
The dog whined once and lay down on the threshold, watching as his master shouldered the net and labored behind Pons.
Countless stars pricked the early morning sky as they walked to the beach, where Pons’s boat was drawn up on the damp, pebbled shore. It was a small sailboat with a rounded hull that came to a point in the bow and in the stern. The narrow mast had a single triangular sail. The old man struggled to drag its bow into the water until Luc leaned his shoulder against the stern and pushed. Then the little boat slipped easily from the beach into the sea. When they were knee deep, Pons managed to roll himself in without swamping the craft. He was pleased by the ease and lightness with which Luc pulled himself up and over the gunwale.
“See these?” asked Pons. He picked up a pair of carved oars and began to row. “See the blade, how it cups to a ridge in the middle? Works better in the water than a flat oar. Mattie carved them, but Beatrice came up with the shape. She figures everything out. Fearless too, except about bugs. Even so, she’s a wonder in the garden, gets anything to grow. Beatrice just has to watch how to do something, and then she knows it. Anything at all, except sewing. Can’t sew worth a lick. And what about my sister and her carvings? Those fish look real enough to salt. And your ear? What do you think?”
“The ear? I never saw anything so lifelike. Tell me more about Beatrice.”
�
��Not until I teach you to row and to fish. And that’s going to take some time.”
Throughout the remains of the dark and well after dawn, until the sun was high in the sky, Pons and Luc took turns rowing. Pons showed Luc how to pull, feather, and push the oars—circling and stopping and making headway. Luc caught on quickly.
Pons began to notice more than the boy’s grace. Luc had an uncommon sharpness of vision, easily noting the sea’s faint color change that marked a school of fish. He spotted distant gatherings of birds, another telltale sign of fish. Pons handed him a line, and as soon as it sank, Luc caught a fish. It wasn’t just beginner’s luck, either. It seemed to Pons that every time Luc dropped a line, he caught another fish. Pons played out the long line, strung at intervals with baited hooks, and before long, that line, too, began to tug with bites.
“Pull in the lines, now,” said Pons as he hoisted the sail to catch the sea breeze. “It’s time to head home.”
“What kind of fish are those?” asked Luc, pointing to three silver creatures that appeared just beyond the stern, diving and leaping out of the water, riding the draft of the little boat under sail.
“Those are dolphins, boy,” said Pons, with a broad smile that creased his eyes. “That’s the best luck a fisherman can have, seeing dolphins like that. You caught the first fish today, and now this?” Pons patted the boy’s head. “Lucky signs, Luc.”
That day Pons’s nets filled with more fish than on the best of days, and Pons suspected that the boy’s value might go beyond his young hands and his good nature.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Luc’s Visit
LIFE IN THE fisherman’s cottage was good and getting better. Throughout the day, Cadeau followed Beatrice until each afternoon when the dog caught sight of Luc and tore down the road. December was often a rainy month, but this year the weather stayed fine, and Pons declared that the fishing had never been better.
Pons and Luc napped most afternoons after they returned from fishing. The winter sun set earlier, but whenever Luc awoke before day’s end, he would help Beatrice and Mattie until nightfall, when they would all share supper. Pons had slaughtered the pig at the end of November, and Mattie was curing its hide in a shallow ditch behind the cottage. She had soaked the hide in quicklime and then in the residue of her cider pressing. Next, the pigskin steeped under a layer of dung. Mattie never let Beatrice help with the unpleasant task of leather tanning, but she welcomed Luc’s assistance. He was good-natured even during the worst of jobs.
“Luc,” said Beatrice one afternoon, pinching her nose. “You stink worse than the privy.”
“That he does, poor boy,” said Mattie, stepping back from Luc. “Give me your shirt.”
Luc peeled away his shirt, and Mattie took it to rinse in a bucket. Luc washed himself with a basin, a cloth, and soap that Beatrice readied in the yard for him. When he came inside, he was shivering, and Beatrice handed him a blanket to wear until his shirt was dry.
“That’s better,” she said, sniffing.
“Better for you,” said Luc. “I’ll probably catch my death from the cold.”
As Mattie was hanging Luc’s wet shirt on a hook by the hearth, they heard children’s laughter. Cadeau barked, and Mattie went to the door to find three smiling barefoot village boys standing on the cottage threshold, caps doffed.
“Please, ma’am, can we see the fish?” asked the biggest child. He was slender, snugly dressed in a heavy shirt of mustard-colored wool.
“And the mermaid?” added the littlest, who wore a shirt of the same cozy yellow wool. The middle boy was heavier than the other two, and Mattie recognized him as one of the baker’s sons.
Luc ducked out the back door as Mattie chuckled and ushered the children into the room. They were hushed and slack-jawed, looking up at the fish. Beatrice smiled and handed each child a small apple. The littlest was afraid to take the apple, and Beatrice was crouching to reassure him when Luc burst through the front door with the blanket draped over his head, running at the children, hooting and braying.
The children screamed and headed for the back door as he whipped off the blanket, laughing. The boys turned, and the two older ones started to laugh, but the little one was terrified. Beatrice took him in her arms and wiped away his tears.
“Bad Luc,” she said, and she began to sing softly to the little boy.
Luc was smiling at the older boys, who were giggling and making fun of the crying child, when the biggest boy stopped and stared at Luc. He pointed.
“It’s the pig boy,” he said, elbowing his friend. “He has only one ear.”
“Nope,” said Luc. “Look here.”
Luc opened his palm and showed the boys the wooden ear that Mattie had carved. All three boys were silent. The oldest thanked Mattie and Beatrice, and the three children backed out of the cottage, keeping their eyes on Luc until they were outside. With a roar of laughter they were off, running from the yard.
“I’ll see you scamps in church,” yelled Luc.
When the three boys spotted Luc that Sunday at Mouette’s little church, Saint Olive’s, they rushed to him with big smiles on their faces. He had already been known to the villagers as the swineherd’s helper. Now, after several weeks of fishing, he was becoming known as Pons’s lucky boy, because Pons had bragged about Luc’s good fortune to his fellow fishermen. Everyone began to notice the increase in the old man’s haul.
Saint Olive’s was a small stone church with a wide nave and a barrel-shaped chancel that held the village’s only glazed window. It lit the simple wooden altar that today was decorated with Christmas greens and two beeswax tapers. The inhabitants of Mouette stood together in a space that would have been crowded if only half the village showed up. But every Sunday and holiday, everyone jammed together, stood, and listened to the old priest’s Latin singsong mass.
When they returned to the cottage after church, Pons held out a basket with three plump sea bream. “Take these to your mother, Luc. It’s been almost a month since you left home.”
“She’ll be happy to have fresh fish before Christmas,” added Mattie.
“I’m sure she’s missed you,” said Beatrice.
“Stay for a meal with your family,” said Pons.
Luc missed his brothers and his mother, and he was proud of the fish in the basket, so he and Cadeau marched happily up over the hills to see his family. When he saw Luc, Pierre jumped into his brother’s arms, whooping and laughing.
“Never leave again.”
Luc laughed, rubbed the little boy’s head, and kissed each cheek. “Smile for me, Pierre.”
“My bad tooth’s gone. It fell out as soon as you left. Papa said that meant you would never come back.”
Hervé stepped from the cottage and nodded at Luc.
“Are you home for good?” he asked.
“Just a visit,” said Luc, clapping his brother on the back.
Hervé smiled. “I miss you, Luc.”
“Good,” said Luc with another thump. “I’ve missed you and Pierre. Maybe you’ll bring him to see the carved fish. Where is Mother?” asked Luc.
“Inside. Father is asleep in the garden.”
Luc shook his head, and went into the house.
When Blanche saw Luc, her eyes filled; she pulled him close and held him. Then she pushed him away and looked at him.
“You look older and stronger.”
“In one month?”
“You still have stork legs,” she said, gently pinching Luc’s cheek. “But you’re filling out.”
“Look what I brought.”
“Did you catch those?” asked his mother.
Luc nodded, handing her the basket of fish.
“We’ll have a good dinner today, after all,” she said.
“And Father?”
“He’s asleep.”
Blanche chewed her lip. “You should leave before he wakes. His temper is worse and worse. There isn’t even time to fix you something to eat.”
“T
hat’s all right; I’m not hungry.”
But Luc’s stomach rumbled as he sat at the table and studied his mother. Her thin hair was pulled back under a small cap, and her cheeks were pale and hollow. Her apron was spotless, but her sleeves were frayed, and her cap was torn. She sat down across from him and pulled the basket of fish to her. Looking at the fish, she shook her head and smacked her dry lips.
“I can’t remember the last time we had fresh fish,” she said.
“No,” said Hervé, slipping in next to Luc. “It’s always herring. Salty old herring. Like eating old shoes.”
Blanche reached across, cupped Luc’s chin, and smiled.
“Pons said we come from the north. Is that true, Mother?” Luc asked.
She pulled her hand away from his face and looked down.
“What?” asked Hervé. “I thought I was born right here in this house.”
“You were,” she said, glancing at Hervé.
“But I wasn’t, was I?” asked Luc.
Blanche squeezed her eyes shut. “Someday I’ll tell you, Luc.”
“Tell me now.”
“There isn’t time,” said Blanche.
Luc stood, and waited for his mother to look at him.
“Why does Father hate me? Is it because I am a freak, or something else?”
“Hush, Luc. You’re not a freak. Pascal is a good man. But go, before he wakes.”
“He’s a mean, drunken fool, Mother.”
“You had better go now. Thank you for the fish,” said Blanche, without a glance at Luc.
Luc nodded and left the house with a throat too tight to speak. Hervé followed Luc outside, where they found Pierre throwing a stick for Cadeau.
“What’s all that about being from the north?” asked Hervé.
“I don’t know,” said Luc.
Hervé shrugged. “Who cares?”
“I do.”
Luc whistled for Cadeau, and Pierre ran with the dog to him.
“Be good, Pierre,” said Luc, rubbing his little brother’s shoulder.
“Don’t go, Luc,” pleaded the little boy, dropping the stick and hugging Luc’s legs. “You have to be here for Christmas.”
The Unfortunate Son Page 4
