by The Weather Baker's Son [Dreamspinner, World of Love MM] (retail) (epub)
My voyage through this world has just begun….
BZZZ…. BZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ.
That past Saturday evening, Bernd, the German cyclist, lay on his sleeping bag under an abandoned and overgrown stone bridge, listening to the love cry of the cicadas in the heat.
Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.
Mesmerized by their song, he drank in the scene around him. The sun and the heat brought out song in him as well, and he hummed a peaceful little tune as he twirled a flower stem in his hand.
A lazy day! There was nothing that needed to be planned, a future that could wait for another day.
So many other days to think of school and work, he thought. No need to do anything but drink in the glorious scenery here. As if lifted by the buzz of the cicadas, his thoughts turned to Inge, his girlfriend back home in Germany. Is she the one? he asked himself. I think so. Yes, I think so. I love her so.
She was different. She made him smile. He made her smile. Their love seemed effortless. It seemed right. He would text her again in the morning. She worried so. She would be joining him in the south when he reached Marseilles. She could not come sooner due to her work. He would meet her at the train station in a couple of days. Ah, the future, how it comes to mind in spite of oneself! Are there any days that are just for the day? Perhaps one need not lament thoughts of the future that are happy thoughts. Those ones can gladden the present, no need to be too serious about it.
So Bernd allowed himself to revel in the future promise of his life with Inge, running his hands along mossy stones beside him, soft and velvety like Inge’s skin. The smell of rosemary bushes nearby and the wet earth of the muddy riverbank a few feet from his toes brought him sensations of nature at its purest. Simple sensations.
As evening set he busied himself sending text message updates to friends in German and arranging his bicycle pack for the morning. He would get up early, wash, and be off, but now he could contemplate the stars as they came out.
Five days later, on Thursday, the police were able to trace a faint cell phone signal using the number found by the town clerk that brought them to a small river that emptied into the Rhone a couple of miles above where Bernd’s body was found. There, concealed under a stone arched bridge not far from where that river ended at the Rhone, they located his bicycle, his phone, and equipment. One of the policemen, the same one who had translated the German note at the town hall, scrolled through a number of German text messages on the phone. One in particular caught his eye, dating from Sunday morning at 6:00 a.m.—perhaps a message to a lady friend?
Dear Inge, I feel so free here! I love this place, my voyage has just begun!
It appeared from a rumpled sleeping bag laid out under the arch that he had been sleeping where there was a space on the riverbank under that arch.
I found a quiet spot under a graceful bridge to sleep, a disused bridge it would appear and covered in overgrowth… but magical….
Then the other gendarme stepped back in horror. There on the bank under the bridge and at his feet lay a large field stone just at the river’s edge. On it he could see a smattering of blood.
I will wash my face here, enjoying the fresh, bubbling water. I have had a good night’s sleep, listening to the water flow, glancing up at the stone arch above me. It tried to block the infinity of stars from my view but I could still see them spreading out on either side in their vastness. I felt protected here by these ancient stones. I will soon be off, so much to see and do! I will contact you again tomorrow. Kisses, love Bernd.
The text message ended. The gendarme looked up from reading and saw the look on his colleague’s face as he caught sight of the bloodied stone. Then in unison they both looked up from where the stone lay and saw a space in the arch of the bridge just above it that appeared to match the stone in shape. Bits of crumbled mortar lay near the stone. The two policemen looked at each other. It became apparent to them that the stone had fallen from above, hitting the cyclist by accident as he was preparing to wash by the river, after composing his last message, his cycling suit only half pulled on so that he could wash. He had likely then fallen forward into the small river, and eventually his body had floated out into the Rhone.
The young blond man’s phone was full of pictures. Close-ups of wildflowers, selfies of the man with a wide grin showing fields of red coquelicots behind him, lizards scampering on stone walls—all the kinds of things he did not have back home in more northerly climes at this moment or in such profusion. There was also a video of him narrating and panning his camera on the natural wonders about him extolling their beauty. Full of life were they, full of the anticipation of further wonders to come beyond the next corner, up the next path.
Holger, I am getting closer to the Mediterranean, he exclaimed in another text message to a friend. I can sense the wide blue sea in my blood under these exceptional blue skies of Provence where I am, I am up early, I cannot wait, will write in a couple of days.
From the phone messages between the German tourist and his friends back home, it was clear the young man was alive at 6:00 a.m. on Sunday morning.
Epilogue
A COUPLE of months later September came around, the start of the new university term. Both Peter and Gaston sat at a café near the gates of the University of Montpellier.
Gaston had been included in Marguérite’s will. He had been unprepared to be so kindly remembered by his old acquaintance. He had been given a legacy of 20,000 euros to be used for higher education. Marguérite had seen in her last days that a legacy of this sort would enable Gaston, even compel him, to take action and follow his heart.
Peter had transferred his studies to Montpellier from Quebec City, and Gaston was intent on monitoring courses to decide on his interests for the coming winter term. They had found an apartment to share nearby and were amusing themselves by looking at pictures on their phone sent by Hélène. They were of Hélène and Raymond on travels through Italy. Hélène had extended her stay at the bergerie for an additional six months, and there was talk that perhaps a villa might rise up on the foundations by the cistern up the hill and that Raymond and Hélène would settle there. But that was looking too far ahead and would have to resolve itself over time.
Glancing up from the café table, Peter’s gaze fell unexpectedly on that of François. François was walking nearby! Of course! thought Peter. He is with his father, the visiting professor at the University of Montpellier. François’s gaze fell on Gaston, who, unawares, was looking at the photos. François looked back at Peter, who was still gazing at François but took Gaston’s hand in his. Gaston was wearing the ring that Peter had once given to François, and Peter’s hand was graced with Gaston’s ring. Peter nodded at François. François nodded back and smiled a smile of acknowledgment. He was happy for Peter and continued on his way with his father. Peter was happy too and had smiled back a smile of forgiveness and understanding. It was also a smile of good-bye. Then Peter lowered his head toward Gaston’s as they both continued to admire other photos. They were photos of a smiling Céleste, Sylvie, and Mario, still with his crutches, at the bakery door.
And then one last photo.
His head up as he lay on his arch, Padie’s long pink tongue hung out of his wide-open mouth. He was beaming in the full sunlight and seemingly aware that he was still attracting admiration.
PETER GROVER has received no end of inspiration from his life with his husband and a gaggle of ghosts in a Gothic Victorian house. Peter has now arisen from a pile of dusty law books to relaunch his background in languages and literature, early passions before his career. Combining these passions with his many travels for work and pleasure have allowed him to illustrate local poetry, arts, and landscapes that draw the reader into other, often exotic worlds. Peter loves to hike the deserts and mountains of the Southwest US in the winter while enjoying the lush scenery and lakes of Central Canada in the summer.
By Peter Grover
The Weather Baker’s Son
Pub
lished by DREAMSPINNER PRESS
www.dreamspinnerpress.com
Published by
DREAMSPINNER PRESS
5032 Capital Circle SW, Suite 2, PMB# 279, Tallahassee, FL 32305-7886 USA
www.dreamspinnerpress.com
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of author imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
The Weather Baker’s Son
© 2016 Peter Grover.
Cover Art
© 2016 Brooke Albrecht.
http://brookealbrechtstudio.com
Cover content is for illustrative purposes only and any person depicted on the cover is a model.
All rights reserved. This book is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or distribution via any means is illegal and a violation of international copyright law, subject to criminal prosecution and upon conviction, fines, and/or imprisonment. Any eBook format cannot be legally loaned or given to others. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact Dreamspinner Press, 5032 Capital Circle SW, Suite 2, PMB# 279, Tallahassee, FL 32305-7886, USA, or www.dreamspinnerpress.com.
Digital ISBN: 978-1-63477-818-3
Published December 2016
v. 1.0
Printed in the United States of America