The Execution

by Sharon Cramer

  D’ata performed like the well-timed clocks in the mansion. His future was set, his role consecrated, his life tidily disposed. Other than a few expectations, his time was his own, and this particular afternoon looked to be a pleasant one at that.

  He finished dividing the bread, his thoughts returning to the task at hand. The sweet yeast smell made his stomach growl again, and he closed his eyes, briefly enjoying the moment.

  Stifling a yawn, he opened his eyes and glanced up, suddenly glimpsing an image so fair that he caught his breath. She sat five pews back and it was not her beauty which so caught D’ata’s attention, but the way the light seemed to attach to her. She was willowy, but strong, and there appeared to be a glow about her as she sat with her head bowed.

  He could not recall seeing her before, and he was mesmerized. Her hair cascaded softly in loose strands around her shoulders where it had escaped her worn velvet ribbon. It looked as though she tied it back too hastily, as if perhaps it annoyed her at times.

  She appeared almost as if she were sleeping as her lashes, sun-bleached on the tips, rested against her face. Her skin was rosy as though she spent too much time outdoors and had scrubbed hard to remove the dirt. The very lightest wash of freckles danced across her nose, another gift from the sun. He was entranced—she seemed so comfortable, so composed.

  D'ata marveled at how the light played upon her honey-streaked hair as though lit by a glorious halo. He could not pull his eyes from her as he watched her lips silently mouth the words of her prayer...Oh, to be those words.

  He stood frozen and watched her, as she lifted a hand to capture a stray lock of hair, which brushed against her cheek. The congregation stirred and whispered—D’ata saw only her, forgetting his task completely. He was transfixed, broken bread dangling loosely from each hand.

  Her simple and worn dress was off-white gauze, not brown or black as was expected of common peasantry, but the lines were delicate and graceful, most likely hand sewn by its wearer. A young girl sat next to her and she leaned down to speak quietly into the child’s ear. The child nodded and looked happily up at her.

  His heart caught in his chest as she suddenly stirred to stand. She was tall and slender, moving slowly and purposefully with an unnatural elegance. It was graceful, effortless and poised.

  There was an unfamiliar stab in his groin as he watched her gather her gowns to squeeze by an older couple, making her way slowly out of the pew. She smiled and touched the old man gently on the hand, leaning close to his ear and murmuring something as she stepped carefully past. The old man patted her hand gently before releasing her on her way. D’ata struggled with this image. He found the gesture oddly sensual in its compassion.

  He also noticed, just then, three other young women, primped and preened to excess, sitting across the aisle from her. They pointed at her worn shoes and snickered, hands hiding their mouths, as she walked past.

  She ignored them effortlessly, her expression composed and impervious. For the most part, she didn’t appear aware they even existed, as though they were less than significant. Instead, she gazed briefly towards the stained glass, as if seeing it for the first time.

  Struck by the peace that washed across her face along with the colors of the magnificent glass, D'ata was suddenly and irrationally vulnerable, inadequate—and very distracted. It occurred to him that he'd been standing in place, staring at her with his mouth agape, and he noticed that it might have occurred to others as well.

  This dismayed him, that he could be so easily distracted to neglect his duties. Almost as a reflex, he glanced fleetingly about the parish to see if anyone else noticed his lapse. The congregation hastily addressed their prayers, and he convinced himself they hadn’t.

  Taking a deep breath, he glanced down at old Madame Levanne’s perplexed gaze as she knelt at the communion rail. She was holding up one yellow-gloved, withered hand, stabbing at him for her communion. He offered the old woman a quick smile and hurriedly passed her a morsel of the bread.

  Then, he could hardly help himself as he glanced, searching the rows to see if the golden-haired angel had truly been real or merely an apparition. Having never seen her before, he was desperate to search the line, to be certain she was still in the congregation, to convince himself that she existed.

  He shook his head. Things were quickly becoming not so neat and tidy as they had been just moments before. The acapella voice ceased and silence emerged like an unwelcome visitor as communion began.

  D’ata looked over to the three girls to see if they were still being cruel. If he could see where their attentions were focused, it might help him to pick her out of the crowd. They seemed to notice his glance, misinterpreted it and giggled, one of them waving at him. He made a mental note of this and decided to keep any future conversations with them distinctly short.

  Impatiently, he turned back to the row of waiting hands and was dumbfounded to find himself face to face with a pair of charcoal gray eyes. They gazed up at him from underneath the lashes which, only a short while ago, rested upon those cheeks.

  Again, he was transfixed, his heart pounding so loud in his ears he was sure everyone could hear it. He swallowed hard and couldn’t take his eyes away from her. Even the simple task at hand could not be comprehended. His mind was chaos, his blood was fire, and there was that pull in his groin again.

  She removed one glove and he could see that her hands were rough, as though she worked hard. They reminded him of Henri’s hands only they were—beautiful.

  She seemed confused at his hesitation and held her hand closer, inviting him to allow her to take communion with the others kneeling before him. Her eyebrows, turned delicately up at the ends as a fairy’s might, and she glanced around, as though she was uncertain about what to do next.

  D’ata was suddenly desperate, unsure of his purpose, confused by the smattering of feelings he was experiencing. He believed that no matter the consequences, he should speak to her, or risk losing the opportunity altogether.

  He leaned over to pass her the bread crust and dropped his face close to hers. “Bonjour...” His breath caught so that it sounded more like ‘bone-sure.’

  The young woman leaned back, furrowing her brow in confusion and embarrassment and glanced away. Her face flushed as she pulled her hand away and started to stand.

  Communion was meant to be taken in silence. Aware of his transgression, he regretted that he may have compromised himself, or more critically, compromised her. D’ata tried to repair the situation. He felt his face flush and righted himself too abruptly, clearing his throat as he did. He knocked the silver tray from the stand and broken bread scattered across the stone.

  Silence screamed at him for one long, loud, suffering moment. D’ata glanced over at the monsignor only to catch a fierce admonishment in the priest’s eyes.

  He had never seen this look before. True, he'd been reprimanded when, as a choirboy, he’d been caught burning the expensive alter candles behind the parish, enjoying the effects of wax dripping into standing water. And once he'd skipped mass to spear fish for trout in the shallows of the river; that did not go over well either. Rebuked sternly by his father and the bishop, he vowed aloud not to disrespect God again.

  Properly indoctrinated to please at all costs, it was very easy for D’ata to step back into the ox yoke of his expectations at the slightest transgression. Now, suddenly, the yoke seemed to choke him, an uncomfortable burden to bear.

  The congregation not only noticed the incident, it feasted on it. The crowd buzzed like a monstrous fly. D’ata was watched by them every day. They had been curious and strangely protective of the abandoned infant, observing him with vain interest in his growth and changes. In a queer way, they were all his parents. Indeed he was a child of their congregation and they were as proud as his own mother and father by his impending ordainment to the priesthood. Now there were whispers and, sadly, glares—at the girl.

  Hastily averting his eyes, D’ata gathered himself and
knelt to repair the damage, concentrating on picking the crumbs from the floor. His labor, however, did not prevent him from noticing her from the corner of his eye.

  Humiliated, she hurried away from him, back down the aisle to return to her seat beside the old couple and the little girl. Her face was reddened and she kept her head down.

  The old man lifted his hand as though to touch her arm as she passed by.

  D’ata was mortified by what he’d done, and immensely thrown off by a new avalanche of feelings. He wished only to be out of the church and away to the river to pray, to be away from prying eyes and to sort through the confusing thoughts.

  Finishing his chores, he shared in the closing prayer of the benediction and forced himself to concentrate on the Latin. He was careful to keep his eyes down, looking neither at the mass who scrutinized him, nor at the girl who occupied his every thought.

  He wondered briefly if this was ‘love at first sight,’ which he'd read about. Could this be the forbidden passion Petrarch had penned in his sonnets? Curiously, the sonnets were also about a young woman the poet had first seen in church.

  As the congregation slowly milled around the aisles and fanned, thick and sluggish, towards the doors at the back of the church, D’ata avoided his usual ritual of visiting with them. Instead, he busied himself preparing to clean the parish.

  However, he did glance up just in time to see a pair of breathtaking, charcoal-gray eyes meet his. She held his gaze firmly for only a second, then slipped from the doors of the church to be swept away in the human tide.

  There was a tightness in his chest, an uncomfortable tug in his belly, and a maddening confusion which swept across him. D’ata awoke from a life of dreamless sleep, and so his life finally began.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  †

  The Dungeon: Nine p.m.

  It was cold in the cell. D’ata shifted his weight, uncomfortable on the stone of the floor. The chill crept beneath him, seeped through his robes, and he thought briefly how grateful he would’ve been to be out of the prison. However, he just then noticed how Ravan pulled the straw around his knees to curb the cruel bite of the cold. Prisoners were seldom allowed to keep the comfort of their own coats when they were cast to the dungeons.

  The prisoner appeared pathetic in this gesture and D’ata felt a pang of remorse at his own thoughtlessness. This man faced his death in less than a fortnight, and he was only sorry for himself. He reached up to release the catch at his throat, allowing the heavy cape to fall from around his shoulders. He moved to wrap the woolen garment around the prisoner.

  Ravan tossed his head back, glaring out from under his dark locks as though he wouldn’t allow charity from the visitor. He allowed D’ata to wrap the cape around his shoulders, all the same. “So kind of you to make sure I don’t freeze to death—we wouldn’t want me do die, now would we?” He yanked the robe more tightly around his shoulders before adding, “And don’t you have something you need to do?—save my soul or some foolishness?”

  D’ata stared at him, surprised by the man’s lack of astonishment in their bizarre resemblance. He took the loaf of bread and flask of wine from his robes and silently offered them to the prisoner.

  With this, Ravan’s eyes lit up. He begrudgingly accepted the gift, but quickly snatched them from D'ata's grasp, all the same.

  Patiently, D'ata watched until the man had ravenously devoured nearly half the loaf. He politely allowed the man his respite, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. Finally, he could wait no more and asked, “What explanation, do you suppose, is to be had by our mirrored likeness?” He continued before the prisoner could answer, as though they had already discussed this at length, “Why was I left on the church steps and you were not?” D’ata rubbed his brow in perplexity, leaving a grimy smudge on his otherwise starkly clean face.

  His voice sounded hollow as it lifted slowly from the stone cell. The only other sound was the scratching and scurrying of the rats and the maddening dripping of water. Even the other prisoners ceased their groans, at the late hour.

  “I don’t know. Maybe you were a bad baby,” Ravan offered, his mouth full, bread sticking to his teeth. His demeanor appeared serious but as ridiculous as the comment was, D’ata could not tell if it was a stab at humor or sarcasm.

  A crumb escaped Ravan's mouth and tumbled to the straw. He searched for the fallen morsel as a primate would search for fleas, picking up a straw fragment in his pincer grasp to study it closely before flicking it away. Abandoning his search for the aberrant crumb, he continued, focusing his attention again on his guest and the remains of the half loaf. “And of what concern should it be to me? Look where it has gotten me. My neck will stretch tomorrow and you seem to have had a fine enough life as a result, monsieur—the more holy of us.”

  D’ata thought the prisoner’s eyes danced for a second, but the elusive smile never surfaced. He wrapped his arms around his knees, resting his chin on them, and watched as Ravan stuffed another piece of bread into his mouth, following it immediately with an almost endless drink from the flask. There was something so disturbingly familiar about the prisoner's movements, and it set D’ata on edge.

  Unceremoniously, Ravan wiped his lips with the edge of D’ata’s cloak. Then, as though he'd forgotten he was with company, he looked first at the priest and then at the wine flask. After a serious moment’s hesitation, he halfheartedly offered the flask to the priest.

  As the hand holding the flask extended towards him, D’ata studied it. There were calluses along the fingers. Thick muscle defined the forearm, no doubt, he thought, from wielding horrible weapons. He shook his head and waved him off.

  At the refusal, Ravan seemed pleased.

  “I just don’t see how this happened. We were twins, we were, are—brothers,” D’ata pressed him.

  Ravan shifted, jerking the cape closer around his shoulders, tucking the edges under his buttocks, as though to ease the stinging burn from the cold stones. He seemed suspicious, not yet ready to trust his new companion. “Well, do not get sentimental with me, because you may sport my not-so-unattractive face, but you’re not my brother—Father. At least, not in the way I see it.” He looked up, at apparently nothing in particular, and smoothed the back of his hand across his chin as though amused at his own clever play on words.

  D’ata was lost. The divine purpose for which he'd come was completely forgotten. He observed his newfound brother, studied his mannerisms, and listened to his voice. It was peculiar and thrilling. There were suddenly so many questions, questions he seldom considered before. And, all the while, he sensed the refined danger of the assassin sitting before him. It showed in even the subtle movements of the man, the casual but calculated way about him.

  From here, it was only a short mind-step to venture into the life and memories of his new companion; it didn’t seem so very far at all. Even as guarded as the man appeared to be, D’ata still sensed that his brother experienced the same phenomenon.

  Gradually, as the two asked their questions of each other and analyzed each other’s responses, a story started to form—a story with dual, opposite chapters began to unfold. Mistrust and fear gave way to cautious curiosity and a hunger for truth.

  D’ata rested his chin on his knees again, unaware that this was also a favorite, unconscious habit of his brother. He listened to the tale that began to lay itself before him, watching the familiar movements of the stranger’s body as it shifted and re-shifted in the straw.

  A small rectangular window, thirty or so feet above them, captured the night. The tiny sliver of sky appeared pale in contrast to the darkness of the cell, and the stars glistened like suspended crystals against the inky black frame of the surrounding stone. It was odd, the way the sky hung down from the window, as though it was closer than the stone of the wall, as if it reached for them. D’ata had a peculiar sense that they were not alone.

  The rain ceased, and the night became clear, inviting honesty. The brothers edged closer together, as was re
asonable. Time turned and walked slowly away from them. Truth started to open itself like the pages of a book, and the story began to fall from it.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  †

  The Inn

  Ravan was confused. He'd been at the Inn for several years, but only minimally expected to work beyond the mundane management of chores. It had been difficult for him when he first arrived. The cadence of the Inn had overwhelmed him and he’d become withdrawn. His silence was interpreted as idiocy, and unkind patrons pushed the child away or kicked at him, throwing cruel slurs his way.

  There was little room for patience in the hearts and minds of the patrons, and the Innkeeper did not intervene. The dark child who spoke seldom was out of place and quickly learned the nooks and crannies he could disappear into. He kept his head down, his face turned away and escaped, again—to the woods.

  He’d been invited to learn nothing about the business of the Inn and he wondered about this. He thought often about the Old One, how he’d said that Ravan was such good help at the orphanage. It was this good work ethic which kept him committed to the simple tasks that now lay before him.

  Ravan was to keep the wood chopped, a detail he gratefully accepted as it kept him away from the noisy raucous of the drinking guests. It felt good to work hard. He would split and carry the wood to each guest’s room and build the fires, leaving them warm and ready for retirement. Now he stood behind the Inn, bent on his task.

  He swung the double-edged axe easily, cleaving the timber with a crisp crack. His aim had improved over the past few years. The pieces fell apart easily and his arms no longer ached from the chore. He relegated himself to several hours of this every day and was nearly done for the day.