The Crimson Heirlooms

by Hunter Dennis

  “I see.”

  “He does not get along with my father, who is a different sort altogether. My father is akin to a boulder from a gravel pit, only surviving because he was too big and too hard to break. But now he relies on his lithoid qualities to see him through everything.”

  “Is Guillaume as intelligent as you are?”

  “I am not considered intelligent.”

  “Estelle,” he said patiently, “You are quite bright. I offer your metaphor as proof.”

  Estelle’s heart burst. “Thank you, Father,” she said, forcing calmness into her voice, “Guillaume is far more intelligent than I, in most ways one would consider a subject worthy of intelligence. My talents lie in areas usually classified unworthy of the appellation. But it does not matter. Here and now, I can survive, and Guillaume cannot.”

  Father Jonathan nodded, “You are an oak, and he is an ebony. Trees of equal beauty and stature, but the oak can grow anywhere. The ebony requires a certain, specific clime.”

  “Your metaphors are beautiful as well, Father. To continue it, please help me find suitable soil for my brother.”

  “Would your father object to Guillaume going off to school?”

  “Object? Heaven's no! He would barely notice! Goodness Father! That would be perfect! That would solve everything!” Suddenly Estelle realized she was totally wrong, “No, of course he would notice. He would have to pay for it, and he never would. He would come up with an excuse that only made sense to him. He would scoff and say Guillaume should pay to educate himself, or something equally...” Estelle almost said stupid, but stopped herself.

  Honor thy father and mother.

  Jonathan spoke, “Well, every self-respecting university school in France offers scholarships to poorer students. Even Louis-le-Grand has a sizable percentage of students who come from the most common of backgrounds. These schools happen to rely on parish priests to identify the children who are the most talented, and the most in need.”

  “If Guillaume could be educated without Papa having to sacrifice anything, this could succeed, Father.”

  “Then I would meet with your brother, to see if he is suitable.”

  “You are welcome any time.”

  Jonathan stood. “There is no time like the present.”

  And, to Estelle’s eternal gratitude, off they went, out the doors of the abbey. But Father Jonathan suddenly stopped. He closed his eyes, and tilted his face toward the sunlight for a moment. He then turned, and looked out across the river. The abbey was at the top of the mountain, which was properly a very tall hill, and the view was magnificent. In fact, everything on the top of the hill was beautiful. It was all trees and gardens - châteaux that seemed whimsical and dignified at the same time. Estelle sighed at the beauty of the Loire, and its islands below her, and finally spoke, “I’m glad you stopped for a moment. It is so important that we enjoy and appreciate creation.”

  “I agree wholeheartedly.”

  “If I had created a magnificent gift for someone I love, I would appreciate it so much if the gift was enjoyed, and taken in the proper spirit. And what greater gift than creation, and what greater love than that of God.”

  Father Jonathan’s eyes narrowed, impressed by her sentiments. They soon turned and walked down the hill, descending the narrow cobblestone road braced by ancient buildings. With every step, Estelle felt the weight of the world leave her shoulders. She fervently believed that men such as Father Jonathan, were they more common, would solve the problems of the world with no more effort than a snap of their fingers. What she did not realize was that he was beginning to think the same of her. “And what of the oak?” he said as they walked.

  “I’m no oak.”

  “Well, you’re no ebony tree, either, are you?”

  “I suppose not. I can fish. I’m good with animals, and the leaves talk to me in their way. Such people are never completely lost, as long as there is a bit of soil and rain.”

  “Honest, worthy pursuits. How else do you occupy your prodigious mind?”

  She couldn’t look at him, but spoke as she stared straight ahead, “I end up doing all of the cooking and cleaning, but it is better that I do so, for the men in my family have no skill at such things, and my mother has passed away. I love to read, and to daydream. I would also like to travel, which is odd, for all my other passions seem to involve a home, a place where things grow. I also get very seasick.”

  “You are quite different than the young ladies of Saint-Florent.”

  “How so?”

  “At your age, they are getting married, in not so long a time, and they are all secrets and plans for the unsuspecting young men. But they have known each other their whole lives, and there is nothing unwholesome in it. There are few couplings that the eldest did not predict, when the girls and boys in question were but children.”

  “I suppose being an outsider in such a place offers little prospects for a girl such as myself, especially with no dowry.”

  “Have you considered joining an order?”

  “An order? To be a nun or some such?”

  “Yes. You seem the type.”

  If only he knew, thought Estelle.

  He continued, “Sometimes we think clergy must be perfect, or composed of men and women who are half-angels - at least, at one point, I did. But that is not the case. We are all just people, dedicated to a cause, and to a community. We give up little with our vows, and gain much - very much indeed.”

  Estelle had an idea. She spoke as innocently as she could, “Perhaps we could talk of this further. Or even better yet, we could meet from time to time, and talk about catechism and scripture.”

  “That’s really a wonderful idea, Estelle. As you can see, around this time I am dedicated to community affairs. If you were to come at the precise time at which you came today, we could study for a half an hour together. Let us say, Monday through Thursday?”

  “I will be as regular as a clock for our appointments.”

  “I am very pleased, Estelle. I look forward to it.”

  ***

  Father Jonathan saw Guillaume through the trees. He was sitting on a rock, slack-jawed, nearly catatonic. He crossed quietly to him at an angle, so that his appearance would not be a surprise. “Good afternoon, Guillaume,” he said with a smile.

  He stood, “Good afternoon, Father.”

  “No, please, sit. I will find a rock.” Guillaume sat back down, as Father Jonathan spotted a fallen tree trunk, and sat where there were no ant trails. “I have been told you are an educated man.”

  Guillaume turned and looked at him. He was no more than thirteen, but his eyes pierced and burned - quite different than when he was putting on a show for houseguests. He spoke, “I suppose. Who told you that? Estelle?”

  “What is your favorite subject?”

  “Military history.”

  Jonathan knew next to nothing about military history. “And what else?”

  “Drama, math, chemistry. Animal husbandry. Navigation and sailing. Metalworking.”

  Jonathan chose the subject he knew most about in order to continue, “I see. And who is your favorite playwright?”

  “Shakespeare.”

  Terrible start. “And who is Shakespeare?”

  “He is British. He wrote during the time of Good King Henry. Mostly poetry and plays, both with a remarkable talent.”

  “And what do you like about him?”

  “There is no damné singing in his plays. And his verse emulates speech, though it is pleasing and well-thought. His characters are akin to real people, and the situations taken from history. It isn’t stylized - it is lifelike. There is supernatural aplenty, but real supernatural, and frightening, like ghosts and such. Plenty of blood as well. Poisonings, ravagings, war and politics. One can learn of life reading a Shakespeare play.”

  “Do you like French playwrights?”

  “They are merde, Father. Stylized, never an attempt to be true to the time or mores of the stories.
Entertainment, supporting the status quo, abutments for the establishment of thought, nothing new, nothing challenging, nothing real.”

  Father Jonathan nodded, “What is the square root of x?

  Guillaume rolled his eyes, “Y.”

  Jonathan laughed, “Go on.”

  “It is y, if y to the second power equals x.”

  “You need to be in school, Guillaume. Your mind is wasted, sitting on that rock.”

  Guillaume looked down, and nodded.

  Jonathan pitied him. When a fish is out of water, it is a totality of dearth - the fish is consumed with compulsion, it only knows it needs water, and can feel or see nothing else.

  Guillaume turned to Jonathan, and his eyes were now those of a completely different person. They were deep, these eyes - they knew pain. He spoke softly and evenly, “There was a boy my age in Saint-Domingue. He was probably a dark Mulâtre, if not full-African. He may have lived on the streets, I don’t know. I saw him in the same place, coming from the same avenue, every day, as I walked to my friend Raphaël’s house from my home. This boy, who had no name, beat me with his fists and feet, every day, for no reason at all. He was so angry. Just looking at my face, he would become angry. He would yell and scream and run at me. He was so thin, but still fast and strong. Every day he beat me. I never told anyone, because my father would have whipped me for getting beaten. My mother would have hated me, and told a story of what it is to truly suffer. There was only Monsieur Pinceau. But I dared not tell him, for he might forbid me to walk to his home, for fear of my safety. One day, I decided to fight back as hard as I could. We fought for a long time, and I tired of it, and still he beat me. I did not visit Le Cap for several days, and I became distraught and angry. Finally, I steeled myself and walked there again, and I saw the boy. We ran at each other, and we fought. We fought all day, and ended up in the alleys by the cliffs. I took a rock, and I hit him with it. I hit him again and again. I killed him, in fact. I murdered him. I left his body in the alley. I cleaned myself in the ocean, as I always did after my fisticuffs, and went to see Raphaël. When I walked home, I went by the alley, and the boy’s body was still there. Everyone just walked past him. But they also walked past when we fought, only sometimes did they take notice, and laugh or curse at us. The next day, his body was gone. I never saw anyone look for him, or mourn him, or wonder where he went.” Guillaume took a deep breath and sighed, “That is Saint-Domingue. That is the place where I am from, Abbé. That is where my father is from, and my sister. My mother was a slave of the British, and she hailed from Tír Chonaill, though I do not know if that was a real place or not, or whether her tales were true.”

  Father Jonathan had never heard such a story as this, in the first person - ever. He nodded, as he did in the confessional, but found himself searching for something to say. He finally spoke, “How old were you?”

  “I was eight.”

  “It is hard to bear secrets such as yours, Guillaume.”

  Guillaume nodded. Yes.

  “There have been times and places in France that have been equally savage, but that is not this place, nor this time. We must work toward a brighter future, you and I, and toward bettering ourselves.”

  Guillaume nodded.

  “Let me ask you: would you rather not have crossed paths with this boy, that he be alive, and left to learn, and perhaps better himself?”

  Guillaume nodded twice.

  “Then God forgives you, Guillaume, and now you must forgive yourself. You must also now realize the different world in which you find yourself, and how it will allow you to be. There are different rules that you must follow.”

  “Yes, Father.”

  “We must get you to school, with other boys who share your interests. It is not fitting to have only one friend. Speaking of whom, we must get you writing him. There is no reason that Raphaël should be dead to you now.”

  Guillaume burst into sobs, and threw himself on Father Jonathan, holding him with a strong grip. Jonathan, shocked, managed to put his arms around him.

  What a cruel world, thought the good Father.

  He was right about the world, but wrong in his opinion of Guillaume.

  Guillaume was indeed brilliant, handsome and forceful. He was charismatic and ultimately capable of being pleasant and enjoyable company – but he was also, in more than small measure, self-absorbed, self-righteous and self-pitying. He was fearless and could be violent. He did not care a whit for the boy he murdered. He wished he had never met him - or the boy had never been born. He opened his heart to Father Jonathan because of an unconscious impulse to be comforted, not for absolution.

  He wasn’t beyond redemption, but only time would tell what the mélange of conflicting qualities inside of him produced. Such people are never to be envied. Their path is always difficult – the only question is how much of that pain will be shared unfairly with others.

  Jake, 1832

  Chapter Eleven

  Jake laid on his bed in his pistole cell.

  Isaäc entered his room without knocking, and shut the door behind him. Jake felt numb, lost in incoherent thought. He did not sit up.

  “The verdict will be announced, and then, immediately afterward, the sentence. Both are being determined as we speak,” said Isaäc.

  Jake’s manners finally overrode his mood, “Thank you for everything, Isaäc. You are quite a brilliant lawyer. It must be difficult to defend someone as guilty as I am.”

  “Guilt does not determine difficulty.”

  “What will happen at the sentencing?”

  “Jake,” began Isaäc, saying nothing more for a moment. When he continued, his voice was soft and empathetic, “My sources have told me that you will be found guilty and sentenced to death.”

  Jake sat up.

  Isaäc continued, “This will be overturned at the appeal, most certainly. It will be overturned, and your sentence commuted to prison time. After your sentence, you will be deported and, most likely, suffer a lifetime exile, a ban from ever returning to France. If you are released. I suppose I have gotten ahead of myself.”

  Jake closed his eyes.

  Isaäc continued, “Something unusual has been requested. We have been asked to attend a closed sitting of the court tonight. The public will not be allowed, and there will be no word-for-word transcription, only general minutes made after the proceedings.”

  “It sounds like a secret tribunal.”

  “Perhaps, yes. Albeit a powerless one of little account.”

  “Is that legal?”

  “Strictly speaking, yes. We have not been ordered to attend, only requested. There will be no legal ruling possible in this venue, but we could arrive at some sort of deal.”

  “So, this meeting is simply in addition to the normal legal process?”

  “Effectively, yes.”

  “Is this unusual?”

  “It is unique. It is only a request. We can turn it down, and wait for court.”

  “Why is it happening at all?”

  “I think your verdict and sentence were leaked purposefully, in order that we attend this meeting.”

  Jake thought of Isaäc’s prior suspicions, and realized he had moved the trial forward to bring about this very outcome - to force this exact meeting. “My mysterious malefactor will be revealed here, won’t he?”

  “If our instincts were correct, and there actually happens to be one, then yes. I think so, Jake.”

  “Then, of course, we must attend.”

  “Yes, I think we must.” He sat down on the chair and leaned forward. “You will want to speak. Do not. Do not, unless I ask you to speak. This is very important, Jake. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, of course,” he replied, wondering why such a demand needed to be repeated twice.

  ***

  Jake and Isaäc were escorted upstairs by eight guards; three to each side, one vanguard and one rearguard. Despite himself, Jake found his mind marveling at the architecture, illuminated by the flickerin
g fire of the oil lamps. The ceiling was composed of high gothic arches, billowing like cloth tent panels, but made of Lutetian limestone. They ascended a staircase, one that seemed to flow like liquid around a carousel of pillars. Their escort ended at a beautiful carved door, reinforced and inlaid with iron. It was opened and both entered.

  Inside was a large room, graced with high arched windows that probably illuminated the room brilliantly during the day. It was sumptuously furnished, and well-lit with lamps and hanging crystal chandeliers iced with white candles. All seven judges were there, plus a full complement of bailiffs and clerks, the prosecutor, and four other men Jake had never seen. The first was a thin, weasel-like creature, dressed somberly, but expensively, in black. He was either an undertaker or a banker. To his left and right, behind him, and staring somewhere near the ceiling, were two tall, well-built men dressed formally, but not expensively, in voluminous cloaks that belied the warm weather - and perhaps hid a few pistols and knives as well. A medium-sized, iron-bound chest sat on a nearby table, its contents conceivably necessitating the presence of the tall men, who could only be private guards.

  The last unknown man was quite different from the others. He was dressed in finery, and wore considerable amounts of jewelry - more so than was fashionable. Every possible article he wore that could be adorned bore the appropriate and expensive accessory. He was an ugly man, a foul-looking malevolent creature, but was clean, well-groomed and smelled pleasantly of expensive citrus cologne. He was older, perhaps in his fifties, but was well-built. He looked brutish, but also wealthy and powerful; a physically and spiritually intimidating presence. Jake found himself staring at him. The man looked back, and Jake immediately turned away from his gaze. Nearby, Isaäc was exchanging pleasantries with the court, a low bubbling in his ear.