by Lily Velez
Lyon. Where else but Lyon?
He would stay there until Aimee learned of his offenses against their family. Then he’d simply move on if needed, if Aimee demanded it of him, though he wondered if she might not. She understood what it felt like to be a castaway. Their family had never treated her as such, of course, had even insisted she remain in Avignon, but the gossips of the town would’ve made it unendurable. They could be outcasts together then.
The lavender field at his feet lay barren, already harvested, long braids of green extending into the distance like dozens of parallel lakes. It would remain as so until another year had passed, and then, when summer emerged, so too would the violet flowers that served to remind all who beheld them of a prince’s sacrifice. How like life and its unending cycles and seasons. Noah pressed the toe of his shoe against the soil, and a passing breeze picked up its strong, earthy smell.
He imagined how the field must’ve looked weeks ago before the final harvest, which in turn made him think of the lavender festival he, Jeremie, and Camilla had discovered at the monastery. He’d walked the length of a field just like this one then, eyes stuck on Jeremie, Jeremie’s eyes stuck on him. Everything had changed after that. Everything, as if they’d stepped onto a path in that moment that had all along been leading to this.
He closed his eyes, a biting sharpness at his throat.
The same thought that had haunted him since seeing Jeremie’s body on the bank of the Rhône came now: what if Noah had gone? What if he’d met Jeremie at the Pont d’Avignon as Jeremie had hoped he would? Noah was of the mind the night would’ve ended far differently, with the two of them fleeing Avignon, sailing up the Rhône until they’d found a refuge to call their own. He’d hoped Jeremie would find it for himself. Instead, he’d waited.
He’d waited and waited and waited for someone who would never come.
Noah’s throat strained further as his vision blurred, eyes pooling with water. He rubbed the heel of his palm against his chest, lungs yet sore, and cursed and berated every sensible bone in his anatomy, every plague of fear, every hesitation, every second thought to which he’d surrendered, that had held him back from what he’d wanted above all else despite how terrifying a desire it’d been.
How he loathed himself now. How easy the decision now seemed, and what a fool he’d been. A miserable fool, to have given this entire summer away because it’s what his fear had demanded of him.
And now the deciding moment was forever irretrievable. Noah was painfully alone and Jeremie worlds away.
He lifted his eyes to the heavens. Had the night sky looked this very way as Jeremie had waited upon the Pont d’Avignon? Had the same stars shone down upon him, and had the crescent moon lighting up the inky firmament reserved a special smile exclusively for him? Seeing it, had Jeremie believed that the sun and the moon from his story would at long last be reunited through him and Noah?
Had he thought about where he and Noah would go and what they would do upon arriving? Had years upon years of a future together unspooled in his mind’s eye: his bookbinding, Noah’s farriery, his pilgrimages, Noah’s animals? A lifetime of lingering looks and caresses that left them winded and embraces that felt like all the universe enveloped them—no, resided within them. The vision all ending with a moment far off when their hands were clasped so tightly in old age, loving each other no less than they had in their youth.
And had Jeremie waited long? The possibility wrecked Noah. Had he mistaken every passerby for Noah, his heart leaping in exhilarated joy only to plummet with despair when he’d realized it was another? Had there arisen a point when he’d understood Noah wouldn’t come? Or had he maintained his faith throughout the night, certain the type of love that had awakened between them could endure anything, could conquer even the most paralyzing of fears?
Noah continued staring at the sky even as the water in his eyes spilled over.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, a broken utterance he could barely force out his throat.
He covered his face with his hands.
God, what had he done? What had he done?
After a long time, he started a fire. It came slowly, in part because of his sluggish movements, but the strong breeze hardly helped either. Eventually, the flames caught on. He watched them quiver as they grew in size, as they popped and cracked all the more loudly.
As he sat, he rummaged through his rucksack and produced the book of poems Jeremie had given him. He paged through it slowly, bringing his fingertips to the occasional poem if it was one Jeremie had once read aloud.
Noah, along with his father and brothers, had passed by Jeremie’s bookshop as they were leaving town with Jeremie’s body, hoping to unearth answers, but the bookshop was cast in darkness, and the townsperson who’d checked in on the shop from time to time in Jeremie’s absence hadn’t spoken with him in weeks and knew no more than anyone else did.
In his letter, Jeremie had said he’d pack his most prized books after leaving the farm. Which ones had he taken? And what had become of them? Had they sunk to the bottom of the Rhône?
An image had come to Noah’s mind at the bookshop, of old tomes bound in calfskin and decorated with gold tooling resting in the sand underwater as trout swam past, none the wiser that riches were among them. Noah had wanted to tell his father to turn the wagon around, for they by all means had to return to the river. Those books had been Jeremie’s greatest treasures. They had to retrieve them all. He believed his father would think him mad, though. His brothers, too. He’d ultimately let the matter go but had been ashamed to do so.
What would become of Jeremie’s bookshop now? The question pushed a thorn into Noah’s heart. Jeremie had invested so much of himself into the storefront, and they’d spent many a day within the hold of its walls. Noah only hoped his family would salvage the books and see to their care. He thought of his horseshoe hanging above the interior doors, the one he’d given Jeremie. No one could know what it’d signified between them. For Noah, it’d been a wordless “thank you”. Thank you for understanding me, for accepting me. For Jeremie, perhaps it’d been the first signs of Noah’s finally coming around. It must’ve brought him such joy.
Noah read a selection of poems until his mind tired, and then he retrieved Jeremie’s letter. Its folds had softened with the number of times Noah had opened it to absorb its words. He opened it again now and smoothed the edge of his palm across its weathered face.
He punished himself by reading it once more.
And then he read it again and again and again and again and again.
He read it until his chest throbbed. He read it until it was agony simply to breathe. He read it until drop after drop fell from his eyes onto the page, dampening it, tears blending with ink in a way Noah and Jeremie never would.
It was too much, too much. The pain would devour him, and while he certainly deserved it, as it was a fitting expiation, it wasn’t how he wished to remember Jeremie, not by this all-consuming, crippling guilt, not by the decision he’d been too frightened to make.
So he pressed the letter to his face, breathing in its scent until his lungs were heavy with it, as if to capture one last part of Jeremie. Then he held his breath, wanting to hold Jeremie in the furnace of his ribs and keep him there, where he could live on, where death could never touch him.
Finally, with great care, he extended the letter toward the fire and fed it to the flames. The flames licked at it, nipping at its flesh like carrion birds. It twisted, blackened, and charred in their grasp, and Noah imagined himself as the letter, disintegrating in like manner, the smoky fragrance filling him.
Another gust of wind passed then, and it propelled smoldering embers of the letter into the air, carrying them higher and higher until they could’ve been mistaken for stars.
Noah watched them as they soared across the darkened sky.
Perhaps the wind would carry them to another town. Perhaps that town would have a bookshop. Perhaps that bookshop would house a bind
er. And perhaps that binder labored tirelessly at this very precise moment over creating a binder’s mark so undeniably true to himself.
Noah prayed that binder would find his truth. And that when he did, he would hold onto it…without question, without shame, without apology.
And unafraid.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Lily Velez has been writing stories since she was six years old. A graduate of Rollins College and a Florida native, when she's not reading or writing, she spends most of her days wrangling up her pit bulls Noah and Luna, planning exciting travel adventures, and nursing her addiction to cheese.
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