The Execution (46 page)

Just then, the Innkeeper’s wife
emerged from the tiny farmhouse and quickly recognized the man
who’d fished the knife from the bottom of the barley barrel not so
long ago. “Ravan! Oh dear lord, Ravan, it is you!” She ran, her
round figure bouncing and shaking as she crossed the yard as fast
as she could. Reaching Ravan, she threw her arms around
him.

Ravan smiled softly and returned the
hug warmly.

Nicolette, still upon the stallion,
gazed down at them, slightly bemused by the display.

“
Ravan, I’m so sorry!
I—I—” the Fat Wife stammered.

“
Shh, don’t say that—it’s
all right. You did the best you could.” He pushed her to arm’s
length and gently released her.

The Old One wrung his hands, gestured
towards the Fat Wife. “I could not have known, Ravan. I thought I
was doing the right thing. She came and told me what LaFoote did,
told me of his intent—how he sold you.” He looked at his shoes and
continued, “She told me how you ran, how they caught you and took
you away.” He looked up at him with tears in his eyes, “She came
here, Ravan, to help the children. We wanted to…”

Shifting his weight, he was
uncomfortable with the apologies. “I have no regrets. I am who I am
because of it, and not unhappy.” He tried to sound convincing and
to speak the truth. “You cannot be responsible for the bad things
others do. You cannot be responsible for the unfortunate things
that happen to others. Neither of you ever intended me harm and so
have no fault of your own. You can’t blame yourselves for what has
become of me.” He spoke from his own recently acquired belief
system, so new and enlightened and it was oddly
cathartic.

“
Come—come in; have tea
and bring the young lady,” the Old One gestured to the farmhouse
and waved at Nicolette.

“
I cannot, I have little
time.” He hedged. “I must be somewhere.”

The Old One shook his head, intuition
filling in the blank spaces of really knowing. “What can I do,
Ravan? To help I mean?”

The Fat Wife nodded. “Yes Ravan, can
we help?”

“
No—yes. I mean, there is
one thing.”

“
Yes, yes. Anything!” They
nodded their heads together in agreement.

He glanced back and forth between the
two before continuing. “You could tell me.” There was a long moment
during which he seemed to struggle, searching for the proper words.
He stared at the ground before going on.

Both the Old One and the Fat Wife
stood waiting, with kind expectation in their eyes.

Ravan hesitated before pressing them.
“Was I a good person? I mean—worthy. Did you; did my mother...?” He
drifted off.

“
Oh, Ravan,” The Old One
sighed, sadness and regret causing his shoulders to sag even more.
He spoke slowly, gently, “Ravan, you were a wonderful child—so
kind, so compassionate. I wanted so badly to just keep you with me,
always. But I thought it would be selfish of me.” He stepped
towards Ravan, hands out, palms up. “I sent you away because I
thought it was the right thing to do for you. I grieved your
absence because truly I loved—love you.”

The Fat Wife nodded her agreement and
added, “Life has been unkind to you Ravan, but despite everything,
we have loved you dearly, as your mother must surely have.” She
spoke honestly, her happy sunflower face affirming her statements.
“You are the tragic victim here; you were the one to be protected
and fate failed you.”

Ravan seemed relieved. He exhaled
deeply and his shoulders relaxed. “Good. That is good. I needed to
know—it’s important.”

Nicolette spoke for the first time
since arriving at the orphanage, “Ravan, I believe many have loved
you. Your family here, the giant, and...” She gazed into the
distance, her head tilted to the side, as though something had
suddenly occurred to her, “I love you too, Ravan,” she spoke
soberly, not trying to convince him, just stating fact. Then, she
shrugged. “It should not surprise you.”

He nodded, happily considering their
words. “I see. That’s good. I’ve never really known I was worthy.
It helps to hear you say so.” He regarded his friends warmly.
“Thank you. Then I am at peace, and do not fear. As LanCoste said,
you are safe. You and the children can live here in peace.” He
looked around, at the barracks and the wood shack. He remembered
kindly the butcher shack, where so long ago, the Old One washed
away the muck and blood from his encounter with the boar
hog.

Nicolette leaned down and tugged
gently at his sleeve. “It’s best we leave soon.”

He nodded, but took the liberty to hug
the Old One and the Fat Wife, each in turn. Before stepping onto
the stallion, he took one last moment to gaze around, allowing
himself the luxury of his memories.

There to the North, was the bank of
woods; it’d been a preferred path when he took to the forest. The
dense woods had welcomed him on so many occasions. It had harbored
him and provided a sense of identity at such a young age, when he
possessed little. It was those days in the forest which disposed
him to become the man he was now, and it was there that he would
return.

To the South was the meadow, the
children’s cemetery, pond and stream. To the East, the house, with
all the kindness and comfort that love could afford. They were
right; he had been loved, he was worthy. It was warm and complete
and had the finality of a closing book.

He said no more, just looked again at
those who cared, his friends—his family. Then finally, he pretended
to suddenly notice the children, the orphaned small ones who were
also lost and loved. They were hiding here and there amongst the
shrubs, grass, and outbuildings. He squinted, scanning the
perimeter.

Holding his hand up to his eyes, he
pretended to scout for the next victim who would meet their destiny
with his sword. He focused on a small cluster of children who had
bravely negotiated their way as close as they dared.

They'd seen the hugs, noticed the
interchanges between their guardian and the stranger. They were
curious about him, no matter how frightening the dark visitor might
appear. Even so, Ravan was harrowing to them.

“
Boo!” He thrust his arms
quickly towards the brush. The horse tossed its head at the
ridiculous human outburst.

The Old One and the Fat Wife laughed
as the children squealed, bolting from their hiding places,
sprinting back to the safety of the cottage.

The mercenary laughed outright. It was
glorious.

* * *

Some miles later, Ravan continued to
run the horse hard. It was lean and hungry, but it ran strong and
long into each night. At long last, they sat the stallion at the
edge of the forest, looking across the damp and dark meadow to the
Inn across the small valley. The three of them, two human, one
beast, were hardened and gaunt, bent upon their own
destiny.

And it all began here.

Ravan drew a deep breath. The Inn
looked strangely warm and inviting, cozily lit and with spirals of
smoke curling from the chimneys. His memories were pallid, however.
She was safe and gone from here, and now he sought the one who'd
defiled him that cold night, years ago.

He urged the stallion forward and
crossed the meadow, silently stopping in front of the Inn. They
would both be here; Pierre, who'd raped him and the Innkeeper,
who’d sold him. He pulled the horse up, swung his leg over the
animal’s neck and slid to the ground.

Nicolette slid forward into the saddle
and took up the reins. “I’ll wait for you here,” was all she
said.

He only nodded and left her with a
squeeze of her knee.

Walking up to the entry, his head
cleared, as it always did before battle. But this was no battle,
this was a gift. He stepped under the porch and rested his head
against the cold and damp wood of the front door, quieting his
memories and savoring the moment at hand.

In his head, the sounds of the night
left and all he heard was the beating of his own heart. He listened
to it, to the steady cadence of it. When it finally steadied to a
very slow ka-thump, ka-thump, he instinctively withdrew into the
temperament of what he knew best.

Throwing open the door, he walked into
the Inn, right into the middle of the big room. It was a full
night. Revelry, music, smoke, and laughter filled the space. He
stood in the midst of it, terribly out of place, hand resting
casually on the hilt of his sword. There were gasps as the crowd
gradually silenced and moved instinctively away, backing into
nooks, behind timbers and creeping up the stairs. A man had been
hammering away on a dulcimer that missed nearly every other string,
and the music stopped abruptly.

All who were present stared at the
stranger in stunned silence. This one had not come for spirit,
revelry or rest. There was only one thing one such as this would
seek.

The fire crackled loudly as the Inn
became so deathly quiet.

Studying the room, Ravan knew he was
here—he could feel it.

Pierre was at the end of the bar,
leaning heavily against it. His attentions were lost to a woman who
sat next to him, portly and staggering, her bustier nearly falling
from her as her breasts threatened to spill from it.

The ominous silence attracted both
their attentions within seconds. The woman sobered enough to hitch
her blouse and slink quickly away.

Pierre seemed at first confused and
uneasy. He only looked dumbly around himself at the
crowd.

Ravan remained where he stood, just
steps inside the door. The prolonged quiet settled deafeningly upon
the room, like volcanic ash, so hushed, so deadly.

No one seemed to recognize
him.

“
Leave, unless you have an
appetite for death.” Ravan spoke to everyone, but looked only at
Pierre. His voice was cold, carrying the weight of innocence lost
and the futility of time spent trying to bury it.

The crowd dispersed rapidly. There was
not one who wished to take this man on, or be caught in the
collateral damage that might ensue.

Pierre started to move from the
bar.

“
Not you,” Ravan stated
flatly.

Pierre squinted as he tried to make
out the stranger who challenged him, and he snorted. “I’ve no
quarrel with the likes of you.”

Ravan stared the man down with all the
cold and vile hatred he’d stored for the past seven years. It
coursed like a wonderful, burning acid in his veins and the
sensation surged tremendous within him. He felt alive, on fire; his
senses were so keen as he heard everything, felt the air on his
skin, tasted revenge on his tongue.

* * *

Pierre stopped abruptly, swinging his
girth to face the harbinger who confronted him.

“
I have no business with—”
he halted suddenly, squinting, poking his mangled nose out and
forward. Recognition of this man vexed him. There was something
very familiar about this man, but he just could not put his finger
on it...

Then, all of a sudden it was apparent.
Pierre’s mind struggled to grasp the images and memories that now
flashed before him. He'd sprung this boy-child, half-naked over a
bed at this very Inn. This was the very one who had defiled his
face so horribly with that God-awful knife of his, the same boy he
and Renoir had stuffed face first into the snow bank, before they'd
sodomized him thoroughly!

That had been glorious to Pierre, one
of his most memorable desecrations. It had seemed they’d left the
boy crushed beyond repair that night. He'd lain in silent anguish,
curled up and bleeding, naked in the snow with his pants about his
ankles.

How wonderfully prevailing Pierre’s
urges had been over the boy; how wickedly superb it had been to
degrade and violate him. Now, however, Pierre was overwhelmed by
the presence of the man altogether, an odd mixture of arousal and
apprehension. He struggled to place a man from the memory of the
child, and foolishly, his arrogance disallowed fear.

How had he survived? How had Duval, or
another, not killed him? Why had Renoir not finished him as he’d
said he would, and why was he here? But, mostly—how had he become
so...different? This was not that boy! No, not that boy at
all!’

“
I do not know you!”
Pierre exclaimed, the first seed of trepidation planting
itself.

* * *

Ravan delighted in this moment,
savored it. He could see slow recognition spread across the mute
and mangled face of Pierre. He delighted in Pierre’s
slow-wittedness. He started to advance, very slowly, so that he
could allow comprehension to settle over his foe completely, before
he exacted his revenge. This was something he’d planned for a very
long time and it would be unspeakably perfect by the time he was
done.

“
Ah, but you do, Monsieur
Steele,” Ravan informed him. “We have much unfinished business.
But, you are a busy man—I know this. Busy defiling and desecrating
those who would be weak around you. Not to worry, this will not
take long.”