Winter, 1525 – France
Francois wiped the sweat from his brow as he desperately tried to focus on his work at hand. He was a carpenter and his ultimate goal was to finish the armoire before his life was finished.
The pain in his jaw had taken on monumental proportions. He knew he was sick as his body’s temperature raged out of control despite the cold night air. The grog had done little to dull the pain in his jaw and each cooling breath he drew sent lightning bolts of pain through his brain. But his work had to be done.
He allowed himself one more look. His workshop was positioned so that its frosty window boasted a perfect view into the sitting room of his home. In the warmth of his home, a fire burned in the hearth, crackling and spitting sparks. His wife sat sewing to the right of the hearth and on the left, his beloved Dominique was reading by the light of the fire.
She was the world to him. His precious girl, only eleven years old, seemed to grow by the minute. He worried about her, she was painfully shy and fearful. She was his constant companion in the workshop, mostly because her mother tormented her with criticism and he was determined to protect her, even if he couldn’t stop her mother’s venomous tongue. Rene had changed when she gave birth to Dominique, perhaps because her birth split Francois’ focus and she no longer felt like the center of his attention. Perhaps the hardships they endured as a result of his work as a craftsman with an irregular income was at the root of her unhappiness. But whatever her reasons, Rene had grown distant from Francois and their daughter to the point where they felt like strangers living under the same roof.
Dominique had always been sensitive. Empathetic, almost to a fault, she took on the feelings of others as if they were her own hurts. She had also shown a sensitivity to the Spirit world. From the time that she had language, Dominique had conversations with someone, or something, Francois could never see. At first, he thought her imagination was at play. Then later she would describe the conversations with someone named Therese, who she explained was her angel. While Francois was disconcerted by these events, he felt on an intuitive level that this was actually happening to her and rejoiced in her connection with God. Talking about speaking with angels, however, was something that Francois knew very well would lead to trouble. People did not understand her – but he did. She had a knowledge of another realm, and while Francois did not, he did know that his daughter was special and had gifts from God. Still he taught her, gently and with no judgment, to be prudent in the information she shared with the village folk. He did not want them to misunderstand and accuse her of sorcery.
He did not have a lot of money but what he did have was talent – his carpentry was his passion. Francois loved the precision of this art. Each cut was measured exactly so that his joins were considered some of the best in the land. He searched far and wide for exotic woods to adorn his pieces, which he used sparingly because of their cost. His use of those woods in the rich variety of colors always proved aesthetically perfect.
Many of the other craftsmen in the region felt some anger towards him, despite his persuasive likeability. He did not charge enough for his works of art and in downplaying the cost of his work their own could not be priced at fair value. His reasoning was that he made enough to take care of his family and he wanted people to be able to afford to have solid, well-made furniture.
But the children, for miles, adored him. Francois kept small handmade wooden toys in his pockets and would place them in the hands of the town children on his way to the village markets. He spent hours with Dominique creating toys with intricate moving parts and clever carvings. Rene chastised him for wasting time and money on them. The smiles of the village children were his reward, plus it made Dominique happy as she walked with him. She had always loved the little toys he made but she was getting a little older, so now they shared them with others.
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A wave of nausea washed over him, interrupting his reverie. Wiping the sweat from his brow, he shook himself. Enough of this, he thought to himself, he must return to his work. The armoire had been in the making for so long and was supposed to have been his life’s masterpiece but he did not have the luxury of time.
He quieted his heart which screamed at him to go hold his baby girl. As much as he wanted to spend his last hours with his sweet Dominique, he knew she would be better served if he returned to the work which would, hopefully, take care of her when he no longer could.