†
When D’ata's absence was discovered, a search was launched for him. His father and the church in Rome were immediately notified that he was missing, for this was a very bad thing.
The Baron had been furious then fearful at the disappearance of his son. France was in a state of perpetual, chaotic flux. There was serious conflict between the Church and the Crown. The Roman Pope was strongly persuaded to stay in Avignon, and the French monarch influenced the church greatly, controlling their finances and subjugating papal officials with charges of heresy almost indiscriminately.
The young priest was at grave risk. There was no good that could come of his flight. Should D’ata wander into the wrong township, the wrong feudal monarchy, he could very easily be taken into custody and tried immediately—made an example of.
Furthermore, the church itself dictated ridiculously harsh protocols—for example, what someone should or should not eat. It would certainly judge D’ata’s infidelity to his calling harshly. His rebellious behavior was sinful to a terrible degree. It was therefore imperative to find the young priest immediately, and it should not be difficult to do. All knew where he must be going; he was most certainly looking for Julianne.
* * *
It was three months before D’ata made his way to the outskirts of Marseille, and he knew he must be very cautious. The first familiar landscape was welcome and omnipresent to him all at once. He was fearful, but there was no easy way now, so he pressed forward. It was November, and in southern France the first snows threatened. Abandoning his clerical robes, he traded them for trousers, a tunic, and jacket that he found in a remote farmhouse.
The clothes fit well enough, baggy, as D’ata was much thinner than the farmer who ordinarily wore them. However, the length was good, and they were warm. He inhaled deeply the odor of another man’s hard work as he straightened the tunic and buttoned it as high as it would—the top two buttons were missing. This only added to the intimacy of the garment, and it wrapped more than warmth around the young man.
He whispered sincere words of gratitude to the absent farmer but felt a guilty remorse for his transgression. Theft was a new and disagreeable venture for him, so D’ata collected the eggs, chopped a days worth of wood, and milked their cow, leaving the buckets outside on the door’s stoop where the milk would stay cold.
Three hours later, an urgent but satisfied priest walked steadily southwest through the forest, and a confused family of four returned to the farm, puzzling over the finished chores and neatly folded priest’s robes that waited for them at their home.
It was well into the night before D’ata stole silently into the stables of the Cezanne estate. It must have been close to midnight, he thought. He shushed the stable dog as the familiar old hound leaped upon him. The animal was ecstatic to greet him and jumped up tall enough to lick its master’s face thoroughly. D’ata scratched the Alaunt hound’s long head, smiled at its enthusiasm, and murmured a quiet greeting as he pushed the dog down off him.
The stable master’s quarters were halfway down the primary barn, and D’ata’s boots scuffed quietly along the stone floor as he made his way toward them. He intended to step from his past into a bright future, denying the present day its parochial intolerance and narrow-mindedness. Youth and love gave him a new resolve, and he felt such a hopeful clarity about his decisions. This gave him a bottomless source of strength. He was optimistic…and without a resource in the world.
* * *
Henri struggled to focus on the commotion that had roused him. His scoliosis twisted him most when he first awakened, and he’d heard the dog’s happy whining. The beast would never have allowed a stranger onto the grounds, and the stable master likely wondered why someone familiar was about at this hour.
The trainer chose to live in a tiny stable room close to the horses. The room was a tight space, and he shared it with various saddles, pieces of harness, and bridles. Stacks of bloodline, breeding, and sales records rose like proud towers around his small bunk. The room was warm and familiar and smelled of leather, liniment, and horse sweat.
As Henri stepped into the alley, his jaw dropped. He rubbed his eyes as he held the lamp up to spy the familiar, thin face that looked earnestly back at him from between the cross ties. The hound circled D’ata, wagging its tail in approval. For a moment both stood in silence. Tears welled in the old man’s eyes as he stumbled forward to wrap his arms around his friend.
D’ata returned the gesture gratefully. Tears threatened in his own eyes as he finally held his old friend at arm’s length. “Where is she, Henri?” His eyes were urgent and full of longing.
Henri hung the lamp on a nearby hook and sat roughly down onto a bench. “D’ata, your parents will be so relieved to—”
“My parents are not to know of my return.” D’ata interrupted him, coming quickly and gravely back to the point. “Where is she?” He knelt, his face earnest as he pleaded with his friend. When the old man hesitated, D’ata pressed him. “Henri, you know I must find her. I will do it with or without your help, and you know this is true. Where is she?”
Henri saw in the eyes of the young man something different, something new. There was the look of age that comes with maturity and pain. It saddened the old trainer that D’ata should have to wear the pressing visage that is the corruption of time; none were immune, but to see it on one so young was heartbreaking.
Looking into the lean face of his friend, Henri rested a hand on the thin shoulder. “She is with child, my son.”
“I know.” D’ata shook his head, impatiently.
His matter-of-fact response startled Henri. “How could you know? Have you seen her?”
D’ata waved the questions aside. “That’s not important. I must find her, Henri. It is imperative.” He looked strangely capable in the worn and tattered clothes of the farmer.
“She is with her Uncle and Aunt in east Marseille.” Henri waved in no particular direction as he struggled to situate himself more comfortably on the hay bale. He pulled a small leather pouch from his pocket and scraped a minuscule amount of the black tar from it onto the back of his thumb-nail before folding and tucking the pouch back into his pocket.
It was, to the young man, a familiar habit, and D’ata likely knew it would be futile to interrupt him once Henri started upon this routine. He simply waited.
Finally, Henri said, “Her father will kill you, D’ata.” He hesitated without looking up and spread some of the tar across the buccal mucosa of his lower lip with the tip of his finger. “He will kill you…if your father doesn’t first.”
D’ata glanced outside toward the mansion before sitting down next to Henri on the bench. “I’m sorry this is so difficult for so many people.” He interlaced his fingers, rested his elbows on his knees and leaned his forehead into his hands. “I am sorry things are so complicated, but I will die if I do not find her, Henri.” His voice was a whisper. “It must seem so easy to someone else, but I cannot go on without her.”
The two sat silently for a long moment, Henri allowing the opium tar to mix with his own saliva, cutting in short time the pain that was his daily disposition. D’ata sighed softly, as though comforted by the familiarity of his friend’s habit. Henri had been introduced to the rare drug by a Persian merchant, a trader of linen who’d visited the estate for the purposes of business. The unusual fellow had taken a critical liking to the fine horses Henri’s breeding program produced, and in return, beside Eastern gold, he’d offered the drug to monsieur Cezanne and his trusted stable master. Henri had become dependent upon the relief that the unusual black tar offered him, and it allowed him respite from a disease which would have otherwise put him under a long time ago.
The younger one reached an arm around his old friend, pulling the crooked little man underneath his wing and smiled. “It’s all right, Henri. If you cannot help me…it is all right.”
Henri harrumphed, struggling to free himself from the hold of the young farmer-priest. He grumbled, finally swallowing the sweet, bitter relief, already comforted by the strange medicine. “I didn’t say I would not help you, only that I think you’ve taken all leave of your senses.” He struggled to stand, slapping away the hand that D’ata offered. “Keep your mitts off me! What? You take me for an invalid now?” He shuffled off unsteadily toward his little room, taking the lamp with him. When D’ata hesitated, Henri stopped, glanced back over his shoulder, and pointed at him with one of his canes. “Well? Get off your ragged ass, and come with me!”
D’ata grinned and followed his friend. Merely an hour later, D’ata stole away from the Cezanne estate. Inside his shirt was a carefully scrawled map, scratched out by the old horse trainer onto a deed of sale for a long deceased horse. It would guide D’ata to Julianne.
He rode an old mare, much like the one Julianne had ridden to find D’ata three months before. The horse plodded along. Her stride was heavy and slow, her cadence immutable. The heart of the one who rode her soared as though they both had wings.