†
D’ata sat in the gravel muck of the riverbank as God washed the world with gray. Everything was ashen now and so quiet he couldn’t hear anything. Clouds coursed across the leaden sky. It was a pallid backdrop to the tangle of leafless tree branches that swayed overhead, but the wind that moved them spoke nothing. Strange, even the river was silent as it lapped against Julianne’s legs. Ah, well, at least she was finally safe in his arms. He closed his eyes.
A group of nearly twenty men encircled him, not saying anything, not interfering with the events that unfolded tragically before them. No one meant for it to come to this—no one believed something like this could really happen. The wind hushed them all to silence, and no one spoke. No one dared interrupt what happened on the banks of the river.
D’ata sat, gently rocking her in his arms, whispering into the hair of his lovely Julianne. He clutched her limp and frail body close to his and stared blankly out across the river. Everything was so black and white.
Slowly, a dark red stain appeared from between her legs, spoiling the muddy pale of her dress. The stain was oddly out of place and soaked slowly into the dampness of her gown so that eventually it seemed to claim most of the skirt for itself.
All the colors of the world were gone, save one. Only one terrible color remained—red.
He murmured his love for her, brushing her hair back with his hand, and whispered to her that it was all right to sleep now, that he would watch over her, always. She was sleeping so soundly he didn’t notice anyone else, only her.
The thin, lanky young man with the dark wet hair, hanging matted around his neck and face, kissed the golden haired angel ever so softly on her closed eyelids. Her skin was starkly pale against the golden brown of the man who held her. All watched as he lifted her delicate hand and pressed it against his bare chest, against his own beating heart.
That must be why everything was so still now, so that he could hear his own heartbeat. How unfair, though, that his heart should beat so and hers should not, and she was so cold—so very cold! The river had made her like ice; she could catch a chill, and—
It was Raphael who eventually spoke. He inched over to where the young man sat and leaned close to touch his young friend’s shoulder. “D’ata…” There was a long pause. “…D’ata, my friend, she’s—”
The voice sounded very far away but persisted in meddling with his affairs, and it annoyed him.
“Don’t!” he hissed. “Don’t touch her!” His head jerked up, and his muddied, tear streaked face was contorted with grief and rage. “Don’t touch her!” he repeated, holding a clenched fist up at him as though he would hit his dearest friend. His fingertips were blue from the cold.
Raphael might have scarcely recognized the young man, reposed upon the riverbank with the maiden in his arms.
Turning back to his beloved, D’ata gathered her up against him again, rocking her gently. “Don’t touch her; you might disturb her—you might awaken her.”
D’ata wondered, Why has Julianne turned so gray? Her gray hair, her gray eyes and skin? Everything was void of color except for the horrible red. He rubbed at the bloody stain, trying to rid the dress of it, but finally abandoned the task. No matter; he loved her just the same, even if she was gray. It was her heart that he loved, the beauty of her soul…and their baby.
No matter, though. They would be together forever, even in a black and white world. He would let no one take this from them now, never.
* * *
“D’ata, son…” His father knelt beside him and laid his hand gently on his arm. “Son, come home with me. Julianne is gone.” His head dropped. “God has taken her, my child.”
“No! Get away!” He jerked his arm away. “You lie! You’ve always lied!” He screamed like a wild animal, hissing, his eyes wide and tormented.
“No, D’ata!” his father pleaded. “I love you, child. I have always loved you!” He wrung his hands. “Forgive me, please. I would never have…” A sob escaped his father. “Come home with your mother and me, please!” Monsieur Cezanne wept at his son’s pain. How had they allowed such a horrible thing to happen? He fell to his knees beside him. “D’ata, I’m so sorry! Please, let me—”
“No! I can’t leave her! They’ll take her away again,” D’ata accused, untrusting. He narrowed his eyes at them. “Get away from me or…or, I’ll kill you! All of you!” He clutched Julianne’s lifeless body, willing them to leave. There was the matter of her being so cold and wet that needed tending to…and the red stain. Such an awful color, that red.
Monsieur Cezanne wept softly, swallowed heavily. “Son, you’ve been here too long now. We’ll watch her; we’ll take care of Julianne.”
It was Henri who knelt now, crippled and bent. It had been a struggle for the twisted old man to make the journey, but hearing of the mounting trouble, he’d mounted a horse for the first time in nearly fifteen years and had ridden nonstop, following the story that now ended upon the river's edge. He took D’ata’s hand in his own. Crouching, he leaned his own withered head softly against the shoulder of his young friend.
“D’ata, I promise, we’ll take Julianne home with us. We won’t take her away from you again, ever.” He gently turned D’ata’s face slowly up toward his own, his own weathered face kind and sincere. “See? I have warm blankets here; we’ll wrap her up and take her home with us. I promise.”
There was a spark of familiarity about the one who spoke so kindly to him now. D’ata searched the old, blue eyes, set deep into the craggy folds of skin, and asked, “Together? We can stay together? They would accept this?” He motioned with his head toward the others.
Henri nodded. “They do, son, as it should have always been—they do. Come home, D’ata, and bring Julianne.”
The river swept on, deep and muddy, silently cementing its sad secret onto its bank for eternity.