†
D’ata was adopted at birth, or so he was told. It never occurred to him to question this as his parents offered few details of the event, at least none which would have linked him to his birth parents. Not much was known about his real mother and father, only that he'd been mysteriously left in swaddling rags on the steps of the church. The newborn had been kindly tended, was clean, fed, and warm. The abandonment must have been one of desperation.
Such a stir it created. There was a young couple in the congregation who had no children of their own. Such a divinely ordained phenomenon this had been, the congregation believed. A vast empty spot loomed large in the lives of this childless couple, and they were genuinely delighted when the parish suggested they take the baby as their own. It was only natural! Supremely intentioned, God had reached down from the heavens and created this holy serendipity!
At a time when so much was uncertain, the Church offered stability to its congregation. Such was the continued purpose of the institution and, in the case of this couple, it worked like a charm. Never mind that they were wealthy beyond all reasonable means; all would be gratified to watch the child grow up wanting for nothing. It was a wonderful diversion from the struggles of everyday life.
The event was very dramatic. The Cezannes, despite their affluence, were unable to have children and, by the grace of God, were given a baby. D’ata had already heard the story repeated many times in social circles. He was embarrassed as he became older and witnessed the story grow to take on a life of its own, becoming increasingly sensational with each telling. And now the baby was a young man.
Surrounded by such wealth and luxury, there could not be a more perfect existence—such a perfect life and such a perfect child. In return for his epic salvation, it was understood that D’ata should try very hard to please his parents and do their bidding. Indeed, he delighted all those around him as he was a kindhearted boy and full of life. It was very easy to love him.
His parents were fair and both of them noble. How unusual it was to see the dark haired child sitting between them in mass, kicking his silk stocking clad feet to-and-fro.
Having been practically born on the steps of the Church, it was only natural that the Church remain an important and ever present stronghold in the boy's life. D’ata became not just a child of his adopted parents but a child of medieval society. Because medieval society built the Church, it had much influence in the business of it. How dangerous would it be to tempt the hand of God in these matters? Therefore, it was a holy ordainment when D’ata became a Cezanne and…a literal child of God. When the time came, he had no choice. He must return.
As the years went by, the machine of divine providence groaned on as planned. D’ata’s mother and father watched with pride as he stepped in and out of the robes of altar boy, choirboy, and bishop’s assistant. Finally, he was to enter as a postulant in the fall.
Their son was a source of wonderful fulfillment for them. They greatly enjoyed the comments from their fellow parishioners on Saturdays. “Monsieur and Madame Cezanne, your son has grown into such a fine young man. How proud you must be that he has been chosen for the clergy. God has blessed you and our church.” How fitting it was that their son should follow such a perfectly appointed path.
As his ordainment progressed, there were no detours, no entangled side paths, and no deviations from the master plan. D’ata accepted his fate and seemed the picture of contentment in his role as the good son. There were no waves in this sea of tranquility, and everything was a perfect, glistening calm.
That was before, however…before things so abruptly changed. It was before the onset of the emotional paraplegia that was soon to become his reality.
* * *
Yvette left the chickens after slinging the feed. There wasn’t an overabundance of grain these days, and she tried to scatter it well so all could get their fair share. When the larger pullets pecked and savaged the smaller ones, Yvette scolded them and kept them at bay by swishing her skirts, allowing the weaker ones a longer time to feed.
The growing season had been so short this year, and the summers had been cool, but at least there were many insects with the cool and wet weather. The chickens seemed to be getting enough.
She’d been sitting for a bit, watching them, feeling sorry for the cockerels. These young males had been separated from the pullets—the less than year old females—and would be slaughtered tomorrow. They didn’t seem to know or care, though. They scratched the ground and pecked at each other, posturing for more space in the confinement of the small cage they now shared.
Yvette thought to herself, in the brief wisdom a five year old can sometimes possess, that to be male and human was good, but to be a male chicken was a poor draw.
Besides that, the cockerels were charming, with their fluffy tail feathers trying to grow all long and fancy, their bright red combs, and silly, little nubbins for spurs. She knew they would eventually be roosters and knew that roosters could be a force to be reckoned with, especially when they hopped on your back and pecked you on the head. But, for now, the youngsters were fairly adorable.
Frowning, she hopped up. Suddenly craving the company of her sister, she wandered into the house looking for Julianne.
“Why do we have to kill them?” she blurted to her sister, who stood with her back turned, washing up dishes from early breakfast.
“What are you talking about?” Julianne asked, just a bit cross.
It seemed Julianne was cross a good deal these days. Yvette wondered if it was because of the poems her sister was writing, the ones from which she would not read aloud to her. Her sister’s mood did seem to be tempered by whatever she happened to be writing at the moment. Julianne had exhausted the char-dust and water ink—the batch she’d made last fall. It’d been her best batch so far, and perhaps that was why she was so short today.
“The little boy chickens…why do we have to kill them tomorrow?” Yvette had decided that there was only one who could explain something as wrong as chicken murder—Julianne.
Julianne reached up with the heel of her hand to sweep away a stray lock of hair that must have been annoying her for some time now, the way she batted at it. “We have to Yvette. What would we do with all those boy chickens when they are grown?”
Yvette wasn’t convinced. “It just seems mean that we have to do this. How would you feel if we had to axe our brothers tomorrow?” Her chin jutted out in defiance, although truthfully, she would have been quite satisfied to smack her brothers a good one from time to time. That, however, would never happen. Yvette was the youngest and small compared to others of her age.
Julianne dried her hands roughly, pulled a chair out from the table, and motioned for Yvette to have a seat. When her little sister was settled across from her with a cup of milk and a day old biscuit, Julianne closed her eyes and exhaled. “Yvette…it’s just the way things are. Things have to die sometimes. They have a place, a purpose, and a time to be done in this world. Chickens aren’t brothers.”
“Why?” Yvette asked, not about the chickens not being brothers, but about the “world purpose” idea. “If somebody said you had a purpose, that working the cows was all you would ever get to do—your purpose—would that be good enough for you?”
The child’s question was dumbfounding, innocent, and sincere. Julianne’s mouth dropped open. She was evidently considering her answer carefully for she said nothing for a long while. It was a harsh question. Is this all the future holds for one like me? Am I always going to be working on a dairy farm?
Julianne started to piece together an answer, started to mumble a poor explanation, but the child saw through her, and all was lost.
She shook her head, arguing, “That’s just stupid. We could just go free them into the woods.”
Julianne waved her hand over her head, as though she could push the question of a moment before from her mind, and laughed outright. “Yvette, if we did that, soon the woods would be all full of feisty boy chickens! Nobody could even walk there! The roosters would jump all over us, and then what would we do?”
Yvette giggled and just like that, she changed course. “Can we just tell a story again? About the princess and the prince? Pleeeze?”
Julianne smiled, tossed the dishtowel onto the counter, and stood up to take Yvette’s small hand. She shook her head, “Yvette, why are you so romantic so young? Don’t you realize that life is…complicated?” Her expression was almost sad. Giggles, again, were all the answer Julianne got, and she said with a grin, “Come on, Yvette. You’ll make us late. We must get ready for church.”
It was just before leaving for church that Julianne chopped off her hair.
* * *
A beautiful, April Saturday greeted the worshipers, and the sun shone extra bright through the stained glass of the church. Outside, the black poplars shed their sticky fuzz. It collected in downy mounds in the remote corners of the cathedral, magically softening everything and giving the space around it a dreamlike effect.
It was warm inside, and D’ata stood blanketed by the colors cascading through a window of stained glass, the light dancing red and purple off the inky black of his hair. The congregation filed in slowly, more than a few of them scrutinizing him as they made their way to their pews. The young priest was a source of ill-guided vanity for a share of them, and the bishops knew it ensured the presence of more than a few at mass.
Not only is our young priest appointed by God, given to us on the steps of our church, no less, he is beautiful. Make no mistake—he is ours.
Although Christians believed that the afterlife was superior to their current fate, the vanity of the here-and-now did not willingly invite renunciation. D’ata was coveted by this congregation.
This morning, he was to serve communion. His hands absently separated the bread as the parishioners filed to the altar boards to kneel and contemplate their rosaries. The warm sweetness of the bread made his belly growl, and as hunger pangs threatened, he regretted having skipped breakfast to spend the morning with Henri in the stables.
The soft strains of a sweet a cappella filled the massive hall as the ritual began. D’ata liked the song, preferring the child’s voice to the heavier adult choir. The sweet and tender music lifted his thoughts from his growling belly, away from the confines of the church, out the checkerboard glass windows, and across the downy poplar grounds.
He might have considered being idle today, perhaps taking one of his father’s fine horses down to the river to enjoy the rare warm spell. After all, his duties were simple enough; his lessons would be done before noon.
This was not to be the case, however, because D’ata was disturbed. He was wondering if she would be there again. It was all consuming for him, this thought. He’d watched her for nearly two months, had touched her gloved hand as he served her communion. Now, at seventeen years old and for the first time in his life, he was in love. As sure as anyone ever was, he was hopelessly fallen. She was all he could think about, and he’d told no one of this. He’d meant to confide his dilemma to Henri this morning but just hadn’t been able to. Now his eyes flitted once more to the foyer.
D’ata’s father, the Baron of Cezanne, had close to sixteen thousand acres and a fleet of trade ships. Monsieur Cezanne did not boast a genealogy of nobility. His title was not inherited but evolved of brilliant commerce. He was wealthy by his own means, and whereas nobility could be granted to a superior human being, his title was sincerely and inarguably earned. No one disputed his great power.
The Baron employed thirty-two knights and held court in royal style. He kept upon his estate a falconer, grand stable master, vintner, chef, and master butler. There were countless servants, including squires, pages, cooks, and handmaids. His payroll included teachers and musicians; he even employed an astrologer.
Flax and wool were the main exports of the estate. These were woven into linens so fine as to compete with the very best of England. The Baron owned the weave shops as well. The quality of a Cezanne bolt of cloth exceeded all expectations and was a coveted possession, even as far away as Russia.
Over time, the Cezanne estate had developed a fine reputation. Upon the grounds were bred some of the most exceptional horses in the region, and the estate carried its own coat of arms. The township eventually bestowed to Monsieur Cezanne the title of Baron. He was wise at business, with a strong character which allowed the estate to flourish. Also, as trade was compensated almost entirely in silver and gold, the Baron coined his own money. This gave him enormous power.
The grounds were pristine, impeccably groomed. The daily routine marched along like a precision clock with breakfast at seven, cider at ten-fifteen, and great expectations at every turn. The mansion was polished and immaculate, the white Moroccan marble gleaming against the green backdrop of the southern hills of the Marseille.
The black walnut finishes were oiled daily, taking on the polished purple effect which no other wood possessed. There were grand fireplaces in every room, vaulted undergrounds linking servant's quarters to lavish courts, and splendid furnishings, fine as coin could buy. The outside boasted fish pools, equestrian centers, gardens, a hedge maze, and several substantial guest homes. Separate quarters stood for the servants who provided attendance for the massive estate and its occupants.
Furthermore, the Baron was generous. As a result, the highest nobility and royalty from all over Europe, and even from the Far East, would visit the Baron and Baroness.
The Cezanne Estate enjoyed access to the entire Mediterranean trade routes and used the Rivers Rhone and Loire to trade north. The Baron shared cordial honors with the nearby Avignon papacy and strongly preferred his Mediterranean ambiance, visiting Paris and London rarely—only when business dictated.
As an employer, the Baron commanded an estate worthy of a lifetime of allegiance. His knights were loyal and fierce. The Baron Cezanne had forged the very belt and spurs which held his crest; there was prestige, honor, and money to be had by fidelity to this fief. As a result, there was little turnover of employment, and familiarity only added stability to the machinery of the Cezanne dynasty. It was a fine domain, one of the finest in France, fine as fine could be, and D’ata completed the agenda perfectly.
There were no chores as the servants attended to every need, and they adored D’ata. He was a generous child, never hesitating to lend a hand when Raphael was carrying wood in for the kitchen stoves. The boy particularly enjoyed the stables and was not averse to mucking the stalls on occasion just to be able to chat with Henri.
Henri was the stable master. He was small like a terrier, with wiry white locks escaping from all directions beneath his woolen cap. His eyebrows were thick and wild, hanging feral above his clear and sparkling, pale blue eyes.
He lived in and ruled the stables with a no-nonsense agenda that was tempered with kindness. His firm compassion agreed with the animals, and his sharp eye showed in the quality breeding and stamina of the fine beasts stabled there. A Cezanne stallion was a work of art. Henri, however, seldom rode anymore as scoliosis twisted him thoroughly, and he walked only with the help of two canes.
Though there were other stable hands to help with the labors, D’ata particularly enjoyed helping his old friend. Henri was quick witted and teased the boy. He also provided the fatherly advice and intuition that the Baron, on occasion, seemed to lack.
D’ata also loved the animals, loved the smell of them and the way the earthy steam rose from their backs when he pulled the saddles after a ride. They were noble creatures, elegant and free, even when caged. It was no mystery to him that, in the horse, God created a creature capable of lifting even the most wretched heart from mediocrity to brilliance. D'ata was privileged to take the horses out at any time for a gallop over the countryside.
He would sit for hours with Henri, polishing the harnesses and bridles until the bits shone and the leather was soft as his own expensive goatskin gloves. His father disapproved of these menial labors, however, and D’ata was careful to do them only in his absence. He knew the routine well enough—knew who could be trusted and who could not.
D’ata was at home on the estate, and even though visiting daughters of dignitaries were drawn to him, he’d been innocently oblivious of any charms cast his way. His purpose did not allow it, and his focus was steadfast…until he’d seen her.
The Cezannes expected him to excel in his studies, and he did, dutifully. He played the violin beautifully and, most of all, accepted his calling to the priesthood, studying hard and praying at least five times a day and six the next if he fell short. He was faultlessly obedient and had always been so, for D’ata knew nothing else. He was content as the mighty chestnut trees are content. What else do they know but to stand and allow the seasons to come and go?
His life had been peaceful in a very stagnant way. A bird would never fly off its course; to do so would cast it off its bearings and place it at risk for a bad winter…or worse. The unknown is not safe, and one should never venture there.
D’ata performed like the well timed clocks in the mansion. His future was set, his role consecrated, his life tidily disposed. Other than a few expectations, his time was his own, and this abundance of time tortured him now.
He finished dividing the bread, focusing, forcing his thoughts to return to the task at hand. The sweet yeast smell made his stomach growl again. He was excited and knew he shouldn’t be so, for it was pointless. Rational or not, he dreamed he would see her again. She’d been coming for just over two months now, and he closed his eyes, could almost picture her in his mind. How could he be so smitten? He’d never even spoken to her? It was ridiculous; he was a seventeen year old man, and a priest! This could not be love. Could it?
This was an argument he’d had with himself no less than several times a day for nearly eight weeks now. It was a futile notion, that he might know her—he knew this, and it caused him sadness.
He breathed a sad sigh and glanced up, suddenly glimpsing an image so fair that he caught his breath. There she sat, five pews back. It was not beauty which so caught D’ata’s attention but the way the light seemed to attach to her as though it couldn’t help but to do so. She was thin but with a soft strength. There was a glow about her as she sat with her head bowed, a beam of muted sunlight splashing across her honey streaked hair like a glorious halo.
What was it about her that commanded him in such a way, without reason whatsoever? This was not a trite infatuation; there was something about her which touched his very soul. He was drawn to this girl in a way that reason could not explain.
She was just as he’d seen her before, just as he remembered, and he was immediately mesmerized. He squinted—her hair had been thick and long when she’d come before, and he recalled how it cascaded wildly in loose strands around her shoulders where it escaped her worn ribbon. It had most often looked as though she’d tied it back too hastily as if, perhaps, it annoyed her at times. Today, however, it was gone! It had been roughly chopped off above the shoulders as if someone had taken offense to it and sliced it with a butcher knife! D’ata could not know that this was exactly what had happened, and Julianne had done it to herself only a few hours before. But the effect was to him…perfect.
She appeared almost as if she were sleeping. Her lashes, sun-bleached on the tips, rested softly against her face. Her skin was rosy as though she spent too much time outdoors and scrubbed hard to remove the dirt. The very lightest wash of freckles danced across her nose, another gift from the sun. There was a space between her imperfect front teeth, but when she smiled, he delighted in her lovely imperfection. He was entranced, staring openly at the unusual beauty perched on the edge of the pew—so comfortable, so composed.
He could not pull his eyes from her, watched her lips silently mouth the words of her prayer. Oh, to be those words. Frozen in place, he watched as she lifted a thin hand to capture a stray lock of hair that brushed against her cheek, to tuck it behind one ear. The congregation stirred and whispered; D’ata saw only her, forgetting his task completely. He stood like a dark statue, broken bread dangling loosely from each hand.
Her simple and worn dress was bleached gauze, not brown or black as was expected of common peasantry, but the lines were delicate and graceful, most likely hand sewn by its wearer. A very small girl sat next to her, and she leaned down to speak quietly into the child’s ear. The child nodded and smiled happily up at her. There was no mistaking the two were siblings.
His heart caught in his chest as she stirred to stand. She stood tall and slender, moving slowly and purposefully with an unnatural elegance. It was graceful, effortless, and poised. And, with her hair short as it were, she was almost coltish.
There was an unfamiliar stab in his groin as he watched her gather her gowns to squeeze past an older couple, making her way slowly out of the pew. Smiling, she touched the old man gently on the hand, leaning close to his ear and murmuring something as she stepped carefully by. The old man patted her hand softly before releasing her on her way. D’ata struggled with this image. He found the gesture oddly sensual in its compassion and was embarrassed by this.
He also noticed, just then, three other young women, preened to excess, sitting across the aisle from her. They pointed at her mangled hair and snickered, gloved hands hiding their cruel mouths as she passed.
She ignored them effortlessly, her expression composed and impervious. For the most part, she didn’t appear aware they even existed as though they were less than significant. Instead, she gazed briefly toward the stained glass as though seeing it for the first time.
Struck by the peaceful oblivion that washed across her face along with the colors of the magnificent glass, D'ata was suddenly and irrationally vulnerable, inadequate…and very distracted. Why did he feel this way each time he saw her? Why did he worry, each time she left, that he might never see her again? Did she notice him at all?
It occurred to him that he'd been standing in place for some time, staring at her, and he noticed that it might have occurred to others as well. It dismayed him, all of a sudden, that he could be so easily distracted to neglect his duties. With guilty reflex, he glanced fleetingly about the church to see if anyone else noticed his lapse. The congregation hastily addressed their prayers, and he convinced himself they hadn’t.
The a cappella voice ceased, and silence emerged like an unwelcome visitor as communion began. Taking a deep breath, D’ata glanced down at old Madame Levanne’s perplexed gaze as she knelt at the communion rail. She was holding up one yellow-gloved, withered hand, stabbing at him for her communion. He offered the old woman a brief apology and hurriedly passed her a morsel of bread.
Then he glanced, searching the rows to see if she’d truly been real or merely an apparition. He was desperate to search the line, to be certain she was still in the congregation. He shook his head, tried to focus on the task at hand. D’ata looked over to the three girls to see if they were still being cruel. If he could see where their attentions were focused, it might help him to pick her out of the crowd. They seemed to notice his glance, misinterpreted it, and giggled—one of them waving at him. He made a mental note of this and decided to keep any future conversations with them distinctly short.
Impatiently, he turned back to the row of waiting hands and was dumbfounded to find himself face to face with a pair of serious gray eyes. They gazed up at him from underneath the lashes which, only a short while ago, rested upon those sunburned cheeks. This close, he could see that her hair had indeed been coarsely chopped. She’d done this herself—he was certain of it. But why?
Again he was transfixed, his heart pounding so loudly in his ears he was sure everyone could hear it. He swallowed with great difficulty, unable to take his eyes away from her. Even the simple task at hand could not be comprehended. His mind was chaos, his blood was fire, and he hadn’t the slightest idea what to do.
She held up a hand; it was rough, work worn. Several cracks were angry and reddened from her toils. They reminded him of Henri’s hands only they were…beautiful.
Obviously confused by his hesitation, she held her hand closer, inviting him to allow her to take communion with the others who knelt beside her. Her eyebrows turned oddly, delicately up at the ends as a fairy’s might, and she glanced around as though uncertain what to do next.
D’ata was suddenly desperate, unsure of his purpose, confused by the smattering of feelings he was experiencing. He believed that, no matter the consequences, he should speak to her or risk losing the opportunity altogether. What if she never returned and he never saw her again? He leaned over to pass her the bread crust and dropped his face close to hers.
“Hello…” His breath caught so that it sounded very forced and loud.
The young woman leaned back, her brow furrowed in confusion. Embarrassed, she glanced away, flushing as she pulled her hand and started to stand.
Communion was meant to be taken in silence. Regretting his transgression, he worried that he might have compromised himself or, more critically, her. Trying to repair the situation, he righted himself too abruptly and knocked the silver tray from the stand.
Broken bread scattered accusingly across the dark stone floor. Silence screamed at him for one long, loud, suffering moment. A raven, having gained entrance to the massive building without anyone knowing, was perched in the rafters beyond the pulpit and took the opportunity to swoop down and claim for itself a piece of the broken bread. It’s beady eyes danced as it mouthed the bread, then hopped twice before flapping away to the rafters again.
It was an ill omen, and D’ata glanced over at the monsignor only to catch a fierce admonishment in the older priest’s eyes. He’d never seen this look before. True, he'd been reprimanded when, as a boy, he’d been caught burning the expensive altar candles behind the parish, enjoying the effects of wax dripping into standing water. Once, he'd skipped mass to spear fish for trout in the shallows of the river; that did not go over well either. Rebuked sternly by his father and the bishop, he vowed aloud not to disrespect God again. Today, he broke that vow.
Properly indoctrinated to please at all costs, it was ordinarily very easy for D’ata to step back into the heavy yoke of expectations at the slightest transgression. Now, suddenly, the yoke seemed to choke him—an uncomfortable burden to bear.
The congregation not only noticed the incident, they feasted upon it. It buzzed like a monstrous fly. D’ata was scrutinized by them every day. They had been curious and strangely protective of the abandoned infant, observing this child of God with vain interest. In a queer way, they were all his parents. Indeed he was an infant of their congregation, and they were as proud as his own mother and father by his impending ordainment to the priesthood. Now, there were whispers and, sadly, glares…at the girl. There was no room for another in the existence of their God child. He was to remain theirs, pure and…alone.
Hastily averting his eyes, D’ata gathered himself and knelt to repair the damage, concentrating on picking the crumbs from the floor. He brushed them swiftly into his open palm as though he might sweep away his transgression. His labor, however, did not prevent him from searching for her from the corner of his eye.
Humiliated, she hurried away from him, back down the aisle to return to her seat. Her face was reddened, and she kept her head down.
The old man lifted a hand as though to touch her arm as she passed by, but she whipped past him and flopped down next to the child, burying her face in her hands.
D’ata was mortified by what he’d done and immensely thrown off by a new avalanche of feelings—regret, fear, love. He wished only to be out of the church and away to the river to pray, to be away from the thousand prying eyes, and to sort through these confusing thoughts.
Mass was an eternity. He shared in the closing prayer of the benediction, forcing himself to concentrate on the words. Careful to keep his eyes down, he looked neither at the mass of people who scrutinized him nor at the girl who occupied his every thought.
He wondered briefly if this was “love at first sight.” Could this be the forbidden passion Petrarch had penned in his sonnets? Curiously, the sonnets were also about a young woman whom the poet had first seen in church. And, like him, D’ata was captured, heart and soul, by her.
As the congregation milled around the aisles and fanned, thick and sluggish, toward the rear of the church, D’ata avoided his normal ritual of visiting with them. Instead, he busied himself cleaning up. However, he did glance up just in time to see a pair of charcoal gray eyes meet his. The maiden bit her lip and held his gaze firmly for only a second, then slipped from the doors of the church to be swept away in the human tide.
There was an uncomfortable tightness in his chest as a maddening confusion swept across him. D’ata awoke from a life of dreamless sleep, and today his life began for, as much as the world might object, the young priest was in love.