By Joshua Vise – September 8, 2024

Published in Children of the Dead: Shadow Playground by Wicked Shadow Press. Lulu: Paperback or EPUB

“Someone’s coming.”

Guillaume’s hands clung tightly to the timber door frame as he leaned in to deliver the news.  Normally, Guillaume would avoid his father while he was eating, but a visiting rider on horseback was a rare occurrence this far from town.

“Hngh,” grunted Hubert as he set down his utensils roughly.

Guillaume turned, his eyes readjusting to the bright barley fields surrounding their simple cottage. From a distance, the approaching man’s horse was only slightly visible over the stalks of that year’s crop, making him appear as if he were floating over a sea of gold. As he drew closer, Guillaume could make out the deep red vestment of the Church of St. Sebastian.

Hubert pushed his way past Guillaume and out into the afternoon sun, shielding his eyes with his palm. He took a few steps ahead, and waved at the emissary.

“Greetings,” offered Hubert, somewhat muffled by the remaining food in his mouth.

The emissary did not bother to return Hubert’s wave, nor did he offer the reins. With a simple motion, he reached into his red cloak, removed a crucifix, and offered it to Hubert, who dutifully kissed it.

“Hubert Bouraine,” began the church emissary.

“Yes.”

“By the order of Jean Bernard de Hauranne, Bishop of the Church of St. Sebastian of Éole-en-Beauce, your son, Guillaume, will have the honor of performing the climb. You are instructed on the morrow to report…”

“What’s the climb?” Guillaume pondered out loud.

The emissary ignored this interruption, and continued his prepared statement.

“…to report to the workshop of Audebert Rouzee to be fitted for the proper garments, and…”

“Garments!” echoed Hubert. “We’ve no means to pay for new clothes.”

From atop his horse, the emissary glared at Hubert, his face a mix of contempt and annoyance.

“For his service to the community and to the church,” the emissary began again, raising his voice in an attempt to stave off any further interruptions. “For his service to the church, a dispensation of 100 francs shall be paid to the family Bouraine.”

Hubert immediately stiffened. The mere mention of such a large sum was enough to rouse an air of respectful deference from the crude farmer. It was as if, now that money had been brought into the conversation, he feared his natural behavior might somehow sour the opportunity to profit.

“But what’s the climb?” asked Guillaume again, this time directing his question to the rider.

“Quiet, boy!” spat his father over his shoulder.

“The climb is to be made in two days’ time.”

“We will be there,” assured Hubert, not able to hide the undercurrent of enthusiasm in his voice.

The emissary’s eyes narrowed as he looked Guillaume up and down.

“M. Bouraine,” he stated flatly, his eyes not leaving Guillaume. “I need not underscore the importance of the strict fulfillment of these duties, or the penalties that await those who fail to meet their obligations.”

“Certainly not, monsieur!”

Without another word, the emissary pulled on the reins. The dutiful horse turned back along the dirt road, and they departed at a trot, eager to leave Hubert’s company.

“La vache! Ç’est unbelievable. One hundred francs?!” shouted Hubert once the rider was out of earshot.

His face twisted into a grotesque laugh as he began a lively jig, kicking up dust with every step.

“But is he not too young for the climb?”

Guillaume turned. His mother, Perette, had watched the entire exchange from the doorway. Though she hadn’t protested in the presence of the emissary, her face betrayed a concern that bordered on anguish.

Hubert continued his jig, brushing off her concern.

“But that is the entire point!”

He turned to Guillaume and knelt in front of him, his hands clasping Guillaume’s shoulders, his face still beaming with joyous excitement.

“Haha! Boy, in two days, you perform the climb. Then, we are set!”

Hubert shook Guillaume roughly, then jumped back to his feet and resumed his jig. He began singing a tune that Guillaume had heard before, but only when his father was in his cups.

“J’ai vu le loup, le renard, le lièvre! J’ai vu le loup, le renard cheuler!”

As his father circled around, Perette grabbed Guillaume by the wrist and pulled him close.

“I say he will not do it!”

Hubert caught himself mid-stride.

“Is that what you say?”

“He is too young! Quelle horreur! Such a terrible thing to put on a boy’s shoulders.”

Hubert’s feet were now firmly on the ground. The excitement on his face dissipated, with only his agitation remaining.

“Merde! Woman, do you not see what this means for us?! With 100 francs, we no longer have to rent! We can own the land, and the cottage besides! And for what?!”

His excitement reestablished itself as he pantomimed climbing a ladder with his hands.

“For a little climb!”

Hubert continued his pantomime enthusiastically as he approached Guillaume, who was still in his mother’s grasp.

“I say, my boy! With one little pull of a lever, you will make us a fortune! You can do that, right?”

Guillaume nodded. He was unsure of what the climb was, or the role he was supposed to play in it. Still, he had sense enough not to contradict his father, especially when Hubert was in a mood like this.

“That’s right! You WILL do it!”

Hubert pushed his way past Perette and into the cottage, returning with a bottle of wine in tow. Guillaume could see a deep scowl cross his mother’s face as Hubert uncorked it with his teeth, spat the cork to the side, and raised the bottle high in the air in an apparent toast.

“After all, the honor!”

Hubert upended the bottle, drinking deeply, red streaks leaking from the corners of his mouth.

“He will not do it!”

Disgust dripped from her words as wine dripped from Hubert’s chin. He ignored her, continuing to drink until nearly half of the bottle had been drained.

“He is too young for such a horror! I won’t let him do it! Not for a farm, and certainly not for you to go pouring it away into your head!”

Releasing Guillaume’s wrist, Perette stamped forward and attempted to pull the bottle from his lips. Hubert pushed her away roughly and spat into the dirt.

“Bitch! This is an obligation to Jean Bernard de Hauranne! An order! You have no say!”

She winced as he threatened her with the back of his hand.

“And if you can’t be happy, be useful. Prepare our things. Tomorrow, we go to town!”

Perette retreated to the safety of the cottage, pulling Guillaume in with her as she muttered a string of insults. Guillaume took one final glance over his shoulder, and saw his father holding the wine bottle up, toasting to the cottage and the field that he would soon own.

*****

The next day began as hectically as any day that Guillaume could remember. At the crack of dawn, Hubert hitched a pair of horses to the wagon, still humming the same merry tune as yesterday. His anticipation and excitement only increased as the hour of departure grew nearer, so much so that he had finished his first bottle of wine before they had even set out.

While Hubert’s mood reached new heights, Perette wore a deep scowl, either still irritated from the day before or apprehensive of the day to come. She recognized the importance of the commandment that had been given her family, and knew the futility of challenging Hubert when he had a bottle of wine in his hands. It was true that the money would be of great help to them, but at what cost? Not daring to voice her concerns aloud, she instead turned her focus to the silent performance of her duties. She bathed and dressed Guillaume, and prepared a few things to eat while on the road.

As for Guillaume himself, his mood was a conglomeration of raw, naked emotions, with any one feeling dominant at any given moment. Guillaume looked up at Hubert and Perette from his place in the back of the cart shortly after their departure. His father, already noticeably drunk, toyed with the reins, at one moment pulling them tightly, at another letting them lose. The effect was an inconsistent rocking and swaying that, combined with the surrounding barley fields, left Guillaume with the impression that they were on a ship riding the rough waves of an amber sea. He couldn’t tell whether the sour feeling in his stomach was the result of the motion or disgust at his father, but he knew that it was a feeling that his mother shared. She sat next to him only by definition, as the space she left between him and her was as large as it could possibly be without her tumbling over the side. Normally, she would have avoided Hubert entirely when he drank. Given their present situation, all she could do was stare ahead, restlessly anticipating the first signs of the town.

Even amidst this unpleasantness, Guillaume felt excited at the prospect of visiting the town. Though he had visited it once or twice before, he had been too young to remember anything of the experience, save for some fleeting images in his mind’s eye that had been stripped of all context or meaning. However, his excitement still carried with it a sense of nervousness. After all, Guillaume knew that he would have to perform some duty, and the sum his family was to receive hinted at this event’s importance. Yet his mother’s pathos was enough to make him doubt his abilities to accomplish this unknown task, especially when contrasted with his father’s fervent joy at the whole affair.

They entered Éole-en-Beauce along the Rue du Cimetière. The immediate transition from vast, open fields to narrow roads passing between rows of stone buildings and high, slanting roofs felt constricting. Still, Guillaume stared at each building with wide-eyed curiosity, even as Perette helped him down from the cart.

“Join us later?” asked Perette flatly.

Hubert huffed, his rheumy eyes still staring forward.

“First the stable. And then…a place to stay.”

“You might inquire at the church as to where we may stay.”

He grunted and slapped the reins. The horses began their slow march forward, their hooves clopping along the stone road.

“Will he come back?” asked Guillaume, looking up at his mother. She glowered as the cart rounded a bend and disappeared from view.

“Un vrai beauf,” she muttered. “He wants more wine.”

She huffed, and Guillaume resigned himself to the idea that it may just be the two of them fending for themselves, at least until it was time to collect their dispensation.

“Come on.”

Guillaume’s first thought upon entering the workshop of the tailor Audebert Rouzee was that he had never seen such a clean place in his life. Rolls of fabrics in a variety of colors and materials stood in orderly rows. Several tables stood in various places throughout the large room, and upon them were scissors, needles, thread, and colorful slivers of fabric. At one of these tables sat Audebert Rouzee himself, his hands busy with some sort of work that Guillaume couldn’t make out from his position near the door.

“May I help you?” asked Audebert, his precise, almost musical enunciation every bit as lively as his colorful surroundings.

“We are the family Bouraine,” said Perette politely, her words accompanied by a modest curtsy. “This is…”

“Ah yes!” said Audebert enthusiastically. “I’ve been expecting you.”

He set down his things quickly and rounded the table, his movements startlingly nimble for a man of his size. He took Guillaume’s hands into his own and shook them vigorously.

“And here he is! Our young boy. Or should I say, young man! What is your name, little one?”

“Guillaume.”

“Ah, M. Bouraine. And how old are you?”

“I’m six years old, sir.”

“Sir! So young, yet already so polite. Well, Guillaume, my name is Audebert Bouraine. It is a pleasure to meet you.”

Audebert released Guillaume’s hands and turned to Perette.

“And you must be his mother?”

“Yes.”

“Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

He bowed respectfully, and she curtsied politely in return. He then gestured to a chair near the door for Perette. She smoothed the creases in her dress as she sat down.

“Most of the work has already been done. I just need a few simple adjustments to make everything complete. If you would please come with me.”

Audebert gently guided Guillaume to one of the tables.

“Stand straight, and hold out your arms, if you please.”

Audebert held his arms out from his sides, and Guillaume copied his pose.

“Now don’t move. It will only take a moment.”

Retrieving a length of yarn from the table, Audebert began to measure the lengths of his arms from wrist to shoulder, from shoulder to shoulder, and from the nape of the neck to the waist. After each measurement, he tied a small knot in the yarn, indicating the length. He spoke to Perette while he worked, his eyes never leaving his task.

“Will Monsieur Bouraine be joining us today?”

“He’s taking the cart to the stables,” answered Guillaume.

“I suspect after that he may visit some other establishments,” Perette added flatly, not bothering to hide her disappointment.

“Ah yes,” answered Audebert knowingly. “A common occurrence for those visiting the town.”

Audebert set down the yarn and retrieved a white garment that rested on a nearby stand. He unfolded it, revealing a beautiful hooded robe with ornate golden trim lining the edges. Gently, he draped it over Guillaume’s head.

“This is what you will be wearing tomorrow,” he said to Guillaume as he centered the garment on his shoulders. He pinned the edges back in several places before picking up a pair of scissors and continuing his conversation with Perette.

“I dare say your husband will be in good company. The whole of the town is coming out for tomorrow’s festivities, as well as those from the countryside such as yourself. Why, there’s not a landlord in all of Éole-en-Beauce who hasn’t rented out a spare room or space on their floor!”

Audebert snipped at the sleeves as Guillaume continued to stand rigidly.

“Quite the atmosphere! And all to see our young Guillaume make the climb.”

He nodded at Guillaume.

“How does that make you feel, Guillaume, to know the whole of the province will be here to see you perform tomorrow?”

“But what is the climb?” Guillaume asked, his arms still held out in the shape of a T.

This unexpected utterance nearly caused Audebert to drop the shears as he raised his hands to his face.

“Oh mon Dieu vraiment! My god! Do you really not know?!”

“I mean, I know I go up the stairs and pull the lever…”

“Yes, pull the lever!” interjected Perette harshly as she burst upwards from her seat. “What more is there for him to know?! Nothing!”

Audebert turned in surprise, one hand clutching his chest while the other still held the scissors.

“Madame, do you not think it is better for him to know? After all, the things he will see…”

“At his age?!” she interrupted. “He will see nothing. He will keep his eyes closed!”

Her agitation increased as she faced Guillaume.

“Son, tomorrow, you will keep your eyes closed as you pull the lever. Understand?”

“Yes, mother.”

“But it is a tradition!” resumed Audebert. “A tradition, and a sacred duty, ordered by the priest, and mandated by God himself! Surely he must be told.”

Perette crossed the room to stand next to Guillaume. Roughly, she lowered his arms before grabbing him by his shoulders.

“You will keep your eyes closed as you pull the lever, and either your father or the priest will walk you down the stairs again!”

Guillaume felt the nails on her fingers as they gripped him tightly through his white cloak.

“Do you understand?”

“Yes, mother.”

“Good,” she said, straightening her posture and brushing the wrinkles from his sleeves. Her gaze turned to Audebert.

“Then we will go home with our riches, and never speak of this again. Do you understand?”

“Yes, mother,” he offered quietly.

“Are you done with your measurements, M. Rouzee?”

Her voice quavered, but she remained composed. Audebert, rendered speechless at her outburst, could only manage a nod.

“Then please take that garment off of him so that we may leave.”

“As you wish, Madame Bouraine.”

*****

That night had been a sleepless one; Hubert, of course, had arrived at their rented room well past sunset. He was exceptionally drunk even by his standards, helped in no small part by the local taverns willing to extend him credit against Guillaume’s dispensation. Perette began berating him, but soon gave up, realizing the pointlessness of such an act. Luckily, Hubert’s continued high spirits at his own good fortune saved Guillaume from the beating he would normally have received when his father had too much to drink.

Even after Hubert had passed out and Perette had gone to sleep, Guillaume lay awake on the hard stone floor, wrapped in a coarse blanket. The few times he was able to question someone directly about the climb, Guillaume received the same vague replies that he had received before, especially since his mother had squelched anyone that seemed willing to elaborate. In the absence of information, Guillaume’s active mind conjured its own ideas based on his limited understanding. He visualized himself scaling a high ladder to the top of the cathedral spire, where he would ring a bell to mark some secretive occasion of exceptional import. Still, there were too many gaps in his knowledge, too many questions left unanswered, and too much secrecy surrounding the event to leave him feeling at ease with his own fantasies. He drifted in and out of sleep until the first rays of dawn, when a loud knock at the door had woken everyone. It was the church page, sent to retrieve Guillaume.

Inside the cathedral, priest Jean Bernard de Hauranne awaited the young boy’s arrival. The page led Guillaume to the stairs in front of the altar, where he then knelt, eyes down. Unsure of his role, Guillaume knelt as well.

“Rise,” came the stern voice of Hauranne.

Both he and the page stood.

“Guillaume Bouraine,” began Hauranne.

“Yes, sir.”

“Your excellency,” chimed in the page. Guillaume noticed his grimace.

“Your excellency, sir,” added Guillaume.

Hauranne bristled a bit at the unconventional title, but managed a smirking sort of half-smile that Guillaume found intimidating. Hauranne was large in stature, clad in a purple cassock with deep red cuffs on the sleeves. His biretta, the three-pointed cap that all priests wore during important ceremonies, served only to increase his height, and the chasuble, his sleeveless outer robe, added to his girth. The priest’s ornateness matched the interior of the cathedral so perfectly that the building seemed an extension of himself.

“Guillaume Bouraine, have you been baptized?”

“Yes, your excellency,” answered Guillaume.

“You will receive communion. Then you will reflect on Christ until the time you are called, whereupon you will perform the climb.”

“But what is the climb, sir…your excellency?” Guillaume quickly corrected himself.

Hauranne’s second attempt at a smile failed. He sneered at the young boy, and then turned to face the altar, hands in the air in an act of supplicant adoration, his voice booming in the cavernous hall.

“The Lord our God, maker of heaven and earth, has commanded that those without sin shall cast the first stone. So shall it be with you.”

He turned away from the altar, lowering his hands.

“When the time comes, the doors will open. You will ascend the stairs to the top of the platform. There you will find a lever. Pull it, and cast the first stone.”

“By your word, your excellency,” added the page, his voice a groveling exultation. “He will understand.”

The page bowed low, and Guillaume, still uncertain of what was appropriate, copied the action.

“Good,” replied Hauranne, taking the page’s response as if it had come from Guillaume. “We shall begin.”

The rite of communion was performed solemnly and in Latin. Incomprehensible as that language was to Guillaume, his mind instead wandered. He reflected on the opulence and beauty of the cathedral interior, contrasting it with the rustic furnishings of his own cottage home. His thoughts returned to the present just in time to accept the unleavened bread and wine from Hauranne’s hands.

The ceremony complete, Hauranne ushered Guillaume to the front pew and gestured for him to sit down.

“You will now sit in silent prayer and reflect on the sacrifices of our Lord Jesus Christ until the time comes.”

Without waiting for an acknowledgement, both the page and Hauranne departed, disappearing through a small door in a dark corner behind the altar. Guillaume bowed his head, his hands crossed in front of him in the act of prayer, and promptly fell asleep.

*****

“Guillaume!”

Guillaume awoke with a start at the page’s exclamation. Bright beams of light shone through the cathedral’s many stained-glass windows, accompanied by an intense buzz that seemed to emanate from the stone walls as if hundreds of people were trapped inside them. He shook his head, slowly making sense of his surroundings as the page approached him.

“Guillaume, it is time,” the page commanded in a tone very much the opposite of what he had used with Hauranne.

Without a word, Guillaume stood, still rubbing sleep from his eyes as the page marched him down the nave and to the massive wooden doors at the rear. As they approached, the buzzing only increased in intensity and fervency. It pulsed like waves, at once swelling, then dying down, then swelling again. Even through the thick wood, Guillaume was able to detect an undercurrent of fierce malevolency, though he had no idea of what was being said.

All at once, the frightening drone of hundreds of voices ceased completely, replaced with a silence so immediately that Guillaume felt dizzy at the abrupt transition. After a brief moment of disorienting stillness, one voice began again. It was the voice of Hauranne.

“Marin Chrestien, of the village Bessay, having been found guilty of the crime of murder, and sentenced by the community of Éole-en-Beauce to death by beheading, I, Jean Bernard de Hauranne, Priest of the Church of St. Sebastien, order God’s unerring commandment to be carried out!”

The crowd erupted again, their combined voices swelling even louder than before, until they were suddenly silenced. Hauranne continued.

“May he that is without sin cast the first stone!”

With this pronouncement, the doors of the cathedral were thrown open.

The sudden shift from darkness to brightness overwhelmed Guillaume’s vision, and he took his first cautious steps forward in blindness. His eyes adjusted, and the image before him left Guillaume stunned.

Hundreds of people were gathered, the mass converging in the town square in front of the Church of St. Sebastien. Onlookers unable to find a space in the square stood in the main streets leading to the church, so that not a single patch of land went unoccupied, save for one area.

Immediately in front of the cathedral was a makeshift platform, elevated roughly one story above the ground so that, at least from Guillaume’s vantage point, it seemed to rest atop the crowd around it. On the platform sat the guillotine, the metal blade shining brightly in the midday sun.

The crowd that had moments ago been overwhelmingly loud now waited in expectant silence, all eyes fixed on Guillaume. He stood there in astonishment until a sharp prod from the page goaded him forward.

“Up the stairs,” he hissed.

Reluctantly, Guillaume approached the platform stairs. Arriving at the first step, he hesitated, and his eyes looked over the crowd. His gaze searched not for people, but for guidance, for a sign that what he was doing was correct. He found that sign in Hubert who, despite his obvious hangover, had conveniently situated himself among the people nearest to the staircase. He gestured slightly but severely, his thumb jerked in the direction of the platform as he mouthed one word over and over again. Up! Up!

Dutifully, Guillaume ascended the eight stairs until he arrived at the top of the platform. From this new position, the singular mass of people he had seen from the church doors resolved itself into hundreds and hundreds of individuals: here a middle-aged farmer in his simple trousers and shirt, there a merchant in a colorful frock. Old women, young boys, mothers with their babies, and distinguished gentlemen all stood together, their eyes wide in anticipation as they awaited Guillaume’s next move.

Unnerved by the attention of the crowd, he turned to the machine next to him. The blade, shiny as it was from a distance, now radiated white hot sunlight into Guillaume’s squinting eyes. The guides on either side of the blade appeared as tall as the spire on the church, at least when seen from below. Beneath the blade, a young man lay, his arms and chest strapped down securely to the wooden beam under him, his head already fed through the circular hole in the restraining assembly. He didn’t make a sound, nor did he struggle against the leather straps which bound him.

A wooden lever was set into the side of the machine closest to Guillaume, and at that moment, all of the things he had seen and heard about the climb came together. He rested his hand on the smooth wooden lever, knowing that as soon as he pulled down, the rope would be released, and the blade would come down.

The weight of this burden was too much for Guillaume. Unable to speak, he began to shake his head. His small body shook underneath his white robe.

“No…” he managed to stammer. “No…”

A lone voice in the crowd goaded him on, with others quickly joining in until the entire mob was chanting as one.

“Pull! Pull! Pull! Pull! Pull!”

Guillaume turned to his father, whose face twisted in fury as he snarled along with the unfeeling mob.

“Pull! Pull! Pull! Pull! Pull!”

His pleading eyes searched frantically for help until he noticed Hauranne, himself situated in a makeshift pulpit on the opposite side of the town square.

“Now!” commanded Hauranne, both of his fists in the air in righteous fury.

Guillaume squeezed his eyes shut, gripped the lever tightly, and pulled, falling to the floor as the lever gave under the full weight of his body.

The next few moments of Guillaume’s life took on a numb, ethereal quality. Somehow, he felt as if he was observing things from just behind and above himself, like he was looking over his own shoulder. His trembling limbs seemed to resist his efforts to move them. The sound of the throngs of people in the square, so clear just a second ago, became muffled, even as they rose to a crescendo.

Opening his eyes, Guillaume confronted a horror that neither he nor the crowd around him had imagined. Perhaps the guillotine, used so rarely, had been improperly maintained while in storage, or assembled incorrectly when moved to the platform. Perhaps the grooves that the blade followed on its way to the target had swollen in the hot and humid late-summer weather. Perhaps the blade had bent on impact, or the prisoner’s neck had been centered improperly within the restraints. Whatever the cause, the horrific results were on display for the entirety of Éole-en-Beauce.

Rather than cutting cleanly, the blade had crushed Marin’s neck, bending his head at an unnatural angle and wedging him in place. The deep gouge across his scruff oozed blood down either side of his neck and chin, where it spattered to the ground with each wail from the pathetic man. Marin Chrestien’s body, so still just a moment before, now fought against the straps still tying him to the beam.

Guillaume turned away from the terrifying sight, but each way he looked, he was greeted with repulsion. He looked into the crowd, only to find people covering their eyes, people turning away, or people shouting at him, their lips curled in anger as they spat all manner of insults. Guillaume looked at the pulpit, where Jean Bernard de Hauranne leaned forward, a single fist in the air as he repeatedly shouted a command to Guillaume that he couldn’t hear. He looked down at his white gown, now spattered red with the prisoner’s blood. He looked towards his father, who marched up the stairs to the raised platform, grabbing him by the collar when he made it to the top.

“Step on the blade!”, exclaimed Hubert as he shook Guillaume violently.

“What?”

“Bordel de merde! Step on the blade!”

Guillaume could only stand in place, frozen with fear.

“Do it! Step on the blade!” spat Hubert. “You must do it!”

Guillaume struggled against his father’s grasp, knowing nothing more than the need to get out of his grip and away from this horrible place.

“Merde!”

Hubert threw Guillaume roughly to the side and scaled the frame of the guillotine. He balanced precariously, one boot between the shoulder blades of the hapless prisoner, the other planted firmly against the rear of the blade, and his hands gripped the guide beams tightly. With a sickening jump, he slammed his full weight against the back of the guillotine blade, and the now-severed head of Marin landed into the basket below.

*****

The last streaks of colorful twilight had just disappeared from the sky when the Bouraines arrived back at their home. Perette pulled on the reins, and the faithful pair of horses halted their cart just in front of their cottage door. She turned to Guillaume, who had spent the entire ride bent over and staring into his lap in silence.

“Go help your father.”

Guillaume didn’t answer, nor did he budge from his near-folded position. He continued to stare downward blankly until Perette gently placed her hand on his shoulder.

“Guillaume?”

Guillaume looked up, his eyes still red.

“Guillaume, help your father,” she repeated softly.

“Okay,” replied Guillaume in a voice barely above a whisper.

Guillaume turned and crawled from his seat into the back of the cart. His father lay there, still stinking of booze and blood. His clothes were torn, and his body bruised. Hubert moaned as Guillaume lifted his head off of the rough wood.

“Ooooh,” wheezed Hubert. “Quelle douleur, my head.”

Hubert sat up slowly under his own power, then gently slid to the edge of the cart. Guillaume jumped down first, then offered his father his hand, which he accepted in his weakened state. Hubert staggered his way into the cottage, eased his way onto their simple straw mattress, and fell asleep at once.

After the debacle surrounding Marin Chrestien’s execution, the family Bouraine had immediately been ushered into the cathedral in order to escape the frenzied wrath of the crowd. The doors were barred, and the sound of hundreds of fists hammering upon them from the outside testified to the anger of the masses. Hauranne himself had managed to enter secretly through a hidden door in the transept, and his commanding presence was no less diminished by the ordeal. He roared, admonishing the family for their insolence and threatening them with excommunication. Hubert knelt before Hauranne, his hands clasped in prayer, his eyes on the floor, his lips pleading for mercy.

After much of the mob had dissipated, Guillaume, Perette, and Hubert were thrown out of the church to fend for themselves. Hubert was immediately snared by several of the more patient members of the community. The group beat him severely, and likely would have killed him if it weren’t for the intervention of the town’s tavern owners who were eager to collect what was owed them. With all debts paid, the Bouraines were escorted roughly to the livery and driven out of the town with the warning that worse would be in store for them if they ever dared to return. In the end, the church dispensation was reduced to five francs, which Hubert tearfully accepted. Nearly all of this went towards expenses he had incurred over his past two days of depravity.

The fortunes of all of those involved in the botched execution of Marin Chrestien mimicked, in one way or another, the terrible fortunes of Marin himself. Word of Éole-en-Beauce’s unique interpretation of the biblical passages made their way to the Vatican. The papal consistory called to pass judgment on the matter ruled against Hauranne, and he was summarily defrocked and excommunicated. He died alone just a few years later, having given himself to the bottle in place of God. Hubert would follow him to the grave in the same year, and of the same cause.

The residents of the town itself, while not facing such a formal punishment, nevertheless suffered in their own quiet way at having been rebuked by the clergy. Bishop Michel Despierre, successor to Hauranne’s post at the Church of St. Sebastien, publicly scolded the congregation, and ordered the church to be reconsecrated at great expense to the community. With Hubert no longer alive, Perette and Guillaume worked harder than ever to sustain themselves. Perette attempted to take over the bulk of the farming, while Guillaume performed odd jobs for any of the surrounding members of the community that would be willing to hire him. Still, their efforts could never fully make up for their needs. They sold their few remaining possessions, and both Perette and Guillaume abandoned their cottage and the province, cursing that regretful climb with each step away from what they had once called their home.