The Unfortunate Son (5 page)

“Are you all right, boy?” asked the baker, pointing to Luc’s bloody shirt.

Luc nodded, cleared his throat, and stood up. “I fell. It’s nothing.”

“Well, it looks like you and your dog are in a hurry, so I won’t keep you. But be careful.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Luc, and he jogged down the road, breaking into a run.

Luc and Cadeau raced to the last cottage in the village, where Luc fell to the ground and lay breathing deeply. The goose honked, and the chickens scattered. Cadeau licked the boy’s face, and Luc pushed him away. When he sat up, he saw Pons rushing toward him.

“What’s the matter, Luc?” asked the old man.

Luc huffed. “Nothing. I ran here.”

“Well, catch your breath. It’s good to see you again, Luc.”

Mattie and Beatrice hurried from the cottage.

“Look who’s here,” said Pons.

“Welcome back,” said Mattie.

“Hello, Luc,” said Beatrice. She noticed the welt on the boy’s cheek and the bloodstains on his shirt. “Did you get into a fight?” she asked, patting Cadeau.

Luc stood and brushed himself off. “Brother stuff. It’s nothing,” he said, rubbing his face.

She pointed to his shoes. He smiled and rocked back on his heels.

“How was the harvest?” she asked.

“Good,” said Luc.

“Now you’ll take the oil to market?” asked Beatrice.

“No,” said the boy. “I won’t.”

“Why?” asked Pons, putting a hand on the boy’s shoulder.

“I’m leaving home.”

“Come, Luc. Help me fold my net.”

The heavy net was draped over a large rock to dry in the afternoon sun. Taking two corners each, Pons and Luc folded the net into a neat rectangle. Beatrice watched from the doorway, until they finished. She called to Luc.

“We’re just about to eat. Join us.”

“Thanks, I’ve eaten,” said Luc, patting his stomach.

“Has Cadeau?” asked Beatrice.

Luc laughed.

“Keep us company then,” said Beatrice, shooing the chickens and the goose to the annex.

“I was hoping to see you, boy. I have a surprise,” said Mattie.

Luc pulled the benches to the table, and Beatrice ladled brown soup studded with bits of orange carrot, gray beans, and flakes of white fish into three bowls. She cut four slices of bread. Then she smiled and cut one more.

“Here, Luc, have some bread at least. And some for Cadeau. I’ve missed that dog,” said Beatrice, handing him two pieces of bread.

“And the boy?” said Pons, shaking his head. “Haven’t you missed Luc too?”

Beatrice looked up at the rafters and bit her lower lip. “Well, maybe a little.”

“But not as much as you missed Cadeau?” asked Luc.

“Not half as much,” said Beatrice.

They talked and ate and laughed. Luc began to feel better.

After the meal, Mattie wiped her mouth with her fingers. “Wonderful as always, my Beatrice. Now,” she said, rubbing her hands together. “Aren’t you curious, Luc? I said I had a gift for you.”

“A gift? You said a surprise.”

Mattie walked to the shelf that hung beneath the window. “Close your eyes, and put out your hand.”

Luc did as he was told. When he opened his eyes, he found, resting in the middle of his palm, a carved wooden ear, the mirror image of his one ear. A perfect left ear. He was speechless.

“You don’t know what to say?” Mattie chuckled.

Pons laughed. Beatrice shook her head, but she, too, was smiling.

“What do I do with it?” puzzled Luc.

“You’re no longer the boy with one ear,” said Beatrice.

“I can’t stick it on my head, can I?” asked Luc, arching his brows and scratching his neck.

“Of course not. How would you do that? Drive a wooden peg into your skull?” asked Mattie.

Pons tousled the boy’s golden hair, and added, “And I thought you were a smart boy.”

“I don’t understand,” said Luc, flipping the carving and looking at each side.

“It’s a joke. When anyone says something or when they don’t, but you can tell they’re bursting to say something—” said Mattie.

“—you pull the ear out of your sleeve, and drop it on the table,” finished Beatrice.

Luc began to laugh. “It looks just like my real ear. I wish I
could
stick it on my head.” He tucked the ear into the pouch on his belt. “Thank you,” he said, standing up.

“Where are you going?” asked Beatrice.

Luc blinked and turned to Mattie. “Thank you. For everything.”

“But where will you go?”

“Home,” he answered softly.

“I thought you said you were leaving home,” said Beatrice.

Luc nodded.

“Why?” she asked.

He did not answer, and Mattie scowled at Beatrice.

“Hush,” she said to the girl. “If Luc wants to tell us, he can.” Then Mattie smiled at Luc and leaned toward the boy. “Pons needs a helper. He meant to ask you before your last day with the pigs.”

The old man nodded.

“Wouldn’t you like that?” asked Beatrice.

“You would live here with us and learn to fish,” said Mattie.

“We could use a watchdog, too,” said Beatrice, looking at Cadeau asleep near the hearth.

“What do you think?” asked Mattie.

“I–I,” Luc stammered, and his voice thickened. “Yes,” he said hoarsely.

“On Sunday, in three days’ time, I’ll go and speak to your father,” said Pons.

“Well, now,” said Mattie, “this has turned into an extra-fine day.”

“I agree,” said Beatrice, nudging Luc. When Beatrice pushed the boy, Cadeau barked.

Luc cleared his throat and smiled. “A fine day for all of us.”

He helped Beatrice rinse the bowls. When he went to fetch more water from the well down the road, Beatrice walked with him. Cadeau trotted behind.

“I hope your father says yes,” said Beatrice. “Wouldn’t you like to live here with us?”

Luc nodded because his throat was tight again. Now and then he glanced sideways at Beatrice.

“Have you ever been out in a boat?” she asked.

Luc shook his head.

“Do you know how to swim?”

Luc nodded.

Beatrice stopped walking and put her hands on her hips. She scowled at him.

Luc halted, baffled. “What?” he croaked, his voice cracking.

“I hope you’ll talk more when you live with us.”

Luc laughed, “I will, I promise.”

“Shoes?” asked Beatrice, pointing to the boy’s feet again.

“
You
always wear them.”

“Only because Mattie insists. But Pons never does. Except to church.”

Luc nodded. Beatrice frowned at him. He smiled and put a finger to his lips. Beatrice rolled her eyes.

The sun set before Luc waved good-bye. As he headed back to the olive grove, he stopped now and then to rub Cadeau’s head. It had taken Luc less than an hour to run down to the village, but the walk home was uphill, and he didn’t run, so it took more than twice as long. The sky was dark, and the moon was high when he reached the farmhouse. Hervé was sitting on the ground outside the door with a blanket wrapped around his shoulders, scratching in the dirt with his knife. He jumped to his feet when he saw his brother.

“Where’ve you been, Luc?”

Luc didn’t answer. Instead he asked, “How is Pierre?”

“He broke a tooth, but it’s just a milk tooth. Where were you? The fishing village?”

Luc nodded.

“Father is passed out in the courtyard. Help me drag him inside,” said Hervé.

“No,” said Luc. “Why should I? Let him sleep in the dirt all night. Besides, I’m too much of a weakling to move such a big man. Even with your help, Hervé.”

AFTER CHURCH ON Sunday, Pons climbed to the olive grove. The door to the house was open, but no one was inside, and there was no sign of Luc or his brothers. Pons found Blanche in the courtyard, drawing water from the well. When he asked to see Pascal, she led him wordlessly through the back of the house to the garden, where Luc’s father was sprawled against the trunk of a tree, drinking from a wineskin. A breeze rattled the leaves, and they floated to the ground around the man. As Pons spoke about taking Luc as an apprentice and teaching him to fish, Pascal glowered. When the old man finished, the sullen man rose, mopped his red face with his sleeve, and, without a word, staggered back inside the farmhouse, banging the door behind. Pons waited
a good while for Pascal’s answer, but the door remained shut, so he returned home.

At dusk, there was a knock at the fisherman’s cottage; Beatrice opened the door and clapped her hands. Luc was on the doorstep with a wagging, whimpering Cadeau at his side.

“My father said he won’t pay Pons anything.”

“I never asked for anything,” said Pons, coming to the door.

The banked orange embers whispered and popped under the stew pot. Mattie led Luc to the table. Beatrice dished up a bowl of warm turnips and broth. She sat across from Luc and smiled as he gulped down the soup. Beatrice filled the bowl again, and Luc finished every drop. Pons cleared a corner of the cottage, where he unrolled an old straw-filled pallet; Mattie handed the boy a blanket. With a full belly and Cadeau curled against his side, Luc fell asleep easily.

When Luc opened his eyes, it was dark; the hearth lit only one corner of the dim cottage, but he could pick out the silhouettes of fish overhead. He rubbed his eyes, stretched, crossed himself, and smiled. Luc went outside with Cadeau, and when he returned he saw Mattie by the fire, filling a loaf of bread with hard yellow cheese. She tied it in a cloth bundle with four apples. Nearby, Pons baited the last of his hooks with salted fish. Each time a hook was baited, Pons spit on it. Only Beatrice was missing as Mattie handed Luc and Pons bread and mugs of linden-blossom tea.

“Why do you spit on the bait?” asked Luc.

“My father always did,” said Pons, shrugging and looking at the boy. “Well, Luc, it’s your first day as a fisherman. Are you ready?”

“But it’s still dark,” said the boy.

“Sun will be up in a few hours. After midnight the wind stops blowing, and the fish start feeding. Early morning is the best time to fish,” said Pons as he sipped his mug of tea.

“Where is Beatrice?” asked the boy.

The old man pointed to the loft. “Ah, now, she sleeps well into daylight, like a regular lady, on a bed Mattie made for her, with a feather-stuffed mattress. It’s the only part of the girl’s day that hasn’t changed since she left the house of her father.”

“Her father?”

Pons nodded. “He served Count de Muguet.”

“Who?” asked Luc, blowing to cool his tea.

Pons dunked his bread in his mug, and Luc copied him. Mattie added sticks to the fire, and the flame brightened.

“You don’t know who Count de Muguet is? He’s a powerful nobleman from over the mountains,” said Pons, shaking his head. “Owns land everywhere. The count owns this village, and his holdings in the northwest would take you more than two days to cross. Your father used to serve him. You and your parents are from up north.”

“
Me?
From the north?” asked Luc. “No, I’ve always lived in the farmhouse on the hill,” he said, pointing in the direction of the olive grove.

Pons cocked his head. “No, boy. You’re from the same place as Beatrice. Count de Muguet gave the grove to your father.”

Luc frowned. “I’ve never heard any of this. Why would a count give my father an olive grove?”

“I’ve told you all I know,” answered Pons. “Your father must have earned it. The count is anything but generous. He’s a cruel and dangerous man.”

Luc shook his head and dunked some more bread in his tea; then he frowned and asked Pons, “You said Beatrice is from there too? She’s not your family?”

“No. Mattie was her nurse. Beatrice’s father was one of the count’s knights. She’s noble born.”

“Her father is a knight?” Luc asked, tea dribbling down his chin as he chewed.

“Like I said, her father
was
a knight, but now he’s dead, and her mother might as well be. Poor girl still has nightmares about her father’s death.”

“Shhh, Pons!” said Mattie. “The less said, the better.”

“Right, Mattie. Let’s be off, Luc. First thing we need to do is teach you to row. Don’t suppose you can swim?” asked Pons.

“Enough to keep from drowning. For a while, anyway. Sometimes I swim in the river with my brothers.”

“Then you might just live long enough to grow a beard,” said Mattie, thumping the boy on his back.

“I don’t think I’ll ever grow a beard,” said Luc, grinning
and rubbing his chin. “I’m about as hairy as an eggshell. But you should see my brother. He—”

“The fish don’t care. Let’s be off,” said Pons.

Luc patted Cadeau, and held his palm over the dog’s head. “Stay, boy. Stay.”

The dog whined once and lay down on the threshold, watching as his master shouldered the net and labored behind Pons.

Countless stars pricked the early morning sky as they walked to the beach, where Pons’s boat was drawn up on the damp, pebbled shore. It was a small sailboat with a rounded hull that came to a point in the bow and in the stern. The narrow mast had a single triangular sail. The old man struggled to drag its bow into the water until Luc leaned his shoulder against the stern and pushed. Then the little boat slipped easily from the beach into the sea. When they were knee deep, Pons managed to roll himself in without swamping the craft. He was pleased by the ease and lightness with which Luc pulled himself up and over the gunwale.

“See these?” asked Pons. He picked up a pair of carved oars and began to row. “See the blade, how it cups to a ridge in the middle? Works better in the water than a flat oar. Mattie carved them, but Beatrice came up with the shape. She figures everything out. Fearless too, except about bugs. Even so, she’s a wonder in the garden, gets anything to grow. Beatrice just has to watch how to do something, and then she knows it. Anything at all, except sewing. Can’t sew worth a
lick. And what about my sister and her carvings? Those fish look real enough to salt. And your ear? What do you think?”

“The ear? I never saw anything so lifelike. Tell me more about Beatrice.”

“Not until I teach you to row and to fish. And that’s going to take some time.”

Throughout the remains of the dark and well after dawn, until the sun was high in the sky, Pons and Luc took turns rowing. Pons showed Luc how to pull, feather, and push the oars—circling and stopping and making headway. Luc caught on quickly.