Earlier that evening . . .
"Clopin, tell me a story?"
"A story? But you are tired, Lucille, you wouldn't be able to stay awake for the ending."
" Please, I promise to stay awake long enough to hear the end!"
"And what kind of story would you like me to tell?"
Lucille paused.
"A story about a knight . . . and a princess!"
" Well, I think I might just have a story like that.
Once upon a time, there was a royal family who owned a large theatre in France. The King and the Queen had two children, the first was young and handsome, and was a knight in his father's guard. The second child was even younger, no more than five, but was named the prettiest princess in all of Europe. Her face was like a cherub's face and her long hair was braided with hundreds of tiny white ribbons.
Now, the King loved theatre very much. Every night, he would take his family and see a play along with the other noble families of France. The plays were magnificent! Filled with bright colours and beautiful dancers, and everyone attending had a good time.
The young princess was also greatly interested in theatre, and soon took acting lessons. She was so good that she began to act on stage with the others during rehearsals, much to her fathers delight. But you see, some of the play writers did not like the idea of the little princess acting, and formed a plot to steal the princess away.
One day, during rehearsals, one of the writers stole the princess away, and took her deep into the dark woods. But the princess was no fool. As she was taken away, she dropped one of her tiny white ribbons, forming a trail.
When the royal family had discovered the little princess's disappearance, her brother, the valiant knight, took charge of the search. He looked high and lo, near and far, but could find no trace. Finally, he stumbled across the trail of petite white ribbons, and followed them.
He found the little princess in the arms of her captor, and drawing his sword, he slew the man. Taking his sister into his arms, he gave her a big hug and said,
'I'll always be here for you, and will protect you with my life.'"
Clopin looked down at his sleeping sister, smiling, wondering if she had even caught the last part of his story. After tucking her more tightly into the old, torn blankets, he silently left the wagon.
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A bonfire raged in the center of the circle of the caravan like a small earthly sun in the now dark evening. The light from the flames climbed up the tall trees around them and sparkled on the tips of the fine fir needles. Several gypsies laughed and sang, women danced and hollered at the men to join them, and the elderly clapped a beat or threw cards at one another, gambling away their last penny. But there was only one thing that bordered on the gypsies' minds tonight. Tomorrow they would enter the city and do what they did best: Sing, dance, preform magic shows, steal and beg
Clopin sang and danced with the others, and after feeling his legs could carry him no longer, he plopped down on the ground beside two men in deep conversation. Clopin's eyes focused on a pretty young gypsy girl dancing her heart out, but his ears tuned into the murmuring the two men exchanged.
"So I hear they've finally picked a new minister, which means the last one didn't come out of his little fall to well then, eh?"
"Yeah, and a brute he is, this Frollo, no tolerance for the Romani people whatsoever. He says he's going to cleanse the streets of Paris. I feel right sorry for the people he's got locked up already. I don't think they be feeling the sunshine anytime soon."
"He's a murderer, that's what, I haven't seen one person walk out of the Palace of Justice since they've been dragged in."
"I wonder if most of them have the fortune to be dragged in there first before he finishes them."
Clopin felt a small chill run down his spine. Certainly not a pleasant thought to carry when one is about to enter the lion's den.
A small animal scuttling in the ferns behind made him turn swiftly. The men beside him continued their chat, not noting the slight disturbance. But as Clopin looked toward the noise, his eye caught something else, far in the distance.
Through the dense brush, a tiny pinpoint of light stood, flickering ominously in the darkness. Curiosity taking the best of him, Clopin rose silently and walked towards the bushes and the strange light.
"Oy, where are you headed of to?" one of the men sitting by the fire called after Clopin.
" I'll be back in a minute," Clopin replied, brushing aside branches and entering into the woods. The man turned his attention back to the fire, assuming Clopin was going to do his 'business'.
Stepping carefully through the thick woods, Clopin slowly made his way towards the strange light, using the light from the great fire behind him as a torch to help him see and avoid low hanging branches, gnarled tree roots and old, white stumps in his way.
The journey took only about ten minutes, and as he neared the light he crouched low and peered out from behind the bushes. Creeping closer, he finally had a clearer view of the spectacle before him.
The light had come from a smoldering fire, the glowing red coals breathed deeply as a breeze swept by. Minute flecks of ash and what looked like paper floated lazily in the thermals above and fell gently around the scorched stones that encased the embers.
Around the fire pit was a radius of crushed vegetation and footprints. But these were not vagabond footprints, for they were large and heavy, mingled with the prints of iron clad hooves. Some of the trees' branches had been hacked off roughly and the area smelled of sweat and dung. It was a soldiers' camp, and they hadn't departed the area too long ago. Clopin had a bad gut feeling that he shouldn't be there.
A high pitched scream echoed through the night, making Clopin jump. He relaxed after a second, it was normal to hear screams during a caravan party.
Another scream, and another. The screams soon blended together. He could hear cries and shouts from the men. Clopin's heart skipped a beat. Something was wrong. Very wrong.
He turned towards the direction of the camp, seeing the light from the bonfire in the distance. He tried to run as quickly as he could back to the camp, but the smoldering fire behind him illuminated the path poorly. He stumbled through branches and tripped over unearthed roots. Yet he raced on, the sound of thunder mixing with his racing heart. Thunder? The night was so clear though.
Sharp thorns and twigs lashed him as he stumbled once more. It was so dark, Clopin was taking too long to get back. He felt so powerless as the screams and thunder got louder. He could hear a child cry, then the cry was abruptly silenced. What on earth was happening?
The last shouts and cries faded, and the sound of thunder subsided. Clopin strained to hear a sound, any sound at all, but the camp was silent and the fire was extinguished. The acrid smell of burnt hair filled the air.
Finally, pulling himself through the last thickets and bushes, he entered into the clearing and froze.
Shreds of cloth were strewn everywhere. Colourful wagons were destroyed or burning. The ground was almost soaked with dark, crimson blood. Boxes and crates lay smashed and the earth was trampled by heavy feet. Tents ripped, banners and flags torn, and a child's small toy lay broken, drops of blood staining the wooden surface. In the bonfires place was a pile of smoking, lifeless bodies.
Clopin's knees grew suddenly weak, and he clutched onto the side of a destroyed stall to hold him up.
No, he thought unable to tear his eyes away from the familiar forms of his fellow Gypsies, this couldn't be happening. This isn't happening. It's all a dream. I fell asleep. I hit my head. This is all some freakish nightmare . . . father is with his friends, and mother is still washing. Lucille is still dreaming in her bed . . .
Lucille . . .
Gathering his strength, he tore his eyes away from the horrific sight, and dashed towards
his caravan. As it came into view, he felt a slight relief. The wagon was still in relatively good shape, other than a few broken boards. He clung to the hope he felt, the hope that Lucille was still safe in her bed, sleeping, dreaming.
He threw open the door, but as the door opened, all hope was sucked out by a cold gust.
Lucille lay still, eyes closed, brown skin now deathly pale. The covers around her torso were soaked in her blood. She didn't move. She didn't breath.
Clopin stood in utter shock. As if his mind had left him, he quietly walked back outside and shut the door. His knees finally gave way, and he collapsed onto the blood soaked ground. He started to retch, hot tears stinging at the corner of his eyes. His throat felt tight and constricted, and he took deep, shaky breaths. He closed his eyes tightly, willing himself to wake up, but when he opened his eyes again, he still faced the cruel reality, the sight of chaos, the smell of burning flesh and the metallic tang blood.
Clopin had never felt so empty or so numb in his life. He felt as if his mind was leaving him . . . He was . . . Smiling?
His head jerked up to the sound of quite mumbling and a dull pounding. Maybe he was going crazy.
Grasping at the side of the wagon, he pulled himself up, a mad grin plastered across his face. Slowly, he forced his legs to move forward, someone, someone was still alive!
Turning around the corner, he caught sight of four soldiers clad in heavy black armour, thick broadswords hung from their hips, glinting fiercely in the coals' light. The first was nailing a post with a parchment attached to it into the ground. The second held the post steady and the third and fourth held torches.
Sanity and adrenaline hit Clopin at the same time. He had to get away. If he was caught now, he'd end up like the rest, smoldering in a pit.
Clopin began to move backwards as quietly as he could. On the third step, though, he stepped on something soft, and the slight sound of tiny bells pierced the night. The soldiers stopped their work and turned swiftly.
" We missed one." Said one soldier, unsheathing his sword.
" Don't let him get away!" Cried the other, wielding his hammer as a weapon.
Clopin didn't dare look back as he ran. The sound of boots thumping down on the soft earth was confirmation the soldiers were pursuing him. He veered quickly to the left, crashing through the forest growth, not knowing where exactly he was going. The soldiers still followed, though the dense brush and heavy armour hindered them.
Clopin dashed behind a tree, but began to run again when he heard the soft thunk of an arrow as it sank into the trunk near his head. He heard the soldiers shout,
"Get back here!"
" Follow the Gypsy rat!'
Glancing quickly behind him, Clopin saw torch light bobbing through the forest. He was losing them. Making a quick beeline through a few more patches of evergreens, he stopped and listened, hand covering his mouth to muffle his heavy breathing.
Thunk, thunk, thunk, thunk.
Three arrows buried themselves into the tree beside him, and one lodged into his right shoulder. Pain shot through his body as he grunted and dropped to the forest floor.
"I've got him!" He heard one shout. The other whooped and hollered like a pack of hound dogs. Clopin fought to stay conscious, he couldn't give up now . . . he wouldn't.
Getting onto his hands and knee's, he broke the shaft, the arrow head still embedded in his shoulder, and threw it in the opposite direction. A fresh wave of pain ran through him. He began to crawl slowly backwards into the brush, inch by inch, trying not to break any branches or leave a trail of blood.
He had made his way back several hundred meters by the time the four soldiers had reached the spot were they had 'felled' him. He heard angry shouts and watched the torches swing this way and that.
Then one called, " I found a broken arrow shaft in the brambles over here!"
Relieved, Clopin watched as the torches moved in the opposite direction. He continued to move backwards though, determined to get as far away as possible. After another few minutes, he crawled into a clearing.
The pale crescent moon shone down, illuminating the ground in a pale, ghostly white light. Fragments of walls sat crumbling here and there, the ruins of an old house or mill. Some of the walls still had arches for windows, and small saplings and weeds grew from the center of the destroyed infrastructure. It was serene, peaceful, quiet. All that could be heard was the soft hoot of an owl far away.
Leaning again one of the walls, he slid down into the lush night grass, welcoming the stones cool touch against his wounded shoulder. He breathed steadily, looking up into the cosmos.
Thousand of stars peeked between tree leaves as they journeyed across the sky. He had once heard a story from an elder about stars. When people die, they are taken into the heavens and turned into stars. The old were larger stars, shining brightly, a guiding light for travelers, while the young were turned into smaller stars that formed pictures that entertained earth bound children.
He searched the stars for his family, but there were so many . . . he couldn't find them.
Clopin began to trace the small flecks of light. He found Sagittarius, and puzzled at it. He could never understood why people called it the Archer, in his eyes, it looked more like a ribbon . . .
He stopped his thoughts suddenly. Yes, a ribbon. A ribbon that belonged to a princess, a princess who had a knightly brother, a brother who had sworn to protect her. But in the end, the knight broke his promise, the evil play writer had succeeded in stealing the princess away from him, and the family theatre had burned to the ground, taking all the noblemen with it.
Some knight in shining armour he was.
Clopin sighed and learned more heavily on the wall, his right arm felt strangely numb. He could feel the tip of his nose growing colder. His tired eyes began to close as he just sat, listening to the night, and soon after he heard no more.
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Marie was an old woman, her white feathery hair poofed out from underneath her shawl, her body small and wide, and her skin was like that of a withered apple. He back was so bent and her so knees knobby that it was required of her to carry a cane wherever she went, She lived in a small house with a tall chimney and a garden on the left side. A saintly woman, she was born and raised into the house of God.
Early every morning she would rise, eat a small meal of bread and butter, then head outside for her morning prayers. Always bolting up the isolated house before she left, Marie would take her makeshift cane and walk a path down to the ruins of Monsieur Bulbon's mill.
Though she had not known Monsieur Bulbon, she knew the sad story of the mill closing due to lack of prophet. After almost one hundred years and several storms, the old mill was no more than a few walls and a pile of rubble.
Marie, however, loved the mill. She would spend hours praying the rosary inside it. She had always felt a stronger connection to nature and God while in the scenic ruins, and had even spent time growing and maintaining a small garden of wildflowers.
Upon reaching the ruins, her thin shoes and skirt hem dampened by the morning dew, she immediately looked to the flowers, which were beginning to unfold, to see that they had survived the cold night. However, upon inspection of her garden, she found a wildflower that had not been there the morning before . . .
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"Sir, we've returned," a soldier announced as his three companions entered the great marble hallways of the Palace of Justice. They looked exhausted, grim smeared their faces and twigs stuck out from the plates of their armour.
The four soldiers knelt before a great black throne tipped with gothic spires. The man who sat there, though, was much darker than the throne. He was a man no more than five and twenty, though his hair had already grayed and his hollow face was adorned with high cheekbones. He was dressed in black minister's robes and a hat with a red trail hanging loosely down his back. This man was the newly appointed Minister of Justice, Judge Claude Frollo.
"Report the details," Frollo drawled, leaning forward in his seat, showing a rare moment of interest.
"The camp was obliterated and one man taken prisoner as requested, but . . ."
"But what?" Frollo asked, his face darkening dangerously.
"One Gypsy seems to have escaped. My men and I followed him into the woods, and he was shot down. We were not able to find a body. I am unsure whether he is dead or alive."
"He is of little concern then," Frollo sighed, sitting back into his throne. "It won't matter anyways, seeing as Gypsies will one day be no more than a fairytale." A gentle smirk stretch across his thin, pale lips as he pondered the idea. "And the tales shall tell of the Holy Man who sent those unholy demons back to hell."
To be continued,
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Authors Note: Well, A few people have taken some interest in this story, which is good. Either way, I will continue with it. I'd also like to apologies for it's fast pace, I know that peeves some people.
So, the ruins are based on the ruins of an old mill on the Ignatius Jesuit Center in Guelph, Ontario, Canada. This is where I have been taking classes for the past semester. It's a program where you learn out in nature, and we do a lot of farming, canoeing, skiing, camping etc. I really do love the course, and it's going to be hard to reintegrate into normal school.
Anyway, about the ruins. It was a mill that was built in the 1800's. Now, 200 years later, it's a few walls and stones. Some of the walls have brilliant arches where there were once windows. The original silo and old grinding stone still remain The ruins have no roof left, and in the center cedar trees are growing. It's truly awesome, seeing how nature is taking back the area that was once field and stone. I was really inspired by these, and was planning to include a ruin scene in the story because of them way back when this story first came to mind.
In the class we get solo time, which is usually 1- 2 hours of free time exploring the property and reflecting. I've always felt a very powerful presence of nature/God while siting amoung the stone arches. It really is a wonderful place.
Enough talking now. Stay tuned.