This is the first chapter in a long time that made me a little teary-eyed. I love young Kire. Please review!
Also, I uploaded these out of order, which means reviews were lost. Sorry about that! I guess I will never learn how to do these uploads. Sigh!
Giver46
The perfect fantasy had come to an abrupt and almost violent end. Other than minor scratches and bruises, I had somehow managed to leave otherwise unscathed, at least physically.
I turned awkwardly away from Amelie and attempted to regroup. Normally I was at least allowed to lick my wounds in solitude, but I knew she stared at me and wished to provide comfort.
More than my own pain, I feared what would happen to her if she disobeyed her brother.
"You should leave," I said brusquely.
She remained quiet for a long moment, and though I had not heard her footsteps, I wanted to believe she had walked away from me, light and delicate as an angel leaving no trace behind. Deep inside, however, I didn't want to be alone and I secretly hoped she would disobey and stay a moment longer.
"Why?" she asked at last, her voice the perfect tone of innocence.
Because I fear your brother will hurt you. Because I fear what you will see when I turn and face you. Because I fear what I truly am.
"You are not…" Needed a moment longer, I wanted to say, but I couldn't bring myself to speak so harshly. Still more a boy than a man, I was not yet completely jaded.
"Not what?" she asked. I could hear the concern in her voice.
"Required to stay," I answered lamely.
"My father told me kindness is not a requirement, but it's still a necessity."
"Your brother feels differently," I muttered.
She leaned against the fence and briefly grasped my wrist. "He is only one person," she reminded me before she let go.
But he was one person whose ideas and fears represented a lifetime. Amelie, her mother, and even her sister had been the exception.
"Here," she said. When I met her eye, she took my hand and pried my fingers apart. "Loosen your fist," she said with a chuckle.
I immediately obeyed her request and felt her place something cool and smooth into my palm. I glanced down at an ivory hair comb with a dove carved along the spine.
"What is this?" I asked.
"A gift," she answered. "So you will always remember me."
I would never forget her, not for a lifetime. There would be a time when her memory would save me and many long years where I wished I could thank her for her kindness and acceptance, no matter how brief. I wished I had remembered her words more often; that kindness was not a requirement, yet still a necessity.
"You don't need to give me a gift," I said, embarrassed by her offer. Not even my own mother had given me a gift, not in the thirteen years I had lived beneath her house. The thought made me shudder.
"Isn't that the wonderful part about gifts?" she asked with a warm smile. "They are always given freely."
"I don't have anything to give you in return," I said, ashamed for accepting her gracious present.
Her smile brightened. "When you reach Paris and return here for Moon, you can bring me a new one," she suggested. "Something the girls in Paris would wear."
I nodded readily. "Yes," I said. "Yes, of course."
Her brother would view me differently when I returned from Paris and brought his sister a beautiful gift. They would all look at me differently when I played the newest, most popular pieces of music and when I wrote my own. I would no longer be an unwanted, discarded boy; I would be an artist and musician from Paris.
"I'll be more fashionable than Marie." She grinned back at me, her voice soft as though the words exchanged between us were a secret. She stepped closer. "We should return," she suggested. "They'll wonder where we are."
I reluctantly nodded and looked at Moon, who swished her tail and seemed indifferent to me. I gave her one last pat on the back and sighed, hoping she would be safe and well cared for in my absence.
At last I tucked the comb into my pocket and followed her out of the stable. My uncle sat alone in the yard smoking a pipe while several chickens pecked at the dirt. He nodded when he saw us but offered no words.
I looked at him and hesitated. "Is it time to leave?" I asked.
"Not quite yet," he answered. He blew a ring of smoke and sat up straighter. "You should thank Madame Batiste for her hospitality."
Before I could ask, he nodded toward the backdoor. Amelie mumbled that she had chores to finish and would return soon. I dreaded her leaving my side as I had no desire to be away from her yet—and I could see her brother sitting on a stool with his arms crossed over his wide chest.
With my heart beating wildly, I looked to my uncle for guidance.
"He will not harm you," he said without meeting my eye.
My throat continued to throb, my back sore where he had struck me. "How do you know?" I asked warily.
"His mother will not allow him to hurt you."
I wasn't sure how she could prevent him considering he seemed twice as big and ten times as strong. I feared as soon as I entered he would climb to his feet, storm toward me, and smash in my skull.
"Go on," my uncle prompted.
Without argument, I trudged through the doorway and stood silent as a mouse, waiting for her to turn and face me.
"If you knew what had happened to him, you would take pity on that boy," I overheard Madame say to him. "Your father never once raised a hand at you, but he was not so fortunate. You must remember there is always someone in the world who has suffered more than you, Jean-Marcus, and you are not to judge them based solely on what you see with your eyes."
Jean-Marcus noticed me lingering in the doorway and sat up straighter, his expression immediately settling into a scowl.
"Sneaky little son of a…"
"Enough!" Madame shouted as she turned on her heel and pointed a wooden spoon at her son.
He started to stand and I considered bolting out the door, but Madame held out her hand and I stayed, my leaden feet refusing to move.
"You will stay seated and hold your tongue," she ordered Jean-Marcus over her shoulder. She turned her attention toward me. "There is plenty of food left if you're hungry. When Jean-Marcus was your age, he was never full."
I didn't dare look at him now that his mother had compared the two of us. I wasn't sure if she meant her words as a form of flattery or insult toward him.
"I'm not hungry," I said quietly as I inched closer. "I just wanted to thank you."
She turned her head to the side and smiled. "Your company was most welcomed, my dear."
The way she addressed me and the kindness in her eyes made me step closer, almost desperate for motherly affection. I craved a moment of being accepted and cared for, of the nurturing I had been denied. She had no idea what she offered in a single moment, how much I had longed for compassion and tenderness.
"You have been very kind to me," I said, attempting to muster the courage to properly thank her for her hospitality and allowing me into her home.
She pulled off her apron and tossed it over a stool before she walked toward me with her arms out.
"You are always welcome here," she promised me as she placed her hands on my shoulders and pulled me closer.
Her affection overwhelmed me and I drew back, fearing what I had always been denied.
"Thank you," I said awkwardly as I stepped back.
She offered a soft smile, seemingly aware of my discomfort. "You have a spot of blood on your arm," she commented.
When I glanced down, there was more than just a spot. The wound left from Girl biting me had started to bleed again, saturated through my shirt.
"May I have a look?" she offered.
I nodded in agreement and stood very still as she approached me again.
"Here," she said as she rolled up my sleeve all the way to my shoulder. When she saw the wound, she furrowed her brow. "This is a bite."
"My dog," I answered. "She bit me on accident when someone hurt her."
She frowned and nodded. "This is infected. You must sit at once and I'll clean this for you."
Turning from me, she motioned to her son. "Don't just sit there gawking; fetch my basket. Now," she ordered, her tone strict and filled with irritation.
He glared at me briefly before climbing to his feet and storming from the kitchen. Madame Batiste continued to fret over my wounded arm. She held my hand loosely in hers and for a moment I imagined her as my mother, careful and attentive, so worried for my well-being.
Her son returned, left the basket on the floor, and returned to his corner of the room.
While she spoke of the weather, how lovely the evening had been, and how she was very happy I enjoyed her baking, she cleaned my injured arm with a soft, damp cloth. She said the cleaning agent was her own creation, a bit of this and that she'd learned from a local apothecary. Whatever she used was strong smelling and stung horribly, but I remained still.
"Once I have this wrapped, you must leave the bandages in place for a week. Do you understand?"
"Yes, I understand," I replied.
She studied the bruises around my neck and the scratches down my jaw and along my throat. "I apologize on my son's behalf," she said, glancing in his direction.
"He doesn't need to apologize," I said quickly, afraid her words would stoke his anger. "I'm not injured."
The sympathy in her gaze gave away her thoughts. She knew I was deeply hurt, not only on the outside but emotionally.
I swallowed hard and forced a smile before turning away.
"Wait," Jean-Marcus said sternly.
His stool scraped across the ground as he stood and I immediately turned to face him, bracing myself.
"What's in your pocket?" he questioned, eyeing me with suspicion. "Did your father teach you how to steal?"
"My father taught me nothing," I blurted out. My posture changed and I knew I winced as he advanced on me. Now that I had been repaired, he would destroy me again.
Once I dared to look at him, his cold expression had faltered. He backed down and lowered his gaze, his tightly clenched hands relaxing.
"She gave you her comb, didn't she?" he asked, his voice calmer and lower than I'd heard before.
I nodded slowly, afraid he would fight me for the small gift. I pulled the ivory comb from my pocket and held the beautifully carved piece tightly in my hand, preparing to hand the comb over without a fight.
Behind me, both Amelie and Marie whispered and from the corner of my eye I saw them trot into the kitchen. Surrounded by the Batiste family, I felt out of place, a spectacle to be viewed, accused of wrong.
"I gave it to him," Amelie blurted out as though she feared my reprimand.
Jean-Marcus shook his head. "You shouldn't."
"This belongs to me," she replied boldly. "Mine to give."
Her brother looked sadly at me and sighed before turning his attention back to his sister. "You are just like him in your charity," he said at last. His words lacked anger, and when I turned to look at Amelie, she smiled back.
Marie motioned me toward the door and I joined her and Amelie, who escorted me from the kitchen and into the yard.
"Your father gave you this," I said as I clutched the ivory comb in my right hand.
"For my birthday," Amelie answered.
I shook my head. "You cannot give me this."
"Why?" she asked.
I had no correct answer, only a feeling in my gut that she should keep this token from her father. She clearly loved and missed him; I didn't want to take part of him away from her.
"This is yours," I said lamely.
"My father believed in generosity and caring," she said. "He is not the comb. He's in the act of giving."
She proved a world more mature than I was for my age. For many years I considered her words, sometimes quite thoughtfully and other times in bitterness.
She offered a gift as means of remembering her father whereas I saw her actions as giving part of him away.
Marie cleared her throat when neither of us spoke.
"Your uncle said you needed new shirts," Marie said to me. "I've packed a few older ones for you. They've been repaired, but they should suffice until you reach Paris. I'm sure then these will seem like poor peasant rags once you settle into the city," she teased.
I blinked at her. Years came and went and my parents never allowed me more than a cellar. Two gifts in one day seemed indulgent. I had no idea what I had done to earn such kindness.
"Thank you," I said, overwhelmed by her generosity.
She smiled back and nodded, handing the garments wrapped in brown paper and tied with twine to me. "Travel safe," she said.
For a long moment I stood before them, the comb once again tucked safely into my pocket and the newly repaired shirts hugged against my chest.
"Will you write to me?" Amelie asked suddenly.
I nodded readily. I would have agreed to do anything for her, desperate for a way to reimburse her for her troubles.
She shifted her weight and pursed her lips. "I'll take very good care of Moon," she promised. "She'll be happy here."
The end of our friendship drew nearer and I hesitated, wanting to stay longer, to enjoy what others experienced on a daily basis. I dreaded turning from her and never seeing her face again, never hearing her soft voice directed at me. If I had known at the time what hardships awaited, I would have requested another hour of her company.
In honesty, I would have begged to stay.
Amelie stepped closer and clasped my hand. "Two months," she reminded me. "And then I'll have the most beautiful comb Paris has to offer."
I nodded. "I'm not certain I will find one to suit you," I said. She frowned and I feared she took my words as an insult. Briefly I grasped her fingers, then wiped my sweating palm on my pant leg. "None will ever match you," I stammered. "Your…beauty, I mean."
She blushed furiously and Marie draped her arm over her sister and grinned. "Ah, don Juan," she said with a laugh. "Off you go."
I looked at Amelie one last time, memorized a smile that would soon enough keep me alive. When I turned, I patted my trouser pocket to make certain I still had possession of the comb, a small part of her; a reminder that in a vast and cold world, there was still hope, even for a creature such as myself.