Curse of a Winter Moon Page 2

  Our chickens, one rust-headed and one black, fluttered from atop the wooden chest at the end of Madame Troubène’s bed. Madame Troubène herself was slumped in the chair. Her basket of yarn lay at her feet. Her spindle sat idle. In greeting, she lifted her gray eyes from beneath her square white headcloth, but otherwise she held her body still before the hearth’s smouldering fire.

  “Marius!” cried my brother, who came running from the hearth. His brown hair was cut square on his forehead, his eyes as big as a deer’s. “I was looking at Turkish rugs,” he said, “and a little dog, all skinny, pushed his nose in my hand. He needed a friend. When I looked up you were gone. He was black with brown around his neck and—” Words spilled from his small round mouth faster than beans from a cloth sack.

  “Slow down,” I said.

  “Marius, where did you go? Are we going to the ruins?”

  “I spent half the morning looking for you. Let me be.”

  “Let’s go,” he pleaded and wrapped his arms around my waist. “Marius, let’s go! Maybe we’ll see that dog again! He could live with us if you asked Papa.”

  I clenched my hands at my sides. “I don’t need to care for a dog, too. And we don’t need to feed another mouth.”

  “What do you have?” he asked, eyeing my hands.

  “Nothing.”

  He pried one empty hand open, then the other, and shrugged. “Where did you go?”

  “You wandered off,” I said.

  “Was there a juggler or dance troupe? What did you see? There must have been something special, just tell me.”

  Straight and stiff, I fixed my gaze beyond him, refused to meet my brother’s eyes. I refused to be his mother. Not today. Not ever again. I pushed Jean-Pierre away, roughly enough to let him know I’d grown tired of such childishness.

  Jean-Pierre lost his balance and slid along the floor, piling up golden rushes and almost knocking over Madame Troubène’s basket. He struggled to his knees and stood, his lower lip quivering.

  I didn’t want to see him cry. “Oh,” I huffed. “Come here.”

  Jean-Pierre stepped closer. I grabbed his shoulder, spun him away from me, then lifted him under his arms. In wide circles, I swung him round and round until he began to laugh. I smiled, until the tips of his wool socks brushed Madame Troubène’s long skirts.

  “Has the devil begun to work in both of you?” She crossed herself. “And the moon is not yet full.”

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “We’re only boys.”

  “Outside with you,” she scolded, her voice raspy, her wooden knitting needles silent in her lap. Usually the room was filled with the click-clicking of her knitting, never missing a beat.

  And where was the smell of onions and beans, potage, or ragoût The black cauldron sat beside the fire; no steamy good smells drifted to my nose to make my mouth water. The board we ate on was stored upright beside Madame Troubène’s bed. It wasn’t set up on the two barrels, as usual, with three colorful tablecloths, ready for our midday meal.

  Jean-Pierre curled his arms around her neck. “We’re your favorite boys. That’s what you always say.”

  “You make my head hurt,” said Madame Troubène with a weak wave of her hand.

  She was like a grandmother to us, but even grandmothers could turn sour as old milk.

  “Don’t come back with that child until the sun sets. I’m cold and I haven’t—” She coughed and her headcloth shook around her ashen face. “I haven’t the strength for you today.”

  “You should rest,” I offered.

  She nodded and closed her eyes.

  I walked around the bench to the hearth, knelt before the dying fire, and stirred at the embers with a poker. I blew on the coals until they pulsed red, then added three logs. “There,” I said. “You’ll warm up soon.”

  From beside the door, I grabbed the leather case that held my lute and eased it over my shoulder. “We’ll return in time for dinner,” I said, hoping this reminder might inspire her to cook for us. Then I headed down the narrow, damp stairs with Jean-Pierre close at my heels.

  Once outside, I dashed through the street.

  “Wait!” Jean-Pierre called after me.

  “Catch me!” I said, and in our usual game, ran. I stayed ahead, waited for a little brown head to bob around the corner, then darted off again.

  THE RUINS

  December 20

  A week passed, and with each day that drew closer to Christmas Eve, I kept a more watchful eye on my brother.

  That afternoon, in the sunny village square, I paused as a merchant lifted blankets from cages, revealing peacocks, swans, and herons, undoubtedly en route to the chateau’s kitchens.

  “Marius!” called Jean-Pierre. “Marius, wait!”

  Again I ran, keeping ahead and glancing behind. I passed the fountain, well, and stone scaffold. To my relief, the three ropes were empty of bodies. Whenever I saw a dead body, my stomach tightened and my teeth ached. Many villagers, I knew, could walk by and not seem bothered. Not me. Death lurked always just around the corner, waiting to steal a life.

  I slowed, giving Jean-Pierre a chance to get closer. From Seigneur Beaumont’s house, its entrance door the tallest and widest in all the village, harpsichord music floated down. Pigeons fluttered up as I passed the house’s cobblestone courtyard.

  Just beyond, with the music still in my head, I nearly tripped over three dogs snarling over a bone. The smallest dog, black with brown ruff around its neck, gave up and slumped away.

  I glanced back.

  Jean-Pierre appeared around the street corner. “Marius!” He pointed to the dog, who crept low, then dashed off. “That’s him, the one I was telling you about!”

  I ignored my brother’s comments and motioned to the corner of rue de Blanche, where a small crowd gathered around Jacques, the dwarf minstrel with the high voice. Jean-Pierre followed me. As the villagers quieted, I stepped close enough to listen. Jacques, nearly swallowed by his large floppy hat, blew on his wooden recorder, bringing silence, then began.

  “Once,” Jacques began, “there was a Roman servant, named Niceros, who loved a young woman named Melissa. One evening, Niceros decided to visit Melissa, who was staying in the country with a friend. But it was a walk of several miles, and Niceros did not want to make the journey alone, especially at night, so he persuaded his friend, a stout fellow, to join him.”

  Jean-Pierre brushed against my thigh and leaned into me. I didn’t pull away. Jacques told the best tales.

  “The moon shone bright as day and Niceros’s friend star-gazed as they walked, until he fell behind. Suddenly—” Jacques paused, eyes widening, then spoke in hushed tones. The crowd didn’t stir. “Niceros turned and saw his friend’s clothes lying along the path, and then spotted his friend—naked—running into the woods. As his friend ran, Niceros saw him turn into a wolf and soon heard the wolf begin to howl.”

  A gasp rushed through the crowd.

  “Niceros drew his sword”—Jacques brandished an imaginary sword—“and armed for danger, traveled bravely on to where Melissa was staying. By the time Niceros arrived at the door, sweat streamed off his body. He struggled to catch his breath.

  “Melissa, his beloved, said, ‘You should have come sooner. A wolf attacked the farm and has destroyed the cattle. A servant hit the wolf in the neck with a pitchfork, yet the wolf escaped.’

  “As soon as Niceros heard this, he ran home. He passed the place where his friend’s clothes had been, but found nothing more than a puddle of blood. Then, when Niceros got home, he found his friend lying in bed, with the doctor dressing a large wound in his friend’s neck. After that, Niceros kept his distance from his friend, who he knew was a loup garou”

  Before the villagers began to ask Jacques questions about the story, I slipped away quickly, knowing my brother would follow.

  I ran out the open archway of the eastern gate, beyond the thick stone walls that had enclosed Venyre for hundreds of years. Shining on the bare olive g
roves and fields of grape vines, the sun rested low in the sky; we’d be back, I determined, before it set.

  Within moments, Jean-Pierre neared, face flushed, breathing hard. He held his side.

  I patted his head. “You’re fast,” I said, “for a snail.”

  Jean-Pierre tilted his head up at me. “I’m much faster than a snail.”

  “That’s true. You’re a lightning-fast snail.”

  “I hurt here,” he whined, pressing his hand against his side, “as if something has its teeth in me.”

  “It’s only a side ache,” I said. “You’ll be all right.”

  Sometimes he said the strangest things, things that made me wonder if he was truly cursed, like the man in Jacques’ story.

  “Someone shouted at me, Marius,” he said seriously. “Did you hear?”

  “No, what did they say?”

  “A man held up a cross and shouted, ‘Get away, you devil!’” Jean-Pierre scrunched up his face. “Why do people—”

  “I don’t know,” I lied. “He was probably just crazy.”

  Jean-Pierre didn’t know the truth about his real birthday, though he had begun to ask me why villagers treated him differently. Madame Troubène had started off telling him he was born on Christmas Day, not Christmas Eve, and my father had never said otherwise. But the truth couldn’t be held back from him forever.

  The dirt road led left toward Avignon and right toward Aix. I crossed the road, waved back to Celestin, keeper of the eastern gate, shadowed in the lookout tower above the wall’s crest. He was a bulky man with a knot in his back. When he had first asked where we were going, I’d replied, “to see our mother’s grave,” and so Celestin had always let us come and go. The part about visiting the grave was true, but I had also come to love visiting the ruins. It was the only place we could escape the watchful eyes of the villagers.

  Jean-Pierre began to skip ahead.

  Washed in white light, the path wound up the eastern hill. On the crest, a round lookout tower topped the fortress, built many years ago by the Romans.

  We climbed and left the barking of village dogs behind. The trail switched back, cutting between juniper and sagebrush, bare trees and bushes, some with dried red berries. I glanced back at the village; tile rooftops glinted above the walls.

  Ahead, along the roadside, lay the cemetery. Gravestones, wooden crosses, and statues surrounded the tiny stone chapel. My mother rested beneath a simple cross, buried with the blessings of the Church. Wordless, we paused, heads bowed, and made the sign of the cross. Then we continued upward.

  Up and up we climbed. Below us, the village shrank smaller and smaller. Breathing hard, we reached the plateau and ambled around the fortress, its walls standing square in some places, crumbling in others.

  Magpies lifted in a whir of black and white feathers from the top branches of a pine tree and flew off toward the sun.

  Something about the day was different than usual. The December light, perhaps, cast longer shadows. Twice, I glanced over my shoulder, thinking someone was following. I thought it was Jean-Pierre, but both times, when I turned, only bare trees stood, darkly silhouetted and twisted from wind.

  Plink. Ka-chink. Jean-Pierre stood on the edge of a massive wall, and began to walk, placing one foot in front of the other, arms outstretched. Then he planted his feet and began to throw stones into the thicket below. “Marius, watch me! I’m an acrobat!”

  “Get down from the ledge and be careful.”

  Jean-Pierre hung his head, then climbed down. He picked up another stone.

  “Watch how far I can throw!”

  I adjusted the lute on my back, eager for time alone.

  “Marius, you’re not watching,” he said, reaching to the ground. He pulled back his arm as if he were going to throw a javelin, then flung another stone. Plink.

  “Yes,” I said, turning away, “you can throw.”

  “But you didn’t even look!”

  “I have other things to do, Jean-Pierre. Other things to think about.” And with those words, I left him.

  I climbed up sandstone rock to the tower, placed my hands on the ledge of a square stone window, and looked out. The village lay below, and for that moment, I was the ruler. I was king and seigneur. Bishop and abbot. From so high, I could see the villagers’ fields; a flock of sheep on a distant slope; and the chateau to the west between towering cedar and pine, hills, and streams. To the northwest, closer yet to the ruins, sat St. Benedict’s monastery; a vast expanse of fields surrounded its enclosure of buildings, where a church loomed, a cross topping its golden spire. To the northeast, the Alps glinted hazily in the distance.

  I lowered the leather case from my back, untied the straps, and removed the lute. I sat down on a stone block, rested the pear-shaped lute on my lap, and ran my hand over the smooth pearly inlay of a single rose.

  Holding its wooden neck, I began to pluck the strings. Birdsong. That’s what my mother had called the lute’s music. Once, when I was very small, I had gone with my father to the chateau; as he repaired a cannon, I sat entranced before a huge outdoor cage of exotic birds, colored intense shades of red, purple, yellow, and blue. I smiled to discover that the sweetest music was not coming from the most colorful birds; rather, the clearest notes came from a handful of small brown birds in the cage’s corner.

  I strummed the strings of my lute until music filled the stone tower, echoing, trembling, note bouncing freely against note.

  Suddenly, on the breeze came a sharp scream—helpless and panicky.

  Jean-Pierre.

  Jumping up with my lute, I scrambled from the tower, slipped down eroded steps, and slammed my shin against a stone block.

  “Jean-Pierre?” I called.

  I looked across the plateau. Wild boar? A thief, or worse? Papa had warned us to always keep a careful watch, that groups of thieves and murderers wandered from village to village, stealing when they could. Dread filled me. A breeze iced along the edges of my neck. Twisted scrub oaks cast eerie shadows on the hilltop.

  “Jean-Pierre!” I called again, rushed to the edge of the wall, and glanced below to the place where he’d been tossing stones. My breath caught.

  On the slope, facedown beneath freshly broken branches, lay my little brother, Jean-Pierre.

  Still as death.

  WOLVES

  Jesean-Pierre!” I shouted.

  I stared at my brother, beyond my reach at the base of the wall. If only I had a rope, someone’s help. The sun was beginning to sink behind reddish clouds, throwing dark shadows over the patchwork fields below. I had to hurry.

  “Wait!” I called to my brother, who hadn’t moved or made a sound. “I’ll find some way to get to you.”

  I fled the wall’s edge and ran across the shadowy plateau. If I could not climb down to him, I would start from below and find my way back up.

  Heart pounding, I followed the dusty path that wound down, down toward the road that we’d walked together. With each stride, my lute bumped sharply against my shoulder blade.

  At the cemetery, the smell of freshly turned dirt sent a chill through me. This was, I realized, the first time I had ever been near the graves alone. Always there was Jean-Pierre. Breathing hard, I made the sign of the cross and raced on.

  At the south side of the ruins, I paused. My shirt clung to the sweat on my back. I looked up and studied my approach. A brown speckled hawk glided overhead. It circled over the decaying fortress and landed on the top of a leafless tree below the wall. I rubbed my palms down the sides of my face.

  I could see nothing of my brother. “Always, always,” I said aloud, “I’m responsible for him. If things go wrong, I’ll be the one to blame.” My brother’s accident would be placed squarely on my shoulders.

  Slowly, I made my way up, keeping an eye on the spot from where my brother had fallen. Loose rock and sand slid from beneath my leather shoes. I called as I climbed. No answer. Higher and higher I climbed, calves straining. At times I pulled myself for
ward on my hands and knees, glad there had been a winter freeze to keep snakes and scorpions below ground.

  Scrub oaks gave way to thorny bushes. I paused and ran my hand across the front of my tan jerkin, which my father had given me when I turned twelve, the day of the grape harvest festival. I didn’t want the thorns to tear the soft leather. I set down the lute, undid my rope belt and empty money purse, and pulled off my jerkin. After I found Jean-Pierre, I would come back.

  I found a heavy stick and whacked at branches to clear a path. Thorns stung through my shirt. If I were an armored knight, a true chevalier, I would charge through. No pain would be too great. I envisioned myself clad in iron and pushed ahead to the base of the fortress wall.

  In the distance, piercing the emptiness, a wolf’s cry carried on the wind. Fear traveled up my spine. Maybe it was calling to my brother. Trembling, I touched my own neck. How I wished I were wearing a cross, or a wolf’s tooth.

  I hurried.

  In the last shades of light, I came upon Jean-Pierre. He lay chest down with his head turned sideways. Blood painted the edge of his mouth. His playful voice and smile were gone. He didn’t move.

  I froze. I had no idea what to do.

  Another wolf howled. Closer. Its call—low and long—sounded like a minstrel’s saddest song. It seemed to be coming from the plateau above us, but with the wind, I couldn’t be sure. My heart pulsed faster.

  Slowly, I inched backward, not taking my eyes from my brother. My mind flooded with a memory of the time a man had fallen into the church aisle. That man. Back arched, eyes rolled white, with blood coming from his mouth, as if he had bitten his tongue. In the hush, Brother Gabriel, my uncle from St. Benedict’s, had stepped seemingly out of nowhere toward the man. His cross hung squarely over his vestment, protecting him. He had quietly asked for the help of two men, who carried the man’s rigid body away. The mass had continued, but after the man had been removed, the candles had seemed to glow more brightly. Whispers of “loup garou” hovered in the sanctuary. Maybe the devil was working in my brother in the same way. Maybe the wolves were calling to him. I couldn’t be too careful.