Celestin

         
         
Celestin
Scene One - Getting the Water
Celestin paused on the small porch attached to the back of the house and gazed at the yard. A thick fog clung to the forest; silvered by the light of the full moon. The peach trees standing in to short lines beside the adjacent barn were hardly visible. Beyond them the well and the tree line were mere shadows; indiscernible. The world reeked of ripe foliage and early morning moisture. A chill wind blew through the area, ruffling the few reaming leaves on the trees and swirling the mist, creating a strange light show with the moonlight.
         The young man shivered, as his gaze settled on the obscured forest. The forbidden place was threatening enough on the brightest, clearest days. This mysterious and concealing atmosphere only compounded the feeling of danger.          
         For a moment he thought of his bed. Old and worn as it was, it was scarcely comforting or warm. But it was certainly more welcoming then the world at the moment.
         However, a second shudder passed through him when he imagined his sister's reaction if they found him in bed when they woke.
         He let out an exhausted sigh and bent to pick up the two old buckets sitting beside the door. His wool shirt scrapped along the scars on his back, awakening the sensitive tissue. The urge to scratch his back against the door frame rose up like an angered snake, irritable and angry. He resisted the urge, but only just.
         "It will only make it worse. Father will be up soon, he can put the lotion on then," he told himself.
         He set off across the lawn. His coat quickly became coated in dew. Coupled with the cold fall air, he was sure he would be stone cold in no time.
         "Nothing like physical activity to combat the shivers," He murmured. "Then again it's not as if I had anything planned but physical activity."
         After collecting the water for his sister's bath he would have to collect the milk and eggs from the barn. By then his family would be waking up and he'd have to start breakfast. Then there was collecting the last of the harvest, chopping wood for the fire. After he made lunch for the girls - father and he would not participate in the midday meal because they simply couldn't afford to - he'd have to complete whatever chores he missed in the morning. As well as mucking the stalls, making general repairs to the house and barn - preparing for the onslaught of the winter - and any number of other tasks his sisters could come up with for him. Of course the offering would be put in place before the sun set. And, finally, dinner and repairing any clothing that needed treatment with the thread and needles he'd traded a bundle of wood for.
         He let out another sigh - the first of many that would surly follow throughout the day - as he arrived at the well. The old stone structure was in desperate need of repairs as well. The wooded roof and crank system were sitting in a pile behind the stone structure, having already collapsed before the family arrived a year ago. It was only a matter of time before the stone walls fell too. Perhaps this winter would see them loose from their mortar bindings. But the expense of the materials needed would be nothing short of frivolous in their current state.
         "It might just be best to take the wall down myself so the falling stones don't block the water," Celestin mumbled as he gathered the coiled rope at the base of the stone structure. "Might need to talk to farmer Faure about what even keeps a deep well from collapsing in on itself. If the surface structure is this bad, I can only imagine what the walls underground look like." The disaster that would befall the family if the well failed was unthinkable.
         For now, though, he put the problem out of his head and set about securing the handle of the first bucket. Slowly he lowered it down the center of the well. A splash finally sounded, and he settled in for the few minutes of waiting that would have to pass before the bucket sank and filled.
         A twig snapped loudly in the nearby brush. The young man spun about and studied the forest - at least what little of it he could see. A haunting call rose up from the huge trunks. The sound was so strange and otherworldly that it took him a moment to realize that it was some sort of instrument. An answering tune was sounded from the woods far from the trees beyond the barn. Fear, heavy and cold, settled in Celestin's stomach like a stone.
         Camboulan, the great nation Celestin called home, was not a normal place. The peninsula had only recently been occupied by humans. At least in the great schemed of things almost two thousand years was relatively recent. For countless ages before humans arrived, the country was habituated by fantastic creatures. Collectively, they were known as the fey. But such a broad classification hardly suited the vast differences one could find among the magical creatures.
         Celestin swallowed past lump that had formed in his throat. A bead of sweat slid past the corner of his right sapphire blue eyes. He flinched away as one of the players hit a high crescendo. Just as he was thinking of running to the house, his sisters anger be damned, the music stopped and the woods fell silent again.
         Frozen on the spot Celestin waited. When the melodies didn't begin again he let out a relieve huff, letting his eyes close and his head fall to his chest. He crossed and rubbed his goose bumped covered arms. A nervous laugh escaped after a moment. He reached up to wipe the damp skin of his forehead on his oversized, fingerless red gloves, before he opened his eyes. His breath stuttered to a halt and his eyes opened wide.
         An unbroken line of white stones ran just past the tip of his toes. The strange stones ran all along the perimeter of the property, Celestin knew. They were all about the size of his hand, round and perfectly smooth.
         As Celestin lowered his hand he saw the joint was shaking uncontrollably. Indeed, all this flesh seemed to be jumping about, as if everything inside him wanted to break free and flee on its own. This did nothing to soothe his already distressed burn scars but the itching sensation was hardly worth note at the moment. Slowly, the young man looked up.
         Throughout the music's playing, he'd believed himself to be beside the well, some ten feet behind him. To discover himself lured so close to the border, the only thing that protected him from the creatures beyond, was unsettling.
         After several moments, the young man tried to take a step back but his jelly legs failed him. Luckily, he fell back in to the yard instead of across the line where heaven only knew what was waiting for him. His pink tongue automatically darted out and wetted his dry lips. He started at the taste of salt. Where was that coming from? He wondered as he rose a long fingered hand to his face again. It took only a moment to discover the source of the taste. Tears were streaming from his eyes.
         A whimper escaped his rapidly closing throat. He screwed his eyes shut, trying to stem the flow and hold his grief and fear inside. His entire body tensed with the effort. With an explosive breath he forced himself up and back to the well. The first bucket was full and he drew it up with considerate hast. Once he had it free he sent the second down. The bucket was only half full when he pulled it back up again but he didn't have the nerve wait for it to be sent back down for the rest. The hastily untied it and made his way back to the house in unusual, jerking steps that sloshed a great deal of water out the side of the buckets. Considering how many trips he typically had to take to get enough water to the boiling pot for his sister's bath he would move more carefully and with his typical grace to preserve each drop. Now, he couldn't care.
         Once in the house he felt phenomenally better but even his phobia of fire - such as the one burning in the open stove - could not break him of his current state. The flames hissed as his shaking hands divested some of the water in their midst while pouring the buckets into the waiting pot. The sound finally woke him from his old terror and brought him into the new. His heart was pounding so frantically he thought it only a matter of time before it burst free of his chest.
         "Damned if I do, damned if I don't," he spoke in shrill breaking voice as he backed away from the stove, the half full bucket still in his hand. Halfway across the kitchen his numb fingers released the load. It fell to the floor with a loud clatter and the water spilled onto the floor. He continued until his back in the wall across the room and slid to the floor. His knees tucked in his chest and he wrapped his arms around them, hugging them tighter, closer. He screwed his eyes shut and pressed his forehead into the bony joints.
         This was the third and undoubtedly most powerful attack the fey had made in recent months. They hadn't done any damage or injury but they had many means of enticement that they had employed, trying to get him to cross the border. At least he thought it was the third, the first might have just been sheer paranoia on his part. He'd just started harvesting the crop from the small garden he kept when the strange sensation of being watched was awakened in him. After some time his instinct of flight had been, rather suddenly, activated. There was no apparent danger or cause but he still found himself running into the house seconds later, unable to come out for the rest of the afternoon. His sister had seethed and ranted but could not convince him to take to the outdoors again. They were finally forced out by their father to begin the harvest in his place. They came in a few hours later, dirty, disheveled, raging and completely undisturbed by whatever had affected him. The disaster they'd made of uprooting the few vegetables they'd been bothered to gather coupled with their lack of fear motivated him to go back outside.
         Then a few weeks after that, ten days ago, he'd been closing up the barn when a most heavenly scent overcame him. It was indescribable; as if a perfume of spring flowers, sweet deserts, warmth, safety and home had been mixed to such perfection as being discernable yet whole. The intoxicating aroma had tempted him to the edge of the barn but when he saw the border of white stones he'd spun about and quickly made his way to the house.
         And now this. A whole year of quiet and peace, what had brought on this sudden change in their wily neighbors? Celestin let out a surprised snort. As nature personified, chaotic and unpredictable, did the fey really need a reason to change their nature on a whim?
         That slight humor allowed him the clarity to take a few calming breathes. Whatever they wanted, the magic of the border had protected him. At least he hoped that's what had kept him inside instead of the tricksters toying with him; stopping the music just before he took the final step.
         He pushed the thought away. Whatever, the reason, he was safe for now, but wouldn't be if his sister woke up without a ready bath. He gathered his sense of duty which drove him to his feet and across the room. Still he couldn't help but fear. First the fire. The first bucket was sitting at the foot of the stove. Despite telling himself he had just been standing beside the flames and would be many times again this day he still crouched and sidled only as close as it took for the tips of his outstretched fingers to grab the bucket handle. He bolted out the door and paused again on the back porch.
         The oppressive morning pressed in again and a dull alarm flared.
         "At this rate," he told himself, "the fear will kill me long before the heavy workload does."
         Holding an image of his sisters close to his mind, he ventured back into the mist.
Scene Two - WAtching
Huge red eyes squinted in anger Be watched the tiny creature trapped in his claws squirm. The Ceoltoir was a strange thing indeed. Their faces were sharp and full of angles. Their necks, arms and legs were reedy, coming to sharp bends at their various joints and gangly. They all had long fingers but these were graceful and agile. They were adapted for the purpose it seemed to play their many strange instruments - as if the digits had evolved around their racial purpose instead of their racial purpose growing from their capable digits. Strangest of all were their bulbous middles. It seemed hard to believe such weak looking limbs could support the bulk but Be had learned as he popped the first player in his steel grip that these huge sternums were in fact developed to hold a rather impressive set of lungs. Perhaps this was also developed to accommodate their wind instruments. He mused as his gaze slid to the broken instrument at his talon tipped toes.
         "Please...your majesty...mercy..." the Ceoltoir's already high voice came out strained and gasping.
         That title... Be mused as a thought tickled the back of his mind, just out of reach. He knew he was deserving of such a rank; he was great, powerful and deserving of deference. But in this instance it called to mind shame in his current actions. Why should I be ashamed of killing those who fail me? He wondered.
         Just then a figure appeared from the fog. Be slit pupils were blown wide as his gaze turned to the human male, back at the well again.
         Celestin. The name he'd learned from one of the bellowing banshees living in the protected cabin with this vision slide through his large form; tingling down his spine and tail. His wings rustled nervously. Certainly, there were fey much more provocative and beautiful then this one, but something in Be called for the homely human.
         Granted, he was covered in dirt and grime as his filthy race often was. But Be could beneath to the creamy pale skin, the golden brown hair that would shine like shined copper when cleaned, and the lithe form that could be brought from its current rags and malnourishment with ease. Despite the squalor this delight was living in, his grace, civility and class shown through. And that voice. Be's tailed whipped back in forth in pleasure as he recalled the morning he'd been so graced as to hear Celestin sing. He made the angels of the Three Peaks sound like screeching, clanging metal in comparison. Best of all were his eyes. Blue as the darkening sky, they'd make the purest sapphire weep in jealousy of their color and depth.
         "Majesty...please..." the weak pleas came again.
         It was well within Be's right to kill this creature like he had the first. A bargain had been struck between them and they had failed.
         However, thoroughly enthralled in his muse, he tossed the Ceoltoir away. The sounds of it scampering away as quickly as its strange legs could carry it hardly registered to Be. In the back of his mind a voice rang out that he would soon have to come up with a fourth plan to lure his beauty across that damnable border but for now he marveled in the sheer existence of Celestin.
         Nothing more happened while Celestin collected and prepared the rest of the bath water. The small closet he'd converted into a bathing room was steaming when he ventured back outside to the barn. The horse, the cow and the handful of chickens the family owned offered their soft morning greetings as he set collecting the produce. After he had this morning's eggs and milk he led the horse and cow outside. There he tethered them to lines in front of the house, where they could munch on grass while there still was some about. Next he fed and watered the chicken's sparingly from their feed sack.
         The sun was high and bright when he exited the barn. A crisp, cloudless blue sky stretched over the browning canopy. That atmosphere was completely different now that the sun was up. What was once threatening and dire was now light and hospitable. He examined the lush grass of the backyard, littered with multi-colored leaves, and considered moving the animals to the backyard after lunch, as he made his way to the house.
         The second he opened the door Madeline snarled, "The water was freezing this morning. Are you truly so dense that you can't even manage boiling water?!"
         She was standing just inside the door, waiting for him to arrive, hands on hips, glaring with such rage that Celestin was surprised he didn't combust.
         Of the Beaumont children, Madeline was considered the simplest. Giselle was viewed as an icy beauty and Celestin...he wasn't exactly sure what everyone saw in him but numerous admirers had seen something in him. Madeline's beauty had come from the expensive clothing and jewelry and a willingness to share her allowance with anyone who would spend time with her. She wasn't ugly per say but her dull green, glaring eyes were slightly too far apart, her nose just a little too bulbous and her general appearance a little rounder then men and women preferred. Her long golden brown hair was wrapped in a towel on top of her head. The dress she was wearing had been bought on funds she'd stolen from Celestin when they first moved to the country. It had once been colorful but the pink, green and blue cloth had since been stained and faded to drearily.
         Celestin's shoulders slumped and his expression of slight pleasure and contemplation went blank. A small voice in the back of his mind whispered, Ask her when she bothered to come down. Was it while the water had a change to still be warm? Ask her if Giselle had remembered to shut the door to retain the heat. But his general passive mood and genuine regret that his sister had suffered subdued the utterance.
         "I'm sorry, Madeline," he said, casting his gaze to the ground.
         She huffed. "You should be on your knees and begging. That is the position that befits your true station."
         He wasn't about to bow to his own kin. Luckily, she turned and flounced away. "And you took too long in the barn, you loaf, I'm half starved. Begin breakfast, immediately. If you preform so abysmally tomorrow you shall be punished."
         Celestin almost snorted. Madeline's idea of punishment was neglect. She'd once been angered into treating him with silence for a week. At the end of the week she made a long speech about following her instructions to the letter and how things would only get worse if he failed again. Celestin hadn't noticed her lack of attention and had welcomed the silence on her part.
         Giselle was another matter.
         Celestin walked inside the cleared doorway and paused to return holey coat to the peg beside the door. The kitchen and adjacent dining room - on his left - was bright with sunlight; the light exposed the cluttered space. Numerous herbs and spices he'd collected over the summer were drying in the rafters. Numerous counters littered the kitchen. The cabin had once been used for hunting and counters for gutting and cleaning kills. Celestin had spent his spare time in the spring replacing the old, blood stained boards on every surface. The huge open stove stood between the kitchen and the dining room. A gargantuan oak table filled the space, along with eleven mismatched wooden chairs.
         One of which was occupied by his older sister.
         Her long golden blonde hair was tied in a fancy ornament that she had kept form their past life. It held her hair in an ornate bun with cascading tails. She was sitting in the shaded part of the room - away from the warm sunlight coming in through the large bay window in the front wall of the house - to protect her pale, silky skin. She was wearing a dress likewise appropriated from funds taken from Celestin. It wasn't fashionable but it was warm and made of comfortable material. Giselle was not a frivolous women, rather she relied on cunning to get ahead in life.
         Her crystal blue eyes followed Celestin as he scurried into the kitchen proper. She did not glare or shout but he could sense her anger as if it was a physical being in the room with them. Celestin was decorated with nicks and scars, lasting reminders of the handful of times she'd seen fit to punish. For instance, his feet were covered in fine white lines from the time she had filled his dress shoes with shards of glass. This had prevented him from being escorted to an event by a suitor they had briefly shared when he was seventeen.
         Celestin wisely busied himself with cooking to keep from cowering in a corner in fear.
         Madeline joined her sister at the table and began prattling about her latest trip to the nearby village, Magique. She often visited the town, either with money she had stored - most of which was pilfered from selling various necessities around the house or stealing from Celestin's stashes - or begging, socially, for favors and treatment.
         Giselle wasn't listening. Her gaze was intent up on the dusty table top. At one point Celestin looked up in time to see her swipe a finger along the surface and rub the reside between another finger. Celestin turned away before he saw whatever disapproving look she sent his way, but he felt her regard in a hot line along his back.
         As the last of the meal preparations was being made, Father, made his first appearance, coming from the entry to the rest of the house - across from the back door. Despite his father's constantly haggard and disappointed appearance the entire room brightened - at least for Celestin - when he walked in.
         Florence Beaumont had once been a king among the merchants of Camboulan. He'd had a regal vigor, tall and strong stature and handsome features. Now he was drawn with malnourishment and depression. His form was slumped and his step shuffling. His blonde hair was full of graying strands and his face was all wrinkles. A war between an indomitable spirit and soul crushing depression was being played out in his emerald green eyes.
         He didn't greet anyone as he came and went to his seat at the head of the table.
         Madeline, every the flatterer and attention seeker, greeted, "Good morning, Father."
         Father grunted in reply.
         A pout appeared on Madeline's face. Celestin felt uncorrectable regret when he discerned actual sorrow in her face.
         Giselle was silent, but a slight glare had formed at the arrival of their patriarch. She made it no secret that she blamed and despised their father for the loss of their fortune.
         Celestin divided the meager helping of eggs he'd prepared, half a bisque and the morning tea he'd prepared for breakfast hoping to dispel some of the tension. Madeline immediately began complaining that she didn't have nearly enough to satisfy her palate. Giselle silently studied the size of the portions on the plates, making hers were the biggest of all, by however little, before she began eating.
         As Celestin placed his father's plate and cup before him, Florence finally spoke.
         "You look tired, son," he commented. His voice was both deep but somehow seemed weak and light.
         Giselle returned the cup of watery tea she had been sipping and spoke her first words of the day. "I'm sure," her cold voice sounded, "you're mistaking fatigue for lethargy, Father."
         "I'm fine." Celestin soothed, wishing this conversation would go no further.
         Father's eyes narrowed and brightened at once. He sat straighter in his up chair as he studied his child. "They had you up early collecting water again. I've told you to cease such wasteful activity."
         "But Father," Madeline's cried. "We need the baths. This squalor does not suit ladies such as us. And Celestin is the only one strong enough those wretched buckets."
         Sharp with sudden anger, Fathers gaze cut to his second daughter. "He's also the only one who can do the yardwork as you claim. Since our lives depend on having food to eat, and not your baths, Celestin will get the rest he requires to do his job. If you two want your baths, you're going to have to collect the water yourselves. "
         "Father!" Madeline cried.
         "No arguments." He snapped.
         Celestin stepped in. "Father, I really don't mind fetching the water."
         Florence turned to his son with a noticeably softer appearance. "I said no arguing and I meant no arguing." He replied in a doting tone and smile.
         The young man smiled back as he sat in the chair to his father's right side. When he turned to his sisters he flinched. Madeline was attacking her food with fork, tooth and a frightening vigor. Giselle was again sipping her tea with a clam expression. But when he regard fell on him felt ice enter his being and shrank in his seat. There was no question who she blamed for his turn of events.
         In the year they had spent in the cabin, Celestin had discovered he was an exceptional cook, even with light resources. But every bite of that breakfast taste like ask and felt like a great stone in his gullet.
         Hours later he was out in the garden collecting the carrots. He could feel eyes on him but attributed it to the scare he'd had this morning and ignored their weight. If it was his sisters stare he couldn't do anything about it, and if it was something more sinister it could do nothing more than look. He honored the contract so they had to.
         He paused for a moment, his long fingered hands fell into his lap and he rolled his shoulders trying to ease their tension. This upset the burn scars on his back, of course, and set them about creating a most intolerable desire to be scratched. His father had deliverable a helpful layer of the lotion Celestin created himself after breakfast. If offered some relief but the old burns were just too sensitive to be wholly soothed.
         Celestin let his head fall back and closed his eyes. The sun, just reaching its zenith warmed his chilled skin. Fall had been his favorite season when they lived in the port city of Cortrat because of this very temperature duality. But that was when he had a warm hearth and comfortable library to retreat to. Now he eagerly awaited the months when spring turned to summer; when the weather was neither hot nor cold and he could participate in his outdoor activities in comfort.
         His eyes slowly opened after a moment and noticed a thin trail of smoke. His full lips pressed into a thin lined grimace. Madeline or Giselle had set a fire in the oven to keep warm again. "It's not that cold," he mumbled, half wishing they could hear him and half gladdened they had some comfort. "You will freeze us in the winter."
         Exasperated he looked away.
         The landscaped behind and on three sides of the cabin's grounds was all wooded. But the land before them was the wide, gently rolling plain of Camboulans interior. On the other side of a thin screen of trees the land was an endless sea of waving golden grass. Having lived in a port town, Celestin wasn't unaccustomed to such vastness. But the color - as the freshest mint gold piece - and the whispering rustle was beyond unique. Madeline's indulgence was to venture into the nearby town and Giselle's was ruling the cabin as if it were palace. Celestin's was dancing with the grass of the plane whenever he found seconds to spare. If there was one thing he genuinely missed form his old life, it was the music and the dancing. He was always torn, at the great balls, between watching the great movement and grace of many swirling, writhing, colorful forms and participating in the mass.
         Soon, he mused, it will be a solid, unbroken sheet of cold white and blue. The wind won't whistle then, it will howl and echo. And it will spread far beyond my sight.
         As his mind wandered farther and farther from his home, Celestin considered what state the country was in. The Beaumont fortune had been lost, in part, due to pirates of Voccawind, Camboulans warring, continental neighbor to the east. When the family abandoned Cortrat a year ago, great battles were being fought not even a thousand miles to the south, the only place where the mountains and the fairy guarded forest allowed land based battles. And though Camboulan was far from discord the disappearance of Prince Absolon Campion had caused great distress and unrest in the citizens.
         The night before his coronation, the Prince had simply vanished. The Queen, the only royal remaining, had abandoned the capital, Bellefosse, to take command of the forces at the border. It wasn't devastating but everyone felt the absence of royal blood in the Golden Palace.
         "Celestin!"
         He started and came rushing back to himself, sitting on his heels in the middle of his muddy garden on the border of the Dourdain Forest. He turned to the right and beheld Madeline leaning out the open kitchen window.
         "Quit your daydreaming!" she snapped. "You have no time to be sitting about fantasizing." She slammed the window shut so hard that he feared the glass might shatter.
         "And what worth does wondering about a lost prince hold for a peasant like me," he added to himself and turned back to the carrots.
         Sometime later he became aware of a thundering drum. He looked up, this time from the stalks of corn that dwarfed his two inch shy of six foot height. But it took some time before the horse and rider creating the cacophony appeared in the near invisible drive to the house. Celestin gaped as he rider pulled his cantering horse to a stop on the other side of the garden fence. The rider was wearing the tabard of a messenger of Cortrat, a garment that both heralded his origins and his right to neutrality in any dispute.
         "Young man," he greeted. "Does the merchant Beaumont live here?"
         "Yes, he's in the house," Celestin replied.
         The messenger nodded and spurred his mount on to the house. Concerned and tempted to follow, Celestin watched closely as the man dismounted, knocked on the front door and disappeared inside when it opened. But with the frost just around the corner, he couldn't afford to waste time chasing business that wasn't his.
         Sometime later, as Celestin was getting to the cabbages, his sisters came running out of the house with the messenger. Madeline was squealing in delight and talking unintelligibly in a high pitched voice. Giselle waited on the front porch, watching with vindicated joy as the messenger returned to his horse. He nodded to Celestin as he passed then encouraged his horse into a gallop. As quick as he came he was gone down the road.
         "Celestin!"
         He turned back to the house at Giselle's summons.
         "Saddle the horse. Father will be leaving for Cortrat within the hour." Giselle ordered as Madeline scurried back inside, complaining about the chill caused by her short excursion.
         "What?!" Celestin called back as he rushed to the garden fence. "Why?"
         She sneered. "How dare you question me?! You have no right to do so. Obey my commands at once."
         Celestin's concern for his father and this unexpected news couldn't combat Giselle's anger. Against his better judgment, he scurried to the barn to gather the tack for the horse. He brought the equipment to the gentle mare and placed it on her; but he didn't cinch the saddle all the way or place the bit in her mouth. He had to discover what was going on. Celestin abandoned his efforts in the garden and ran into the house.
         Straight ahead the wide entryway split in two. On the right was the entry to the kitchen - thru which he could see the rear door - and to the left there was the staircase that led to the upper floor. He could hear his sisters talking animatedly in the kitchen. A solid wall on the right separated the foray from the dining room. On the left, a wooden door covered in chipped white paint was standing slightly ajar.
         Celestin didn't bother knocking before entering the study his father had claimed as his room when they arrived at the cabin.
         A stranger was hurrying about the room, gathering the few possessions his father owned and stuffing them in a bag sitting on the small cot in the corner. Gone was the haggard creature Celestin had seen this morning - the same being he'd seen every morning for more than a year now. Vigor had returned to his father and he bounced around the room like an eager child.          
         "Have they told you?" he asked.          
         Celestin shook his head. "They just said you needed to the horse to go to Cortrat."
         Florence released a delighted chuckle as he gathered the old ledgers from the small, bare bookshelf. "The messenger has brought providential news. The White Spear -my largest ship - has finally made it to port. The ship was marooned by a storm - can you believe it? - on a deserted island when it first set out a year and a half ago. The captain, a righteous and honorable man, repaired the ship with all haste then carried out his mission."
         The old man stopped his pacing around the room and turned to his son. Slowly he crossed the room and gripped the young man shoulders. His eyes gleamed with hope. "Celestin, with the goods that ship could hold, the money it will bring to this family, we won't be able to go back to our old life right away but with my knowledge we soon will." He placed his hands on Celestin's shoulders. "We'll make a comeback. We can go home." As he said the last he pulled his son into his arms; hugging him tight.
         Celestin was glad his father couldn't see his face in that moment. Trepidation struck Celestin to his core. Standing at the opening of this path, he could see the glimmer of salvation in the distance. But the rest of the way was shrouded in darkness.
         After paying the crew the salary they were promised - and a reward for their ordeal - the taxation of the goods, the port fee, and travel expenses, I'm afraid father won't have nearly as much money as he believes. There's still debt's to be paid in Cortrat. They've already waited a year. They may not want to wait any longer. It might be more advantageous to just stay here. In a week or so, the captain will be able to claim the goods and the profit, according to the law.
         Celestin opened his mouth to speak his concerns when Father pulled away and he choked. The look in his eyes, the almost sheer desperation, was heartbreaking. He had to consider his sisters to, hearing such negative proclamations would do their spirits no good.
          It would be so easy for us to get lost. Celestin thought, again imagine the shadow shrouded road. To think to have our hopes rose so impossibly high only to have them, possibly, dashed in the end. Please, tell me we have the strength to endure this.
         Later, the family was gathered on the lawn. The sisters were talking ceaselessly to Father. Celestin, too preoccupied with his fears, wasn't paying attention to the words being exchanged.
         "Celestin...Celestin, my boy, you need to stop daydreaming, for a moment."
         The young man startled, looking up from his hands, wrapped tightly around the mare's reigns. "My apologies, father, did you say something?"
         Father smiled indulgently. "Your sisters were requesting gifts they'd like me to buy from them before I return. What would you like for me to get you?"
         Celestin cringed. "I don't need anything?"
         "Come, come son, there must be something you want. Something you miss from your old life."
         "Really, father, I need nothing. Just return as soon as you can, for me, please."
         "Celestin," Father replied with a stern look. "I won't have this. All the work you have done this past year...you deserve a reward."
         Giselle huffed. "Father, stop wasting your valuable time on that ungrateful brat. If he's so stubborn that he can't bother naming a simple gift for himself than he doesn't deserve anything."
         "Maybe you should get him a new broom or a bigger bucket. Something he can put to good use," Madeline added.
         Celestin wasn't sure why but his cheeks heated. He happily put great effort into caring for his family. Why should this embarrass him?
         "Girls, behave yourself." Father admonished. "I know you're overcome by our sudden good fortune, Celestin. I will think of something perfect to get you while I'm in town."
         "Father, please..." Celestin began.
         "No, arguments, I've already thought of a few places to start looking for the perfect gift. Hand me the reins."
         Reluctantly, Celestin passed the leather straps to his patron. Father swung up onto the horses back and settled in the saddle. A huge happy grin split his face. "It should only take me a week to reach Cortrat and sort this out. I shall return as quickly as the weather allows with the money."
         "Do hurry back, Father." Madeline said eagerly before dancing back to the house.
         "Remember your promises," Giselle added as she followed Madeline.
         Lastly, his gaze turned back to Celestin. "Stay safe." The young man gasped passed the sudden lump in his throat.
         Florence reached down and stroked Celestin's cheek. "You are so strong, caring and beautiful, just like your mother. I know the girls will be well cared for in your hands, but don't let them bully you."
         "I'll try, Father."
         Father laughed. "As your grandfather always said, 'do not try, do.' I'll see you soon."
         With that he turned toward the drive and set off at an easy trot. Celestin ran across the front yard, through the thin screen of trees and out the other side to the edge of the plain. Father exited the break a ways down and turned south; following the dirt trail that ran alongside the Dourdain for about a mile before turning east. He'd reach Magique long before nightfall; Pommare would follow after three days and Cortrat after another four.
         Despite the unsteady political situation in Camboulan the roads were kept safe, owned and patrolled by the kingdom, there would be no threat of theft - not that Florence's poor appearance would attract any robbers. It would be cold at night but Celestin had packed the one tent the family had from their trip out here and the warmest blanket in the house. Celestin had been happy to give his father what remained of his money - what remained of it after his sister's raids - so he could eat while on the road and find lodging if he absolutely had to.
         Then why, why was Celestin's heart squeezing with dread and his frame singing with fear?