Blue Rose and Raven: Chapter Two

The Dufresne family hits financial difficulty and is forced to move to the mysterious village of Amersot.

Mother did not raise us in the Church, but I found myself given to superstition from time to time. Notably, when events happen within proximity to each other, I wonder if there is some degree of correlation or causation. I also wondered if the severity of events were connected in some strange cosmic way. A butterfly’s wingbeat wouldn’t cause a gale wind, but the theft of a single coin may cause the loss of one’s entire fortune. It’s that tenuous line between coincidence and destiny that frightened and enraptured me. Then again, being a painter, I’m beholden to magical thinking.

The news of Duchanne’s death was sudden and terrible, as deaths tended to go. But it was a solitary incident, one life lost of countless others. Terrible, but predictable. Less predictable was the loss of our family’s collective fortune not two months later. The Dufresne company’s money came from trading in the East, specifically silk from India. Mother had reached a deal with a particular manufacturer, I recall her mentioning his name being Mr. Pravee, who sold the most elaborately weaved silken robes and dresses. They were known for depicting figures from Hindu myth and were made with materials that made them glitter when light struck them. As such, they proved to be an ideal candidate for sale on the other side of the world. However, the dangers of trading with India meant that our fleet of ten ships had to sail down the southernmost tip of Africa or through several countries and their dangerous terrain. Mother opted for the sea route and all the danger had entailed. She understood the risks. A shame that it happened so suddenly.

            Mother broke the news to all of us around dinner one night. We ate in silence for a long while. There was a strong discomfort that hung over us, not helped by Duchanne’s passing just a week before. Connie and Camille were over for dinner with little Caesar, who was now approaching three years old. The married couple were sitting at the far end of the table with Caesar sitting in Camille’s lap. My new nephew was so much bigger now, a chubby little brown-haired ball with sausage-link arms and legs dressed in tiny hand-knitted pajamas. Parenthood had indeed changed my older brother and his wife. His and Camille’s eyes were baggy from sleepless nights, and Connie’s hands were even rougher and cracked from endless hours of toiling in the workshop. Camille always kept a firm grip on the little one, her large hands positively massive against the toddler’s belly. Yet Caesar was always smiling and rarely ever cried when they came to visit. They must have been doing something right.

I sat across from August, whose blonde hair had only grown brighter and whiter. He looked more the snow fox now, and the new silver suit and vest he wore while working at Mother’s office only made him appear that much more dignified. His normally stoic face was shadowed in worry. Looking back, he most knew of the troubles we’d face before us.

Mother sat the head of the table, fingers massaging her temple. “All of our ships didn’t make it to port.” She said in a downcast voice. “There was a sudden typhoon that erupted in the Indian. We suspect everything was lost with all hands.” She set down her fork. “Those ships had at about three years’ worth of supplies in them.”

“What about the savings?” Connie asked.

“We have at least three years’ worth in case of emergencies,” August added. “But those would run out quickly if we’re careless.”

“Otherwise, it’s too expensive for us to live in the city now. We’ll have to live somewhere else and find work. All of us.”

“I’ll come with you,” Connie said. “I can find work. Someone always needs a carpenter.”

“That’s not necessary, Constantine.”

“No, I insist. I’ll help you any way I can.” He hugged his wife and son. “We all will.”

Mother exhaled, then cracked a wry smile. “Very well. There’s a country house Grandfather left us. That’s where we’ll stay. In the meantime, we’ll hold an auction for our things and take whatever isn’t bought.” She straightened her posture. “I know this will be difficult for us all, but I want you to know that I don’t plan on leaving anyone in the cold. You are my family, and this will not stop me from making sure all of you are attended for.”

“You say that like this is somehow your fault, Elise,” Camille ventured, gently bouncing Caesar on her knee. “These things happen. We’ll weather this storm.”

Mother implacable expression fell for a moment. “That’s what I try to tell myself, Camille.” She quickly regained herself. “But the thought is appreciated, thank you.”

The auction came a week later. In the intervening time, we went about preparing the house for the day. In the meantime, one of Mother’s associates, a property appraiser by trade, inspected the furniture. We let the servants go, each leaving with a small bar of gold for their service. I cleaned my own room for what felt like the first time in ages, collecting my sketches and paintings so there was a semblance of order to the place. As I looked over the makeshift galleria, I wondered if I should place any of them out for the auction. I ventured the idea to August while we were organizing the living room.

“You can try. I doubt anyone will buy them.” He said curtly.

“Why not, then?” I replied.

“The kind who buy art for high sums see it the same as jewelry; A pretty thing to own, but useless otherwise,” He sighed. “It just becomes another piece of furniture to them, and soon enough they forget they even own it.”

I opened my mouth to speak, then shut it. His words stung, yet I knew to a certain extent that he was right. Duchanne had told me this several times about his line of work, that his line of work required patronage from wealthy lords and at least one cardinal. No matter how many times he said it, it still hurt to hear.

Finally, the day of the auction came. I painted a sign which stood outside our house. Around noon, a crowd of wealthy patrons crowded into our house. Ostentatious was the least of words to describe them: Massive powdered wigs on men and women alike, bright clothes with colors more suited to warning tropical predators of poison than high fashion, and many small dogs straining against their masters’ tight grips on their throats. They were other merchants, art dealers, lords, every kind of person with too much money and too much time to think about what to spend it on. The living room had been organized into a rudimentary auctioning hall with the artworks of Mother’s travels set out on three tables in front of the fireplace. And one end of the table were my best paintings. I figured I would try to see if them would be interested in my work.

When the auction had finished, the table was mostly empty. Out of the seven paintings I presented, only one was purchased. It was a practice painting of an apple. A very small victory, if even that.

The remaining artworks were small and easily portable, being little statuettes or tapestries. Someone took the peacock tapestry. A physical pain struck through me when the rolled-up cloth was removed from the table and carried away into the world. It was akin to losing family. It had hung for many years in the living room, those reclaimed shards of glass dancing with light from the fireplace, the blues and greens of the peacocks glowing faintly even in the lowest light. But I reminded myself that it would go on to someone else who would treasure it as we did. There were bound to be people to treasure such things, I hoped.

After the auction ended, we set to selling the furniture. All of it went quickly and for good reason. We could only carry what would fit in a small carriage and a few horses. As the weeks wore on and our earthly possessions gradually disappeared, I laid awake lost in thought. I hadn’t picked up a paintbrush or pencil ever since Duchanne died, and the recent stressors on our family did little to inspire me. Even sketching outside my window didn’t feel the same anymore. For four years my life had been laid out. I had a clear path and like Odysseus it was all dashed against the rocks and sunk. I was angry at it all, how unfair it all felt. I was frustrated and enraged and indignant. Yet in the weeds of these emotions, I felt something else I never anticipated: guilt. Guilt for being so selfish. I had no right to feel this way, I thought. Our lives had been so easy for so long and I was upset that it was ending. We’d be like everyone else, having to worry about normal concerns like having enough to eat or how to warm the house. And some part of me knew deep down that there was little room for artists or painters. It was that train of thought that eventually drove me to pitch my drawings and paintings into the trash, saving only a few that I knew I couldn’t part with. When we finally came to our new surroundings, I would find work in something ordinary and useful. The rest of the world was practical. Art had few places in it.

Two weeks after the auction, our necessary belongings were packed into the carriage and ready to go. The wagon itself was small and rickety, a far cry from the finely made transports we’d been accustomed to in the past. The interior was hard and wooden; no satin cushions or gilded interiors. No covering from the elements or large filigreed wheels. It was wooden, filled with hay, prickly with splinters; All function and no show. When the time came for us to leave our home, the feeling of waking up to leave for the last time was surreal. My room once filled with artwork was now empty, my desk and easels gone. The same went for the entire house, all completely barren. Exiting the house on that blue morning and staring at the façade for the last time filled me with nostalgia. But like the rest of my family, I clambered into the carriage with Camille, Caesar, and Mother. And with a crack of the whip, we left for our new home.

This country home was in a small house in Amersot, a small village located on the edge of a massive forest. It would be a week’s journey down country roads, through wide fields and dense forests. I had never been outside of the city for my entire life. I was what lay down the road and what possible dangers we’d face. A few hours into our journey at about noon, we were in the middle of a large field. Mother was fast asleep. After staring into the distance, I mentioned to Camille my fears of highwaymen or wild animals. She was cradling Caesar, who was sound asleep in her arms. “I wouldn’t worry too much about it. He may not look it, but Connie’s dab hands with a rifle,” She said, gesturing at the front of the carriage.

“Connie, a rifleman?” I said in disbelief. “I don’t believe it.”

“There’s a lot he can do. He’d just rather not say. He’s too humble for his own good.”

I rolled my eyes in agreement. “What are you going to when we get to Amersot? Will you go to work?”

“Me? Oh no, someone needs to care for Caesar. That will be my duty.” She smiled at her child. “I was always more of a homemaker. Perhaps you could teach him some painting when he’s ready?”

I rubbed the back of my head nervously. “I’m not much of a teacher.”

“Sure you can! Someone with your talents could share a few secrets,” She retorted. “I’ve seen your work. You’ve got a gift, Marius. You can still use it.”

“I don’t know. It doesn’t seem…practical.”

“Since when is giving people a bit of joy in their lives impractical?”

“You can’t use a painting for much else other than looking at it. Once you’re bored with it, you forget it even exists. It’s not sturdy like a table or chair. And if it breaks it’s not easy to fix.”

“What you think is ‘useless’ could be useful to others. One man’s trash and all that.”

“That depends on the trash,” I said glumly. “Something that was popular one day is forgotten just as quickly.”

“And sometimes broken glass makes peacock feathers,” She added. “You never know.” A stray breeze blew through the fields. Camille huddled Caesar close to her. I hugged myself into my coat. The wagon continued bouncing and rattling toward its destination.

Seven days on the road was not the greatest experience. In between riding in the back of the wagon, there was the business of checking if any of our baggage had fallen off the back. Despite us travelling in late summer, there was only one day of sun, and that was early in the journey. Twice it rained and both were very cold and soggy. Otherwise, it was cloudy with scant shafts of sunlight breaching the overcast sky. The nights were equally chilly, with us all huddled close to the fire for warmth. We didn’t speak much throughout the journey. There was a silent agreement of general misery that we endured like monks taking an oath. I tried drawing on the wood of the wagon with a spare piece of charcoal I’d found, but the constant movement made it impossible to make a straight line, so I soon abandoned the venture. When we entered the forests, the leaves were on the verge of changing. The green foliage was dusted with orange and red. In only a few months the trees would be bare and skeletal. It reminded me in a way of an older man’s beard and the way gray hairs stuck out alongside the young hairs, strands of time visible on someone’s face.

There was a noticeable, unseasonal chill the deeper we traveled into the forest. No longer did the air feel crisp. Instead, there was cold that dug into my bones with bitter fangs. The four of us huddled together as our breath became one big transparent cloud. When I gazed at the trees beyond the path, the many trunks and branches seemed to bend in unnatural ways, as if reflected through a prism. At night, the shuffling of creatures was loud and close. I thought I saw the glinting eyes of wolves waiting in the dark beyond the campfire, though nothing came for us.

Soon enough one early morning, we passed under a bent pair of trees that resembled a gate. Large creepers choked two giant shapes that were completely covered in thick branches and vines. Up ahead were houses with smoke rising from their chimneys.

“We’re here!” Connie piped.

“Thank God,” Mother breathed. She cracked her neck loudly.

“Is that home, Mama?” Caesar asked his mother.

“That’s right, Caesar. That’s our new home,” she said, hugging him tightly.

Home. The word felt so different now. We were far away from our former home now. But this was our new home, and I assured myself that it would be good despite our situation.

Our family is a fortress, I thought as we crossed the threshold into Amersot. We are stronger together.

Reviews

[SweetNutmeg]

Your writing is well paced. It has just enough description. You're not shoving it down our throats, but you're not leaving us with only vague impressions. You strike the balance well. I feel for our narrator, having to give up creating art. I'm interested to see how the family makes out as ordinary folk.

I found one tiny detail amiss. I believe a word is missing from this sentence:

"I was what lay down the road and what possible dangers we’d face."

Otherwise, grammar is perfect (no mean feat), and the writing is tight and smooth. I'm thoroughly enjoying your story.

[C.S. Williams]

Thank you so much. This was my first crack at a novel, so I hope the rest of the story holds up for you!