Blue Rose and Raven: Chapter Five

The family's struggles continue: Mother leaves on an important mission and everyone tries to deal with her absence, meanwhile Marius makes a small friend and is reminded of his desires.

Over the next few months, we worked to settle into a semblance of routine. It was hard to tell the passage of time what with the bare trees and ever-present cold. Days passed on and on as we tried our best to make do. Connie began taking on more and more jobs working, his superiors promising additional pay for every job he finished. Of course, it was whatever money Benoit’s collectors hadn’t already taken from the head carpenter. Connie became used to coming home with a light sack of coin even if he’d finished at least three pieces of furniture that day.

            Mother and August were similarly struck with bad luck. Lacking the money to set up an office, Mother instead alternated between working as a maid by day and writing countless letters by night. August found a job as an accountant working for Benoit. My brother was always a stoic fellow but working at that office seemed to drain color from his already pale face. He revealed over several dinners that Benoit had a habit of critically underpaying his employees. Alexandre enjoyed throwing extravagant parties for his friends, fellow landowners and lords and sundry wealthy individuals. The employees on the other hand were not invited or given anything resembling a commendation for work well performed. August had always had a prodigious memory and remembering vast amounts of information served him well in accounting with the family’s business. This job was often too easy for him considering the amount he was paid. He wasn’t one to complain much, but from the way he would toss and turn at night I assume that it still bothered him.

            Camille found some work helping the local baker dressing and preparing orders. She had to take Caesar with her most days. The days when she couldn’t, M. DeRose watching the tot. The old woman was overjoyed to have a tiny thing to look after. The DeRose’s dog, ever patient, let my cousin pull on the loose skin of her face and ears to his little heart’s content. Elaine began taking a shine to Caesar as well. She too worked at the bakery, mainly serving as a delivery girl to the many denizens of the village. She helped Camille in learning the ways of the shop when not tending to her own duties.

            In between helping Camille with Caesar and keeping the house tidy, I helped Connie install new windows and build the leftover furniture Connie’s employer allowed us to take. After one month, we had an actual table and chairs in the kitchen. We even had a special chair for Caesar where he could sit without laying on Camille’s or Connie’s lap. We didn’t have the money to fix the roof or the floors, so those would have to wait. In the meantime, I picked up small errands where I could. Even if it was for a few coins, I was happy to do it. Every small amount counted towards keeping us from starving and freezing to death. No matter the aged food or cold nights or sharing our house with vermin every day.

Once I woke in the night to see a rat sitting like a tiny brown lump in the corner of the room, tiny naked hands clutching a piece of cheese. Its dark eyes shined with curiosity as it greedily nibbled its food. The first time I saw it, I screamed and woke up August. I stabbed with my finger at where the rat had been, but it had disappeared. August grumbled and told me to go back to sleep, which I tried. Sure enough, the rat came back and sat in the corner. I stayed up the entire night staring at the thing. I’d never seen so close before. I assumed they were predatory, filthy creatures who chewed at your feet with those monstrous buck teeth and stole food. I didn’t close my eyes for fear of it pouncing on me. When I did fall asleep and reopened my eyes, the rat was still sitting in the corner staring at me. This happened for a few nights more until my fear turned to curiosity. It hadn’t tried to kill me. It was, after all, just a rat no bigger than my hand. So, I decided to try something. I took a small crumb of cheese or bread to bed for several nights. When the rat appeared, I presented the food. The rat scurried to me and took the crumb, devouring it instantly. As our exchange continued, it dawned on me that the thing was incredibly thin. Its tiny ribs were visible through its furry body, and it moved slowly as if constantly exhausted. I kept feeding it night after night, and every time it appeared at the appointed time of night like a faithful bar patron. But I’ll never forget one night in particular: It was after a draining day in which I helped the local mason haul a load of bricks to construct a wall. My hands were dirty and red, and my bones ached. I forgot to take a crumb to bed as I was in no place to do anything except sleep. I collapsed into my makeshift cot and fell fast asleep. A small tingling on my hand surprised me, and I woke to feel a feeling like soft fur against the back of my hand. The rat was fast asleep on my hand. Its tiny breaths blew gently on my cheek. I smiled, utterly disarmed by the situation. His belly was considerably larger, a benefit of my offerings to him. I gently rubbed a finger against his head, careful not to wake him. The rat shifted in his sleep, peacefully dreaming. For subsequent nights after, the little thing slept by me regardless of what offerings I brought. It soon dawned on me that I’d made a friend of the rodent and that he needed a name. I decided to name him Doux, for his soft fur.

These were small comforts, indeed. The passage of the following months brought the change of the seasons. It must have been the strange properties of this place or our lives growing routine, but we skipped over fall and barreled straight into winter. True to Elaine’s warnings, the chill was grim and biting. As the first snow began to fall, my walks home became nearly unbearable in my worn boots. My toes felt as if beads of ice were wedged between, my fingertips fit to fall off from frostbite. When the wind howled, it joined the sounds of the wildlife in the night. I worried for my brothers and Mother’s journeys home from work. The cold seemed fit to freeze anyone out there solid. The cycle of the seasons reminded me of the Greeks’ explanation for the phenomenon: the story of Persephone, Goddess of Spring’s kidnapping to the Underworld and her mother Demeter’s despair plunging the world into the cold of winter. Winter to me carried a silent serenity, but also a deep melancholy. It was as if the world stopped during these months, frozen under ice and snow while the insects and flowers hid away to wait for warmth to come again. Likewise, this place was gripped with a strange despair that I couldn’t quite place. It was something I felt deep within. There was no beauty here. No one had time for it. Everyone was too busy trying to survive.

One night in late November, Mother came home from her maid duties. We all rushed to greet her with hugs and kisses. Even through her gloves, her hands were cold and stiff. And she brought a hoarse cough. “It’s nothing,” she said in between hacks. “I have something to tell you all.”

We all sat at the table with our dinner of vegetable stew. Meat was far too expensive, so Camille made do with what vegetables we could afford. Carrots, mushrooms, lettuce, radishes; all of it went into the pot. Caesar didn’t like it at first and thrashed about like any petulant child when we tried to feed him, but he learned to like it like all of us.

“What’s the news, then?” Connie demanded.

“Tell us, Elise!” Camille added.

Mother cleared her throat. “One of our ships managed to survive the typhoon. It found refuge in east Africa. They’ve been making their way around the southern tip of the continent and should be at the coast by the end of the month.”

I could hardly believe it. “That’s�"that’s amazing, Mother!” I exclaimed.

“Once we’ve got that squared away, we’ll be able to get some additional money coming in and hopefully get out of this house,” Mother said. “But that means a week to the coast and a week home.” She turned sharply to Connie. “I expect you to keep things in order in my absence.”

“Of course.” Connie said with a smile. “I think I can handle my baby brothers.” August gently batted him.

            “I’ll make sure things don’t get too out of hand,” Camille added wryly. “Considering the balance of power is skewed to the men now.”

            Mother laughed. “There’s no question about that, Camille.” She directed her attention to all of us. ”Since I’ll be at the coast, I wish to ask for any requests.”

            “Mother, that’s not necessary. You don’t need to�"” I began.

            “You are my family. It’s the least I can do.” Mother rebuked.

            “We can indulge ourselves a little, Marius.” Connie said, rubbing my shoulder assuredly. “Well, I have been needing a new pair of boots.”

            “New knives would be appreciated,” Camille mentioned. “And a new coat for Caesar as well.” She turned to Caesar. “Would you like anything, little one?” She asked sweetly.

            Caesar stopped playing with his spoon at the question. His little face scrunched up, deep in thought. “A new hobby horse!” He finally said triumphantly.

            “What about you, Marius? Is there anything you want?”

            It was a simple question. It should’ve been a simple question. When faced with this simple request, it reawakened in me something I had buried the day my teacher’s death was told to me. The answer was poised at the tip of my tongue; pirouetting on the edge, waiting to jump:

            I want to paint again.

            Say it. I want to paint again.

            It dawned on me that it had been nearly a year since I had painted anything. I remembered my decision to forget about my desires since my teacher’s death and our troubles. Since we’d hit these difficult times, I’d scarcely thought of anything besides tasks of the day or whether we had enough to eat. My thoughts were only for my family, as I felt they should have been. If I felt anything else, then that must’ve been selfish. My desire to be a painter would not serve us in our present state. Everything in me said my desires shouldn’t matter. But something stronger told me different.

            “A simple paint set, Mother. The least expensive you can find.” I finally answered. “I would like to paint again.”

            Mother’s smile was warm. “I’ll see what I can find.” She kissed me on the head. I felt weight lift from my shoulders.

            The next morning, Mother left on horseback. We all took turns embracing her. Caesar in particular was very upset that his Grandma was leaving. He bawled for a while before we finally calmed him, the poor thing. I was the last to see Mother off, hugging her tightly until she willingly broke the embrace. “Don’t worry. I’ll come home, She told me. “And things will finally get better around here.”

           

            Two and a half weeks later, the first heavy snows covered in Amersot in a thick blanket of white. Before then, the town and surrounding forests were merely dusted in snow. Now the stuff covered every spot of ground and roof not trod by feet. The wind seemed to pick up as well, becoming louder and colder every night. On especially cold nights, we kept the fire burning all night and spent time checking it to ensure it didn’t blaze out of control. Even Doux curled up inside my blanket, his little body snuggled close to me.

             By mid-December, I’d gotten a semi-permanent job cleaning the bakery. Elaine saw to that along with some goodwill I had incurred with the locals for my deeds. The job also served as a reprieve from the bitter cold, the warmth and smells of the bakery keeping the malcontent weather at bay. The owner was a grumpy man whose temper flared when things were not exactly in their place, and one of his peeves was an unclean shop. “No snow on the floor! No straw either!” He’d shout, massive hands shaking in impotent rage. “We keep things clean for our patrons at all times!”

            “Yes sir, right away sir!” I automatically responded every time. My sweeping skills had improved in my time in Amersot. Elaine dared not interfere, merely watching with concern.

            Three weeks after Mother had left, Elaine approached me one day while we prepared to close. I was eating a small portion of leftover pastry on a bench. Elaine sat down next to me, brow slick with sweat. “Any word about your mother?”

            I shook my head. “I wonder if she’s ever coming back.” I turned to face her.

“Don’t lose hope,” she said, large green eyes full of concern. “I know it must be difficult for you. But Grandma told me every unknown is another possibility. The hardest part is waiting to know.” She gently touched her small hand on mine. It was warm. “The DeRoses know plenty about waiting.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

            Elaine’s eyes turned wistful. “It’s an old story Grandma told me. She told me when everyone who lived in the castle in the woods always knew where it was from a bell at its highest tower. You could be on the other side of the world but if that bell rang, you’d hear it and find your way back. That bell hasn’t rung since Grandma was a child.” Her eyes fell for a moment, then met mine again. “But she hopes that it’ll ring again, someday.” She attempted a smile.

            “To be honest, Elaine, I don’t think fairy tales are going to help right now,” I said dismissively. “I can’t just wish for Mother to be back, nor can I just wait for a magic bell to help us brave this winter.” Elaine’s face twisted in frustration. My rebuttal had angered her, and upon realizing this regret made my stomach fall. “I’m�"I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be so rude.”

            Elaine regained herself. “No, it’s alright.” She gave my hand a firm pat, then stood up. “It’s just that, well, sometimes all you have is hope. I know it sounds trite, but it’s the truth.”

 

            The winter dragged on. Our cottage was beginning to become unbearably cold at all hours of the day. Like the faster arrival of nightfall and the howling animals in the dark, the weather was inexplicable. Winters at our old home were chilly, but never to this degree. The cold was malignant, bitter, parasitic. It hated all it touched, so it burrowed deep into the soul and took up residence. If there was a curse on this place, I couldn’t imagine what could’ve happened to deserve such awful fortune. What was done to deserve such misery?

            Four weeks had passed, and no sign of Mother. We all tried to carry on with our lives for what that was worth. But cracks began to show even when my family tried to hide them. Connie came home later and later, utterly stone-faced despite his clothes being covered head to toe in thick frost and snow. When he held Caesar, Connie no longer resembled a proud father beaming with hope. The warmth in his smile faded, replaced with a sad glazed look in his eyes. I passed by his room and overheard several heated arguments with Camille that suddenly went silent before fading into silent weeping. Sometimes there was one voice crying. Sometimes there were two.

            August became harder to read by the day. Out of all our present jobs, his was arguably the most lucrative next to Connie’s, but it still was not enough to rescue us from poverty. Before, he would regularly tell us about the unpleasantness of working under Benoit. But after a month, he stopped speaking about work altogether. A question about his day prompted a single response: “Passable.” When I asked him why, he responded, “What else is there to tell? There’s nothing I can do about it now.

            It’s hard to hide one’s emotions when you sleep in the same room night after night, however, and I noticed how much my brother was troubled by how he would lie awake at night. While I pretended to sleep with Doux in my hand, August stared at the ceiling. Knowing that at least one of my brothers did this, I wondered if this was a common quality the Dufresnes shared. I’d noticed him doing it more in the past few months once I’d successfully tamed my rat friend. I’d accepted that we were all struggling inside but being this close to my brother made it hard to ignore. Even August’s characteristic stoicism was faltering under our circumstances.

            “What’s bothering you, August?” I finally asked one cold night to the dark.

            For a while, I heard only the wind rattling the old wood of the house and the animals howling in the woods. I realized I was tense as if waiting for an angry response. I should’ve known better, but August was never one for expressing his feelings as openly as me or Connie.

            Finally, he sighed deeply, as if he’d been waiting to exhale for ages. “You wouldn’t understand.” He grumbled.

            “I can try,” I replied. “And I can keep a secret if you need me to.”

            “God, you’re a pest,” He huffed. “I told you, there’s nothing else to tell. What else can I do? We barely have enough to eat month to month. Mother’s missing, possibly dead. We ought to just shut up and get on with our lives.” He turned to his side, back facing me.

            “We’re all feeling this hardship, August. You don’t need to shoulder this alone.”

            “It’s easy for you to say. You’re the youngest. Mother made sure you didn’t have to do anything. All you needed to do was paint while I was supposed to inherit the business and Connie was a carpenter.”

            “There’s nothing I want more than to paint again. But I decided helping the family was more important.” I left out the shock of losing my teacher and its proximity to our misfortune for my own sake. “None of this is ideal for us.”

            “It’s not fair, the lot of it.” I heard him shift in bed. “Benoit doesn’t deserve the work I or all of us do. He doesn’t deserve him.”

            My attention piqued. “Him?”

            August sighed again as if to gather his strength. “Benoit’s oldest son, Markus. I�"I think I’m in love with him.” He admitted in a small voice.

            This was monumental: Augustus Dufresne, the silent and stone-faced protégé and heir to the Dufresne trading company, in love. Not that I didn’t expect it, but August was never one for romantic gestures or endeavors. And now it made sense why he never paid all the girls that followed him any mind. “You’re in love.” I said aloud, as if to declare it definitively to myself.

            “And he’s not like his father or his brother. He’s kind and caring and gentle,” August said wistfully. “How such a terrible man created a beautiful soul like his, I will never know. I put up with that terrible job so I can speak to Markus even for a moment.” August turned to face me. “Do you understand now?”

            My thoughts drifted to when Connie asked me for counsel at the tender age of thirteen. “Somewhat.” I said, smirking to myself.

            “I just�"I wish I could tell him how I feel, and we could leave this place. I hate this place, Marius. I hate it so much.” He turned onto his back again. “And it’s all so much harder without Mother.”

            “I know.” I said quietly. “I know.”

 

            The end of December approached and brought with it more snow and ice and misery. But this was alleviated, somewhat, with its cousin holiday Noel. Despite the drab setting and gloomy weather, the villagers of Amersot seemed to have the holiday spirit and in the ensuing weeks bright green wreaths dotted with red bows and bright ornaments hung from doors and windows. The golden candlelight in the windows now twinkled with little trinkets and baubles visible through the glass. I saw some villagers dragging little pine trees through the snow. M. DeRose’s odd pastries even tasted sweeter and brighter, as if to combat the bitter cold.

            Celebrating the season at home in the past included all the standard decoration and gift-giving, but the biggest tradition we held in our house was the importance of gifts from the heart. From what I recalled, it usually entailed us making little art projects for each other: Connie with his wood carvings, August who reluctantly made crude clay sculptures, and I made little paintings. Then there was the generous bonus we gave the servants and caroling and feasts with our neighborhood friends. With the addition of massive wealth, we could afford to do much more than our current means. But Mother wanted us to never lose sight of what really mattered during the season: the spirit of giving and companionship. Indeed, the feeling was all we had. Our difficulties were persistent and unending, moreso with Mother being gone for so long. As the days wore on and we worked hard to support each other, even the feeling of Joyeux Noel seemed as fragile and spare as our surroundings.

A few days before Noel while trudging through the snow, I couldn’t stop thinking of what I should give my family. We couldn’t afford gifts, so all we had was to make something for each other. Then my thoughts turned to the inevitable. The one thing that I’d given up nearly seven months ago. But should I try it again? I thought, hugging myself against the wind. What do I even have to draw with? There was charcoal from the fireplace. I could make a crayon out of that. Yes, that worked. We had spare paper around. I could sketch something for everyone, perhaps little portraits. They would be small, and easy to make. It would be something.

So I fetched small scraps of paper we used for wrapping meat and a few long sticks of burnt wood that I then sharpened with a knife into pointed pencil shapes. And when everyone was asleep, I began to sketch. I lacked a model in view, so I tried to recall something about each member of my family: Connie’s mane of hair; Caesar’s chubby cheeks; Camille’s soft eyes; Mother’s sharp gaze; August’s pursed lips. These elements were so clear to me and served as an anchor for each sketch. First beginning as loose preliminary sketches, I then started on the final drawing. I carefully figured out the proportions of each face, paying attention to the position of the eyes inside the head. The eyes were the hardest to get right, a fact any artist can agree with. Next came lighting. I decided on a straight on lighting scheme where the facial features would be best illuminated. After that came finer details to add flourish. I enjoyed using a motion that Duchanne taught me, the “flick” as he called it, where I started a line steadily and then flicked it upward to create a swooping motion. It added, I think, a sense of life and motion to the picture.

My years training with Duchanne made me very adept at making sound decisions with my lines and tones. That was most of art: a series of decisions rendered on paper or canvas. When I first started, my lines were jagged and scared. But enough practice gave me confidence, and now my hand no longer shook as I worked. I’d forgotten how wonderful it felt to draw. I hoped it would bring them cheer.

            I managed to finish my portraits the early morning of Noel eve. Unfortunately, I had work at the baker that morning as well. We’d had a large rush of customers preparing for their own celebrations tonight. The noise and chaos were all that kept me from falling asleep on my broom. We’d had a large influx of wealthier patrons and they’d tracked detritus all over the floor, thus I attended to my duties. I finished sweeping and prepared to leave for the day.

“Hold on,” I heard Elaine say behind me. I turned around. She was bundled up like a nesting doll, only her pale face visible underneath a ragged fur coat and scarf. “Please, take these.” She opened her gloved hands and revealed tiny dolls made of wire and wood. Their little limbs dangled limply as I picked each up and examined them. There were six, one for each of my family. Each had our respective likenesses captured simply but recognizable. They were finely carved and sanded, as if made by an artisan far beyond their years. “Joyeux Noel.” She said with a smile.

I was speechless. “But I don’t have anything to give you.”

“If Grandma and I could have dinner with your kin on Eve night, that’d be enough.” She replied. “She does make a great Yule Log.”

“That would be wonderful, Elaine.” I pocketed the dolls and embraced her. “I’ll see you tonight.”

That night, we prepared for our feast with what we had. We could afford meat, so Camille prepared two small chickens alongside our vegetable stew. The house was not decorated, but for once it did not feel so cold. I set the table while Camille and Connie cooked. August handled Caesar to the best of his ability. It was mildly humorous seeing my older brother attempt playfulness with our nephew. After a time, Elaine and her Grandma came in, with Eloise in tow. M. DeRose brought a large, covered basket with the Yule Log inside, the sweet smell of chocolate already in the air. We all embraced and exchanged niceties before finally sitting down.

“Apologies for vegetable stew for Noel dinner,” Camille said sheepishly, rubbing her head. “Not exactly the most festive dinner.”

“It’s alright, Cami. At least we have chicken.” Connie assured her, kissing her head.

“Frankly I don’t care if we’re eating bugs out of a log as long as it’s with friends.” M. DeRose said sharply. “It’s been too long since me and my granddaughter had a meal with family.”

“Family? Is that what you call us now?” August asked sarcastically.

“Would you prefer we called you acquaintances?” M. DeRose replied with a smirk.

“Fair point,” August said. “Family sounds better.”

 “Let’s hush up and eat while it’s hot!” Camille spoke to everyone. “God knows the weather won’t let it stay that way. Then we’ll exchange gifts afterward.”

With that, we finally settled down and ate our holiday feast together. It wasn’t much, but it was a respite from the drudgery our lives had become. We all traded conversation in between bites. Caesar even snuck a few pieces of chicken to Eloise, who was waiting patiently under his chair like a baby bird.

There was still the absence of Mother on one side of the table. But right now, things were alright. If I could, this was a moment I would’ve captured in painting and recorded forever.

            And it was all shattered with a single sound.

Author's Note

General thoughts, whether characters feel distinct, any typos or mistakes.