Free The Execution by Sharon Cramer Page A

shrugged it off as he
felt did not know Monsieur LaFoote well enough. After he’d dropped
the large boar to the floor, the Fat Wife had quickly turned away,
and it was her reaction that perplexed him more.
    Now he puzzled over the distant event
as he made his way to the second room, carrying the candles
carefully lest he chip or fracture them.
    As time passed, he’d continued to play
out his existence at the Inn. The Innkeeper had little to do with
him, other than an obsessive vigilance about his whereabouts. He
was never unkind, just—indifferent.
    Sometimes at night Ravan could hear
the couple arguing downstairs. He would try not to listen, as he
lie in his small room in the attic, his orphanage blanket tucked up
under his chin, bare ankles and stocking feet sticking out. The Old
One’s daughters had woven the blanket for him, a birthday present,
and now it was tattered, too small—and dearly loved by the
boy.
    Seldom did the orphans really know
their actual birthdays. The Old One allowed them to pick a day.
Most picked summer days, anticipating outdoor games, warm evenings
and swims in the stream. Ravan had picked January twenty-nine—the
last day he could remember seeing his mother.
    On the nights when the couple argued,
Ravan lay still, breathing shallow, his eyes closed tightly.
Troubled, he wondered what he could be doing—what might create such
discord. During the day, there seemed to be no disappointment from
either of them about his work ethic. The big man nodded his
approval whenever he happened to notice the boy at some
task.
    Ravan wondered if they might
eventually see him as a son of sorts. But, he only thought this on
very rare occasions, when the distant memory of his own mother
tapped softly upon the doorway of his mind, reminding him that he'd
been somebody’s son.
    His hair grew long and one quiet
afternoon, shortly before Christmas, the Fat Wife sat him on the
stool in the kitchen. With a pair of boning scissors, she snipped
the thick locks away until it again rested above his shoulders. The
dark tufts fell silently to the floor.
    The child sat, feeling the gentle tug
as her fingers worked with the comb, wonderfully comforted by the
basic grooming. He closed his eyes and absently wondered if mothers
combed their young ones’ hair with their fingers, or if lovers
combed each other’s hair in such a way. The moment was warm and
complete—a good day. He closed his eyes while she hummed and
worked. Perhaps there was a place for him in this world after
all.
    Quite abruptly, she was done. Before
she could busy herself with another chore, he pulled from beneath
his tunic a gift. He possessed no money to buy proper wrappings,
but it was beautiful the way he presented it, wondrous as earth’s
treasures often are.
    He had enclosed the gift in late
autumn leaves, having picked them carefully for their most
brilliant color. They were still soft and leathery, not having had
time to dry out properly. Weaving their stems carefully into each
other, he created a lovely, colorful wrapping paper. As a finishing
touch, he tied the bundle neatly in braided horsehair. The tail
hairs were gently plucked from a white, brown, and black animal,
woven so each colored strand gratified the others
beautifully.
    With a soft smile and bursting with
pride, he handed the package to the big woman.
    She gaped at him in surprise, her
small mouth rounding with a silent ‘Oh.’ She turned the package
over in her hands, loosening the twines. The leaves unfolded and in
between them she discovered a lovely pair of fox fur mittens. The
leather was a smooth suede with the fur turned in for warmth. They
were made to carefully fit the thickness of her plump
hands.
    Holding them near, her small eyes
peered closely at the detail of his work. The stitching was
magnificent and in between the mittens was a darning needle and
skein of thread. They had disappeared some time ago from her sewing
cabinet. Slipping the mittens onto her hands, her