Welcome reader! We have included some samples from William See’s recently released A Dozen Strange Tales. Please enjoy and let us know what you think.
Sincerely,
Global Heritage Books
William See, known to his friends as “Bill,” is a physician and musician from Middle Tennessee. He is also known as “Tennessee Bill” and plays fiddle for The Glade City Rounders, an old-time string band. He is a horse enthusiast and a humorous storyteller. His southern voice is featured in the audio version of his books. He has previously published the fiction novel, Sons of Barbee Collins; the children’s book, Lulu Kissed A Caterpillar; and Index Bubble, a work on economic phenomena and asset prices.
Chapter 6 - Beatrice
Beatrice Frank was sure she made the right decision. The oak door of her new cabin squeaked in its hinges as she pushed it open. The sound was a welcoming “hello.” The door was heavy and adorned with decorative iron plates and rivets. She ran her fingers along the grain of the boards, whispering “my little castle in the woods” to herself. When she first saw the listing of the cabin for sale, she knew instantly it would be the setting for a new and final start. It was a hidden place. A veiled fortress in the wilderness she hoped would shelter her from further calamity. If the quaint square cabin could not provide this safety, nothing could. The photographs in the advertisement offered an unpretentious “tin-roof cabin in secluded backwoods of exceptional beauty.” It satisfied an ever-growing plea from inside her to endeavor at least once more at something entirely dissimilar from her past. It was perfect. It would protect and distract her from the memories of her once-beloved city, which now cruelly and relentlessly reminded her of her absent friends and family.
A year ago, she was a middle-aged woman and recently widowed. The death of her husband drained her emotionally and physically. Their marriage was happy until his sudden illness spiraled rapidly into the inevitable. Though emotionally beleaguered, she accomplished a degree of healing with the support of her close friends. Her two best friends helped her the most with constant encouragement and love, partially filling the void in her heart with happiness. The death of those two friends in a fiery car crash while on their way to visit her deepened an emptiness that subsumed any expectancy of joy. In her lowest hours, she yearned to join them and to share their condition. She envied their freedom from sadness and desired their state of nothingness. Yet faintly flickering in her bleak darkness, a small and imploring utterance within in her could be heard. From somewhere in her soul came a primordial compulsion to resist defeat. Its clamoring could barely be heard among her internal cries of loneliness, but with what remaining strength she had, she endeavored to rally to its very last charge. She would make one last attempt to leap free from her depression’s engulfing abyss.
Her new little cabin was indeed the opposite of the city life she wanted to leave. In the busy city, new friends were everywhere to be found and were just an introduction away. She dreaded new introductions now. To become attached to a new friend meant a risk of losing them, and recently those risks had manifested too frequently. Her emotional vault was empty, and she had no reserve to pay the eventual emotional cost their loss would bring. The cabin’s solitude would prevent that from reoccurring.
The dense trees surrounding the cabin were an armor of green that guarded her against the unfamiliar. She desired emotionless quiet so she could find a work to lend her passion. That work now would be to write stories that swirled in her mind that were to be captured onto the page. But more than anything, she hoped to find a way to unshackle the happiness she once knew, and enjoy the bliss her new surroundings would bring her.
On the drive down to her new abode, she exited the interstate and turned onto highways where the sky was released from its confines. The highways narrowed into rural roads that lead her to her inviting and enduring new home in the country. The gentle rattle of gravel under the Subaru Outback and rented U-Haul warmly welcomed her as she turned onto the road that ended at her cabin. What she beheld was beautiful and endless. She had answered the silent summons to persist. It was hers!
In the center of the cabin was an open table. It wasn’t beautiful or valuable but was lovably worn. It beckoned for her to sit and write. The table was illuminated by the natural light that came freely into the windows on every side of the square structure. At night, a warm glow from the milk glass fixture above continued the invitation through the night. She stood an easel next to one of the windows. When the weather was nice, she placed it on the large covered porch just outside the door. She brought no photographs or images that would remind her of lost friends. In their place, she painted new ones – faceless landscapes of simple colors.
The little log house sat in the middle of a valley accessible only by the gravel road. Within a stone’s throw around the back half of the cabin was a creek that carved a deep crevasse through the rock that supported the great dense wilderness which rose steeply from its banks. She stared down at the water and heard its trickling whispers, telling her it was alive and there for her. It introduced her to the deep dark woods on the other side, revealing its gentleness. For as far as she could see, the great trunks of hardwoods lifted an impenetrable canopy, like the arms of a steady lover. They held them up, not only for her but for the other small creatures who lived there and sang to her in the night.
Her first nights at the cabin were among the most peaceful she had ever experienced. The days likewise were filled with naps and peaceful strolls through the spaces of the hardwood trees. She explored these woods as if courting a lover. Could they be as kind and resilient as they seemed? The night sounds were beautiful. She stayed up late listening to them, and wondered what pleasant critters made them.
The first gray day did not come until she had been there a week. The dimmer light slightly modified her new routine of walking. The lights inside flickered as the wind picked up and wiggled the wires outside in their crusty connections. The drizzle of rain in the evening changed the songs that came from the dark wood. She opened the door of the cabin and listened to the long call of a lone birds. Its passionate pronouncement cut through the air while the other crawling minstrels sheltering from the dampness were silent.
She heard the deep hoot of an owl coming from across the creek where the steepness of its forming rocks made it difficult to cross. “Perhaps Mr. Owl is shy like her and doesn’t come out often,” she thought. As the night continued, the rain increased and was announced by distant thunder. This seemed to enliven the owl, who was now calling more frequently with a playful monkey-like chatter as if to draw her outside. She closed the door and sat down at the table. Lightning now preceded thunderclaps. Her bare toes curled into the fibers of the rug beneath her.
To distract from the startles of close lightning and its crushing thunder, she held her pen in hand with hopes of finding poetic words inspired by the torrent outside. She relaxed, knowing the storm would not breach the walls of her castle that had withstood much worse.
After an hour, her tablet was still blank, but her third wineglass was empty. She listened to the storm pass as the wine brought its warmth. As the volume of the thunder relented and the lightning became distant, the rain stopped, and the sudden stillness drew her outside. The sky was black and a curtain of storm clouds hung between her and the moon. The distant lightning momentarily illuminated an angry churning sky that reflected a faint green.
She knew it was harmless but felt its appearance ominous. She watched the churning pillows grapple in the gray heavens, which only a day ago were the brightest blue. She walked several steps into the space between the trees and the covered porch. Barely visible through the trees, she could see the darkened clouds and violence of the lightning sprouting. There were clouds and more lighting in the distance churning toward her indicating more storming to come. She watched a few moments more, waiting for the rain to start again.
Not far from her in the trees above came the sound of hooting and cackling from the owl she heard earlier. It was close. Why was this crazy owl so rambunctious all of a sudden? “Why are you not hunkered down for this storm?” she said. Her eyes searched the highest branches above her, looking for this noisy owl. She took more steps away from the porch light to look for him but saw nothing. “Odd fellow,” she chuckled.
Craving the warmth of her quilt and flannel nightgown, she decided to postpone her admiration of her secluded paradise to a brighter day. She turned to walk back into the cabin when she heard wings flapping behind her. She reflexively crouched to the ground and quickly turned to catch a glimpse of a winged thing passing over her head and into the darkness. “The owl! Dang, that crazy thing!” she said aloud. The creature made an arch in flight and came back toward her. As it neared, she beheld his round face heading straight to her. She saw a dim shattered reflection in its eyes and became horrified by the bird’s expression. Its eyes were dead and absent. Was it flying at her just to torment her? Beatrice screamed and ran toward the porch. Reaching the door, she opened it and ran inside. She turned and looked through the slit of the partially open door. She saw the crazy owl make one more curving flight past the porch then ascend into its realm above to continue its cackling.
The behavior of the owl annoyed her. What an obnoxious thing to have to share the woods with. Was this its typical reaction to a stormy night in the summer? It had startled her, and she didn’t like it. It was the first fright she had experienced since coming. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply, hoping to make the feeling pass hastily. She relaxed, reminding herself of the storm’s inability to harm her, and of the strength of the log walls around her. Sleep was difficult that night, from the noise outside and the thoughts of the owl, and what an annoyance to have the thing flying at her when she walks outside.
The storm raged as she lay still in bed. Wind whistled through the usually silent walls. The rain roared against the roof and the broad green leaves outside her windows. The noises of the walls were occasionally musical through its swells and decrescendos. Some of the sounds were lively, while others were long and angry. Suddenly a noise overcame the sound of the storm. She dismissed it from the chaos the first time she perceived it, but the second time it came, it was undeniable. It seemed like a deep voice howling in the distance. It couldn’t be. She tried to dismiss it as a random sound made by the wind, but it continued to come. Surely it was just the wind. It frightened her. It sounded like it was saying her name. Screaming her name. The distant howl seemed closer as it continued. “Bea! Bea!” It couldn’t be. Maybe it was shouting something else. She forced herself to overcome the startle and convinced herself it was just the wind, but the voice continued. She was certain she heard it say, “Bea! Bea!” The sound eventually stopped as the fury of the storm rose. When she no longer heard the cries, she calmed a little and declined the assumption it was human and that it was calling her name. She closed her eyes to submit to what sleep would be available despite the continual booms of thunder.
When morning came, she hurt. The night of agitation yielded no rest and had bullied and robbed her of restful stillness. A tremendous clap of thunder brought more alertness. The rain relented but was still rattling upon the roof. There was no morning sun to light her way to the table. She made coffee under the electric bulb, which she had not done before. She stretched her arms and legs while the coffee brewed to work out the stiffness from the restless night. The smell of the coffee was the first pleasantry of the morning. She wanted to make the most of this rainy day, and planned to cozy up at the oaken table with her pad and pencil.
She poured a cup and held it under her nose. Breathing in the warmth of the coffee, she ambled in temporary bliss toward the door to look out its window. The aroma of the first sip produced its intended enlivenment. She blinked her eyes firmly to clear her vision of the tempest outside.
The visible trees were bent under a gust of wind. Returning upright only momentarily, they seemed perturbed and began flailing their limbs again when the wind sent another stronger blast. Flashes among the clouds revealed the sheen of the saturated ground. She could not see the water of the creek because of the steepness of the ravine through which it coursed, but she was sure its level was up. There was no sign of the owl. She was glad. Perhaps later in the day, she would put on her parka and walk around outside if the rain let up.
She stepped back from the window of the door, the next sip of coffee having a similar effect to the first. She leaned back to stretch the muscles of her back and felt them loosen a little. Feeling slightly better, she moved toward the square window near the door to better look at the porch and the rain coming off of the cabin. With the curtains pulled back, she could see the streams of water flowing in fingers out of the crimps and bends of the roof’s metal overhang. She leaned forward and turned her head toward the rafters. No big leaks. Her eyes scanned the dark corners of the porch roof. The metal was solid. She bent her head to see the final dark corner, which was not as easily seen as the others. Her eyes focused on the structures and their shadowed corner. Something was blocking it. The owl! There he was! “Damn!” she sighed.
The owl was making no sound or movement. His face was turned toward hers, and she could see its oddly blank eyes fixed perfectly still. Frustration swelled within her. She was annoyed; not just at the owl, but that the cabin was not as warm and pleasant this morning. She was dissatisfied and uncomfortable. She had previously awakened to pleasant dawns, and the niceness of the morning had prompted a new and satisfying routine. This was not the case today. For the first time, she was not snug and cozy in her new home. This morning, the house nor the woods were the charming lovers who greeted her upon awakening.
She tried her best to ignore the storm, and the owl perched in her porch rafters, while the increasing wind flung all manner of sticks and limbs against the roof. To tame the roar of the rain and the plinking of hail, she turned on her old Magnavox record player. She lay the needle onto the spinning Patsy Cline vinyl and turned up the volume. Now at this table, she was warm and dry in her red gown while the storm had its say outside. She sipped her coffee and readied her pencil at the pad. She sighed in comfort as she overcame the fear of the storm. It could not hurt her. The walls of the cabin were solid, and that gave her comfort.
It was a few minutes after noon, but lightless enough that she required the electric lights. After tucking the collar of her gown snugly around her neck, she put pencil to paper. At the same moment, a flash of lightning with its instant cannon’s fire of thunder struck something nearby. It left her ears ringing and rendered the cabin dark and silent in an instant. The sounds of the storm outside filled her ears. The crack of lightning and sudden power outage made her scream. “Damn this day!” She worked to calm herself and reasoned the electricity would come back on in a moment. Holding back her tears in defiance, she stood and began feeling around for a flashlight. There was one in the kitchen. She turned and moved toward the drawers next to the sink. The silence inside the cabin only emphasized the noises of flying debris hitting the wall outside. The rain on the metal roof grew deafening as the sheets of water moved like fringe and pounded its rhythm on the roof. She continued to shuffle her feet toward the drawer when a large gust of wind whistled through the log walls. This was followed by a deep crunching she felt in the ground beneath her. The crunching was deep and strong.
She was opening a drawer and feeling for the flashlight with trembling fingers when a corner of the cabin suddenly imploded toward her. A shower of wet glass and boards knocked her backward. She perceived that a massive something had just crashed through the roof. A coarse wet branch and its leaves scraped across her face and nose. She screamed and grabbed her stinging brow as a spray of water soaked her face, making her cough. A great hole in the roof allowed the rain to pour directly on her.
She shook in terror trying to catch her breath. She screamed again then froze trying to make sense of what happened. The thing that hit her in the face felt like a tree limb, so she assumed a tree had fallen onto the cabin. The blast had overturned the oaken table and its chair. The table was lying on her legs, but she was able to wriggle from under it. Rain stung her face as her eyes adjusted to the darkness. She tried to assess what part of the cabin had been crushed and what was left, making out part of the great tree which had fallen and smashed a corner of the cabin. Once on her feet, she moved into a section of the room that was still intact. Clearing the rain from her eyes, she was able to make more sense of what happened.
The tears came now. The cabin was no longer her protector. One of its walls was crumpled. “Damn it!” she screamed with fury. She continued to fight it, but fear was overcoming her. Suppressing her crying, she thought about what to do next. The counter was smashed. The flashlight was under that tree somewhere. She thought it best to feel for the door. When she found it in the dark, she could tell the frame around it had collapsed and would not open. Her next thought was to move back over to the dry corner from whence she came. Carefully, with socked feet, one in front of the other, she felt her way through the broken glass and around the fractured ceiling boards.
Tears impeded her vision. She wiped her face on the wet sleeve of her gown. With the white lace of the other sleeve, she cleaned the clear snot from her nose. The frequent lightning gave flashing images of the colossal tree. Drops of rain sparkled like diamonds thrown by an angry god from the ever-present clusters of lightning. Movement caught her eye. Amidst the flashes, a pair of wings appeared overhead. Her heart pounded. The flapping wings came in through the hole in the roof. Once inside, it extended its legs and lit on the great trunk of the tree now lying horizontally in her kitchen.
“Get out!” Anger mixed with terror as she reached to grab what loose thing might be next to her. A tapered portion of a ceiling plank found her hand. She could lift it. She stood and flung it with all her might. “Get out!” she cried again. The plank went over the owl’s head, and the odd beast moved two steps to the left, his dead gaze fixed in her direction. “Leave me alone!” The owl spread his wings and stretched his head toward her. She yelped as he leaned into flight toward her. In horror, she fell to the floor, swinging at the darkness. She felt sharp stings on her head and the weight of something settling upon it. She swung her arm and felt the smooth wet feathered body absorb the blow only to take another purchase into her scalp. In vain, she tried to shake loose from its awful claws. He only changed his grip from her scalp to her brow and the bridge of her nose. It flapped its wings and pulled at the hair on her head with its curved beak. She felt the stinging pierce of the talons in her forehead as they climbed back onto the pole of her head and gripped. She shook with terror. With the bird on her head, she clenched her fist and punched the flailing attacker. The punch landed and sent the owl into the darkness. She pulled back for a second swing for his expected return, but it never came. “Get out!” Her voice shook as tears flowed.
What had happened? In a matter of seconds, the structures she escaped to for protection were crumbled. The cabin had turned against her. The great oaks outside the cabin were no longer steadfast centurions. Now they were threatening to fall.
The sound of wings beating rapidly against the floor appeared. It was in flight again! She screamed and clenched her fists, ready for it to come back. Instead, it took rest upon the large oak again. “Get out!”
The owl’s head turned on its axis, yet its eyes saw nothing. He leaned forward into the air again to perch on her head. She bellowed and swung her fists at him. His path of flight missed her head, and he turned back for her in the empty space of the cabin. There was no way out. The door was jammed. What next? She thought of jumping out of the window, but the rain coming in through the roof caught her attention. There was her hole!
She leaped onto the fallen oak and moved the balls of her feet along its trunk past the crushed wall to get outside. Soft mud splattered beneath her as she fell onto the sodden ground. She tried to breathe amidst her screams and sobs. On shaking legs, she saw the huge tree. During its topple it lifted the ground in which its roots clutched, and crushed a whole corner of the cabin. The roof of the porch was also pressed into the mud under one of the tree’s more giant forks. Her sobs came in torrents like the rain that washed drips of blood from her face when she saw her Outback, also crushed under the limbs. How could she get help? A massive and close lightning strike and thunderclap knocked a scream from her throat. The wind roared.
She ran toward the woods, and after only a few steps, the voice that horrified her previously returned. “Beaaaa.” Did she hear it again, or was it her terror fooling her? “Beaaa.” She was sure she heard it. Why was this place doing this to her?
“Get away!” she screamed. “Get out!” She screamed until her throat burned like fire.
“Beaaa...You shouldn’t be here.” A cold shiver moved down her spine. It was a voice, she was sure of it now.
“Ahhh!” She screamed toward the voice. “Go Away! Leave me alone!” She ran toward the trees away from the sound and the taloned beast in her cabin. She stumbled in the mud but forced her legs to continue. A cluster of trees caught her panicked attention. They were curved into themselves, making a hollow in which she could hide.
Now hiding in the recess of trees, she focused her eyes on the cabin. There was no movement. She kept her eyes fixed on it, paralyzed with fear. Her chest heaved and jerked from the sprint and the crying.
“Bea!” She heard it again. The direction of the voice was changing. Whoever or whatever it was, it was circling her. “Beaaa!” It continued. She could tell it was coming toward her, so she left her hideaway and ran back toward the cabin, not sure what to do next. What was tormenting her? What did it mean? How did it know her name? As she neared the cabin, she turned back toward the woods and saw nothing but the violent whipping of its trees.
Suddenly, she felt a sting on her head. The owl had returned! Like her, it flew out of the hole in the cabin. She felt the talons digging into her shoulder. She swung her fists but missed him. Ducking the blow, it loosened its grip enough that she could shrug it loose. Where should she go? How could she escape the assault from the crazed owl? She feared nothing more than the cabin. The woods? She feared the woods as well as they were where the voice coming from? Who was it? The winged tormentor flew at her again. Her own voice was now hoarse from screaming. She ran, heaving through sobs.
Falling into the mud, she felt the bird fly over her again. She rose and mustered as much strength as she could and ran for the creek. “My God! Why are you doing this to me?” She screamed with each step. She wanted nothing more of these woods, the cabin, or the world. “Pluck me from it!” she pleaded, each word accompanying a bounding leap. When she reached the creek, she did not slow her sprint. Without hesitation, she leaped into the empty space beyond the overhanging rock of the ravine. With her arms open, she embraced the rocks below.
The following day brought the sun to which the happy valley was accustomed. The rain had exhausted itself, and the clouds thinned and whitened. The songbirds and woodland creatures resumed their symphony. Water in the creek was deep and flowed fast. The large rocks of the creek floor now heaved up heavy pillows of water. The owl was perched upon one of the boulders amidst the churning rainwater and tore small bites of pink flesh from Bea’s lifeless shoulder protruding from the water. Her red gown was torn away from the submerged and mangled torso.
After chewing and swallowing a piece of fat, he preened the mottled gray feathers of his chest, making sure every one of them lay properly. The sun reflected from the gloss of its drying feathers as he stretched out his body to absorb the sun. The morning light revealed the intricate patterns of barred lines formed by his overlapped body feathers. Brown feathers the color of wet rust formed a maze pattern and round tufts on his head.
His eyes, different from others of his kind, were not bright nor observant. The expected citrine reflection was not there. The milky eyes neither observed nor accepted the light and were mounted asymmetrically in their sockets. His blindness diminished his otherwise regal pose. He pulled another string of sinewy tissue from his find when a familiar sound caused him to turn his head around its shoulders. The voice from the forest came again, but this time was not muffled by the torrent. The voice was not howling “Beaa” after all, but rather, “Pete.”
“Pete!” The owl lengthened his body upward. “Pete! Where are you?” The owl turned toward the voice and leaned into a winding flight out of the ravine. He lifted himself into the air and sailed through the standing trees. “Pete! There you are! Come here, you blind rascal!” Pete the owl circled toward his kind old friend who had been calling his name during the storm. “Pete, I’ve been worried sick about you. Come on! We don’t live here anymore.” The owl continued to circle the mass of gray hair and old leather clothes that hobbled toward him. The man underneath them paused and stood straight before resting his legs by squatting on the ground. He whistled and patted the top of his head, which was covered by thick hair and a rabbit-skin hat. Pete recognized the brushy thump-thump-thump of the man’s hand on his hat and took the cue to resume his familiar perch. “Dear Lord, Pete! Something could have gotten you. What if those old crows found you?”
Pete dug his claws into the rabbit skin hat, glad to be there. A stiff, leathery hand reached up toward him and the talons released. Pete stepped gingerly onto the hand. The man lowered his friend into his lap and caressed the smooth feathers on Pete’s back and shoulders. The old man could no longer withhold the tears that rolled down his nose and into the massive beard beneath it. He had found his blind feathered friend. “I bet you are starving. Let’s go. We don’t want to bother these nice folks. ”He lifted Pete and returned him to the top of his head. “Hang on.” Pete gripped firmly. The man stood, steadied himself, and sauntered back into the woods, saying, “Looks like old tree finally fell.”
Chapter 7 - Commedia Dell’arte
The town of Yvoire, France, wakes early in the morning. It always has. The township grew from a medieval fort established on the banks of Lake Geneva. The air is always brisk as it blows around the frozen peaks to its north. Our story took place in 1762, and at that time, it was a bustling trade town that served clay-fired foods to tradesmen, crepes being a favorite. Among its collection of odd characters was Milun Babineaux.
A young man of twenty, Milun swept streets and cleaned the floors of creperies and florists for coins they threw his way. This was not the profession he chose, and he often dreamed of other distinctions not available to him. He was of moderate height with sandy brown hair. He was strong but thin. He walked with a limp and typically wore hats that covered his brow, hiding a scar that extended across his forehead and into his left eyebrow – a feature that made him recognizable but somewhat clownish. Those that recognized him mocked him and pointed him out to others. “There is the boy who was caught spying through windows.” This constant threat of humiliation, combined with his awkwardness, forced him to become a man of the shadows.
As a younger man in his late teens, he discovered a pastime. In the evenings, he enjoyed peeping into windows. At the time, he considered it harmless. He found inspiration and enjoyment looking in on families as they dined. He admired their artwork and ornaments on their tables. He was enthralled by the beautiful young maidens and wives as they ate and prepared for bed. This infatuation soon led to watching them as they slept and bathed. More than once, he had caught a glimpse of glistening wet skin made amber from candlelight. Their soapy bosoms and curvy buttocks made his heart race. Until he was discovered.
One particular evening he watched through the window as a young maiden removed her gossamer gown and prepared for the tub. A maid was helping the young lady and noticed the young peeping tom’s forehead. In a panic, she hurled an earthenware chamber pot through the window that smashed squarely into Milun’s brow, knocking him unconscious. Raising the alarm, men of the house hurried out and saw the young man unconscious at the base of the wall under the window. For good measure, they administered a beating upon his back and limbs as well stomps upon his ribs and gut. One of the large booted feet broke his hip. Upon calling the guard, they identified him as a laborer’s son, but because of his age, he was not flogged or jailed. His hip healed. However, he was left with a lasting limp, and the gash upon his brow formed a scar which would identify him henceforth as the boy who peaked in windows.
Years had passed since that episode, yet he was reminded of it daily. Although fewer and fewer people of the town remembered the event, those that did, whispered, “that boy with the low hat, look at him. He hides a scar from being caught as a prowler and peeping tom.”
Milun frequently dreamed of the day when he could leave Yvoire and begrudged the many reasons he could not do so. The main reason was that he had no money. In another town, he would be a beggar and destitute. Despite his humiliation of being recognized and the cruel entertainment others enjoyed at his expense, he survived by sweeping pavements and tossing slop pots for the shopkeepers.
Peeping into windows at bathing women no longer interested him. His daily shame reminded him of its consequences. It was enough to see beautiful ladies walking down the cobblestone streets purchasing their wares and pastries from the shops. He admired their beauty, wishing more than anything he could court one of them, yet it was impossible. He was painfully envious of the young suitors who extended their hand to help them across streets and into carriages. He felt no different than them other than they had family wealth and birthrights, and he was a laborer’s son. He observed men from foreign places visiting this town on the edge of Lake Geneva. They were genteel and had proper manners, manners not complex or difficult to mimic. He could move about and gesture in the same graceful and elegant ways they did if he were one of them. If he was a foreigner in their town, he could be exotic and eloquent just as they were. The shopkeepers likewise had no great skill that he could not duplicate. The butchers owned their stores and obtained their means by cutting carcasses into purchasable shapes. Bakers simply kneaded dough and baked wads of them in clay ovens. This was not difficult. He had observed them doing this countless times as he swept the floors for the pittance they tossed him. If only this were him, he thought, in a different town or a different country. It was simply the clothes and mannerisms that made them different. His mother had died when he was still toddling around their simple shack. His father was twenty years older than his mother and worked as a carpenter’s assistant. Money was toiled for, and there was little of it left after the rent was paid and a few joints of meat bought for the kettle.
Milun was more at ease during the winter when he wore coats and scarves and hats that would hide his scar and his face. Dressed in thick winter clothing, he could walk and mingle among the townspeople unrecognized, hiding his limp by elongating his gait and moving more gracefully. He had no money to spend at the bakeries or bookshops. He could only walk about the town pretending to have peerage with those who did. Thus, he longed for the day when he could leave Yvoire to start a new and better life in a new town.
One fall morning, Milun was up early after a sleepless night to work at a wine seller who awarded him the honor of washing grime from the gutter between the shop and the street. The morning consisted of pushing the foul grime of the gutter into the larger ditches which ran into the rivers. Hoping to see the metallic glint of a dropped coin, he watched the filth as it sloshed. His attention to the grunge was interrupted as he began noticing the murmurs of the passersby. They were talking about an event that had taken place – something malevolent that jolted them. He moved closer to the street so that he might overhear their words. They were of horror and shock. Someone had been killed. Straining to hear more details of the incident, he continued his sweeping and scrubbing as more townsfolk walked past. As the morning progressed, their murmurs were no longer hushed. Instead, they were talking openly about a tragedy. Some of them pointed toward the alleyway that led to a row of houses belonging to merchants and bankers.
Milun sat his broom aside, donned his low-brimmed hat, and casually walked down the alleyway. At the end, where it opened up on the street, he saw more people gathering around a particular house. They were talking to one another with faces aghast. A guard was there gesturing. Milun moved closer.
To the town’s horror, a banker had been murdered in his sleep, his throat slashed. He had no children, but his butler discovered him that morning. Apparently, little was disturbed in the house. Only a floorboard had been torn up, and a lockable box had been destroyed. The lock was busted, and its contents were removed. The banker was known to be a wealthy man, and most figured his little box hid items of value. No one knew for sure, but they guessed the murderer found his motive in the gold coins the box contained. Milun did not tarry long after hearing the news. He did not want his scarred brow to be recognized, and himself be humiliated by comparisons to the murdering type. The guards had no leads on who might have done this, and in the days to come, no further clues presented themselves. Eventually, the events of that morning and the gruesome discovery faded from the daily conversation of the town’s inhabitants.
A few weeks later, Milun, this time finding a chore sweeping under the tables of an innkeeper’s outdoor eatery, was working to earn a few coins. A group of foreigners came out of the Inn and were chatting over bowls of brothy stew. He did not understand their language as they spoke gaily and with grand gestures. He guessed they were Italians. They wore odd colorful clothes, even for Italians. He continued his sweeping without bothering them, only briefly observing them secretly. They were tall and elegant. The women wore their dark hair down, and the men were finely groomed yet did not bear the ere of aristocracy.
When they finished their bowls, one of the men passed a few coins to the innkeeper that he might place a poster on the wall. The man tacked it up on the wall, and the group moved on down the cobbled street laughing and pointing at the interesting shops of the town. They were actors. The poster read:
Commedia Dell’arte:
Two Lovers and a Hound
A play in three parts
On the terrace behind the Inn.
Milun admired their station. This odd bunch, with their olive skin and dark hair, traveled from city to city, country to country, putting on their performances[1]. They would receive applause, warm meals, and soft beds for merely reciting their lines and pantomiming comedic actions. He watched them as they walked out of sight and around the corner through the streets of Yvoire.
Milun finished his sweeping and stepped into the Inn to ask the keeper for his pay. Calling his name, he received no reply. The innkeeper was out, and the rooms were deserted. Out of curiosity, he stepped up the stairs to the second floor to the cheaper rooms the players had rented. They likewise were empty. He noticed one of the bedroom doors had not been properly closed, and pressing it with his fingertips, the opening widened. The bed was unmade, and general clutter was scattered about. In the room was a chest that belonged to one of the performers. It was colorful, with Italian words scratched into its enamel paint. Milun walked over to it. It was likewise unlocked, so he lifted the lid. He immediately saw colorful costumes with lace collars and funny hats with bells on the end. He pushed back the costumes to examine the next layer of contents, exposing three masks. They were made of leather with eye openings, and covered the brow and nose of the wearer, but not the mouth. The nose was long and bird-like, and each one bore a different expression. One seemed happy and jovial. Another angry and brooding. The last was sad and had painted tears pouring from its eye holes. Their cheeks were blushed with rouge and augmented with birds’ feathers to make the eyebrows. In a tray next to the masks were a few coins. Unable to deny his temptation, he took some of the coins and put them into his pocket. He put the clothes back over the masks and shut the lid of the chest. He stepped out of the room, closing the door completely on his way out.
Two nights later, the play was to be held. Behind the Inn, a series of painted sheets were hung in a semi-circle, making a backdrop for their performance. A crowd had gathered, and a younger member of the troupe was collecting the entrance fee from curious audience members going in. After most of the interested townspeople had entered, Milun stepped forward and gave the young dark-haired boy some of his stolen coins and went in. A row of torches had been erected near the sheets to illuminate the performers’ faces and costumes. Each of them wore leathery masks glossed with varnish like he had seen in the chest. The costumes were adorned with glass beads intended to reflect the flickering firelight, which yielded a fairylike effect. The long beak-like proboscises of their masks added a bizarre extremity to their expression.
The play featured two dimwitted lovers who became enamored with each other. They flee the permissions of their kinfolk in a clumsy escape to marry. The first act closed with a calamitous wedding night. The crowd laughed and mocked the idiotic characters of the play until the second act began. In the second act, the new couple has adopted a hound. As their love deteriorates, they bicker over who will keep the dog. In mockery of Romeo and Juliet, the couple commits simultaneous suicide to escape the other. The hound, played by a short man in a furry suit, is elated by their death and trots off happily as the performance concludes.
The actors performed the play the following night, and the next morning packed their belongings and left. Milun returned to his solicitation of undesirable chores. The performance had given a persistent silliness to the demeanor of those who had seen it, behaving with exaggerated gestures and dimwitted pantomimes during their conversations. Milun appreciated their gaiety as it distracted them from them noticing him. Inevitably, in the days to come, the levity faded and the townspeople of Yvoire returned to their typical selves.
A few days later, the morning chatter was dimmed, again by grim news. Another murder. Similar to the previous one, a wealthy man had been killed in his sleep, and his safebox raided. However, this time, there was a witness. The dead man’s terrified wife had seen the killer. She was in another room when a dark cloaked figure entered. She heard a scuffle in the master bedroom and went to see what her husband was fussing about. Before she reached the room, the cloaked figure exited but stopped and looked at her. She was horrified and recounted the slayer standing in the entryway to the bedroom while looking at her. She said he was wearing a mask, and as he stepped into candlelight, she could make out its demonic features. It had slanted devilish eyes and a long beak that would haunt her dreams the rest of her days.
The townspeople immediately suspected the performers from the play. It was the same long-nosed mask of the Commedia Dell’arte. They called them vile gypsies and cursed their wandering ways. They had come to town to take their money and single out wealthy victims. They wondered what town they were in now executing their despicable plans. Who would go after them?
The countenance of the town remained grim and vengeful for days, and just when the mood of fear was easing, the masked villain returned. A town magistrate had been killed. As before, the master of the house had been slaughtered. Gold had been taken. The killer had been seen, and a pattern was forming. Instead of leaving the house after he had performed the dastardly deed, he sought out the man’s children to terrify them. Sneaking into the room where his two young sons were sleeping, he held a candle in front of his masked face. They described the same demonic look with a long beak. The townsfolk were horrified by the audacity of the marauder, as if he wanted to make his presence known. The murders were becoming frequent, and the killer becoming brazen. The Townguard posted a notice for all to keep careful vigilance, and all were given instructions to alarm their doors and keep a watch for strange foreigners.
Talk of the killings dominated the hearts and souls of the townspeople. It was all they could talk about. Wealthy men felt targeted. Each night another attack was expected. Each morning the people rose to expect the news of another slaying. They plotted against the Commedia Dell’arte actors, and some suggested that an appointed group of men should go and find what town they are in and bring them to justice. The most vocal among them shouted, “How can we be safe until the whole lot of them is hanged?”
The fall had progressed into winter. Milun’s days of sweeping were shorter as the sun descended sooner. Snow fell upon his shoulders as he walked home in his heavy cloak. He opened the door of his father’s house and entered, voicing a few kind words to his aging patriarch. His father was sitting by the fire stirring a boiling pot, exhausted from his day of labor. Milun rested a kind hand upon his shoulder before going upstairs to his loft. His room was lit by a candle as he sat upon his bed. He did not know how much longer he would be in this town, but hoped the days were few. As his father drifted off to sleep, Milun reached under his mattress for the bag of gold coins he had been collecting. His treasure was growing, and in the near future, he would have enough to leave the town of Yvoire and travel to a distant country. He did not yet know what trade he would adopt. Perhaps he would buy a bakery and make the pastries that he had observed being made as he cleaned. Maybe a butcher. A florist. He had watched them all and saw that there was little to it. He had no doubt he could perform the tasks just as he had beheld. His time as a humiliated cleaner of filth had been an apprenticeship as he noted the day-to-day work of the various tradesmen. He went to sleep and dreamt of far-off cities busy with beautiful people visiting his shop, of which he was the master.
Two weeks later, tragedy struck again in the town of Yvoire. This time it was the innkeeper. It was well after midnight when a cloaked figure stepped silently into the entranceway. His face was covered, but it didn’t matter, for everyone was asleep, including the innkeeper. The masked man moved soundlessly toward the innkeeper’s room. With a blade in hand, he opened the door. Within a few steps, he was standing next to the sleeping innkeeper. He plunged his blade completely through the neck, and with slicing saws upward, his lifeblood sprayed, and air bubbled. The innkeeper opened his eyes for a moment but could not make any sound, and a second later, he was dead. The killer walked over to the armoire, where he knew the gold was kept. The door creaked slightly as he opened it, but now it didn’t matter. He took it all. Finished with his task, he walked out of the room and closed the door behind him.
Putting the sack of gold in his cloak, he stepped out of the Inn into the snowy night. He looked up at the moon. Snow fell upon his varnished mask. He began his way back to his lair when a voice shouted at him. “Hey! You there! Halt!” It was a guard. The spree of martyrs had intensified their nighttime vigilance. The guard suspected malfeasance and drew his sword as he walked toward the cloaked figure. The killer had not expected this. He thought about running but knew his limp would slow him. He had no choice but to face the guard. He drew his knife, still soiled by the innkeeper’s blood. The guard beheld the bloody knife and the long-beaked mask. He suspected correctly that the killer was back and he had caught him. The guard swung his sword, but the killer muted the blow with the knife. The guard, with fury, swung again, this time knocking the knife from the killer’s hand. Now unarmed, the killer had no choice but to run, but the guard had already plunged his sword into the killer’s back. The murderer fell and rolled upon the snow. The guard drew back his sword and plunged it into the chest of the villain. The murderer became still as his lifeblood spilled onto the snowy street.
The guard had done his duty. The murdering menace of Yvoire, France, was no more. The greedy motive of the killer had played out. His final act had been performed. Dreams of setting up shop in a foreign town ceased. Milun Babineaux was dead.
[1] Commedia Dell’arte was a form of European play production popularized in Italy. It featured spoofish renditions of popular mainstream pieces. Performances commonly featured music and pantomime which took liberties with the original plots. Improvisations and bawdy costumes including grotesque masks were common.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the written permission from Global Heritage Books or the author, except where permitted by law. Any requests for reproduction sent to ceo@globalheritagebooks.com will be generously granted.
The cover art features sections of John James Audubon’s, Great Horned Owl, from Birds of North America.