The Traveling Death and Resurrection Show - Ariel Gore [3]
No answer.
A fork in the path. Right or left? The rustle of a lizard darting through the bramble. A rock sparrow’s call. “Hey, guys?” Left. Maybe left. He galloped, hoping to catch up with his friends, but only found himself in an unfamiliar clearing.
“Hello?”
That’s when he saw it, just ahead of him between the broad-leaves: a resting woodland deer.
It almost seemed too easy, but Julian dismounted and grabbed his bow. As he drew back, his mind danced. He’d find his way home, carrying the beast on his horse. He’d tell a fantastic tale about how he’d intentionally split off from the group, how he’d artfully tracked the animal.
Release. Yes! Right in the neck. But the deer didn’t die instantly. Instead, it turned to face Julian. And that animal had the eyes of a human.
“What do you want with me?” the deer asked, its voice thick with disdain. “Was I troubling you so much, resting here?”
Julian stared, speechless.
The deer glared at him. “You’ve killed me, but now I’ll tell you your fate. You’ll kill your mother and father, too—with a single blow.” With that, the animal closed its eyes.
The only sound Julian could hear was the quickening of his own heartbeat. I could never kill my parents. Maybe in that long moment, Julian could have sworn off violence of every kind, but he was only a boy. All he could think was: Run away. Disappear.
“Julian! Julian!”
He stood statue still.
The voices came closer. “Julian! Julian!” Then farther away. “Julian! Julian!”
He crept through the darkening wood until even the memory of those voices seemed to fade, but the deer’s gaze stayed with him—those wide and piercing brown eyes. He walked on.
In the first village he came to, Julian sold his horse and clothes. When the money ran out, he wandered in rags, begging sustenance. Finally he made his way to Rome to seek counsel from the pope, but the pope just so happened to be recruiting for the Crusades that summer. Off Julian went in uniform: violence, violence.
He distinguished himself in battle, murdering for a cause he could imagine worth murdering for. Grandmothers wept. Julian was knighted, then made a count. He married a young widow named Clarisse, and the couple lived in carefree oblivion for two gorgeous years. But who ever cheated fate by running away?
“Julian? Julian!”
His parents had never given up, and now at last they had a solid lead: the brave count called Julian. Mother and father disguised themselves as pilgrims, traveled to their son’s castle.
Clarisse welcomed them, generous-hearted woman. “Come in,” she said. “You must be tired. Here. Rest in our bed. Julian will be back from his hunt by evening.”
When Julian got home, he thought it strange that Clarisse wasn’t at the door to meet him. First stir of apprehension. Maybe she’d decided to take a nap? But when he opened the door to their room and saw two bodies in their bed, his confusion mutated into rage. Julian drew his sword before asking questions, and he killed his parents with a single blow.
Only when he realized what he’d done did it all hit him: the horror of violence. A lifetime of regret welled up like bile.
Grief-stricken and lost, Julian again traded his finery for rags and went into exile, this time with his wife—and not so much to run away but to do penance. The two traveled from village to village, eventually settling in the worst part of the worst town, where thieves and thugs ruled the streets and the river raged treacherous. They built a humble shelter, dedicated their lives to ferrying drifters on their way. They harbored runaways, refugees, and traveling performers, spent their days in service and their nights around the fire, listening to Irish fiddles and Gypsy guitar.
One dark midnight, a voice from the other side of the river woke them. “I need a lift!”
Julian dragged himself out of bed, paddled across.
An exhausted leper climbed aboard. “I need shelter, too,” he whispered.
Clarisse prepared a light dinner for the traveler. Bread and tomatoes. “Can we help you with anything