Chapter 15 A Million Somedays
Fifteen
A Million Somedays
Oste, at long last freed from his supervisors’ worried tyranny, set off for his family home.
Every block he crossed worked away some of his soreness, so by the time he strode up to the cottage, this dawn felt almost as ordinary as those previous.
He’d had a mind to leave sooner, but the few extra days of rest had left him even more rejuvenated.
Sharper wits and deeper stores of energy gladdened him, for there was no way to frame what he set out to do as anything other than a terror that cut him deep.
He nudged his way inside, where Clotilde was rolling dough and pressing dried flowers into it. She kissed his cheeks like today was no different than any day, but spoke to him like she saw right through his true purpose.
“Your father just set off to check the west.”
He clicked his tongue. “Then I’d better be quick about it.”
“Not yet.” His mother didn’t allow him to head off until she’d given him a waterskin and some hard cheese. Depending on his father’s progress, well, he might need it. The old man could be quick.
He left after another embrace.
The helpful part about his father’s commission as Wolfcatcher of Aix was that, unless someone had actually reported a beast or goaded him into an unrelated job, his days were predictable.
Chasseur Martin Lézin would take the same breakfast and walk the same trails every time, unless something gave him cause to deviate.
Tuesdays during the second week of the month were always his secondary western loop, so that’s where Oste set out towards.
He nibbled on a little cheese and, for once, allowed himself to take in the peaceful chittering of the birds clustered in the copses.
He nudged undergrowth out of the way with his cane when needed.
Sweat had collected along his brow by the time he caught up with his father a short ways off the road. He’d never have found him if he didn’t know the route from all his days following along when he was taught how to track and shoot; the elder Lézin was as elusive as a cat.
Father and son nodded at each other like they’d set off side by side. “Watch your step. The trail’s a little bogged down from the rain,” his father told him.
“Of course.”
Oste followed his father deeper into the trees, never quite as light on his feet, but as capable of keeping his balance in the crude terrain as any Lézin.
He stood by when his father crouched to check the ground and the plants, then ambled along after, alert, when he got moving again.
Their only company seemed to be the birds and hares.
Too many hares, evidently, because his father mumbled under his breath about needing to cull them, lest the animals who ate them came in.
They walked for the better part of an hour before Martin deigned to speak. “You know,” he started gruffly, “you were so loud as a little boy that I came to realize your silence meant trouble.”
Oste lifted his chin. “I wouldn’t think to interrupt your hunt.”
He glanced behind him while they continued. “It’s not supposed to be a hunt.”
“I hope that’s true.”
His father slowed his gait, then eventually came to a halt entirely.
He turned his body part way back and reached out to feel the firearm slung over him.
Oste had never seen such a beautiful gun as that one, embellished in all the right places and diligently maintained, as though its only task was to be mounted as part of an exhibition.
That weapon taught him what it was like to have his ears ring, and what weapons could do.
“We can go back,” Martin said clumsily. Every word was individually picked out and roughly pasted with different inflections. “I don’t want you to be nervous.”
“I’m not nervous,” Oste replied immediately.
They stared across at each other like Oste had taken on the role of one of his father’s tracked creatures. “At least… not as you think I am. I’m not afraid of your gun in your hands, Papa. I couldn’t be; you make me feel safe.”
His father’s throat bobbed, and the barest flicker passed over his green eyes. “There could be wolves…”
“Alright, you have me there, but my faith in you getting us away from them is stronger than my fright.”
“I will. As long as you stay close to me.”
“Of course, Papa.”
They continued on. Martin appeared to notice Oste’s errant moments when he pushed off a little more ginger on one leg or rubbed his arm, and subsequently slowed his pace again. His son almost wanted to laugh. God, of course he’d notice. He couldn’t hide anything from a seasoned hunter.
“I suppose hope is finally lost that I’d follow in your footsteps.”
Martin’s eyes flicked back. “That’s been known for a long time.”
He sputtered out a surprised laugh. “That’s cold. I could’ve grown out of my fear of dogs.”
“You haven’t yet!”
“I’d hoped I would have,” Oste offered. He looked up at the treeline inquisitively. “I always thought that—”
“Watch your feet.”
“Yes. It’s just that I thought you’d be more angry. I’m angry about it. Some Lézin I am.”
His father grunted. “I’ve told you plenty of times that I’m not.”
“I don’t listen,” Oste hummed. “I tell myself that I’m a soft, sad excuse of a man anyway, and that… and that surely your love is you just being charitable. I’ve caught myself being quite horrible because, I guess, I’ve wanted to be just like you and see that I never—ngh!”
Oste covered his forehead, which had promptly been flicked by a faintly frowning Monsieur Lézin. His father had turned around again and, despite only being a handful of inches taller, practically towered over his son with hulking foreboding. “I’ll do it again.”
“Papa!”
“Is there a medical term for having a thick skull?”
“Papa…”
Martin pressed Oste’s head between his two index fingers.
“Please, Lord, get into this boy’s head that I love him, and I’m proud of him.
” Oste growled and wriggled, but the hunter continued.
“Let him hear how many times I’ve bragged to people about how much smarter he is than his Pa.
Make him know that I’m glad to have sired the first Docteur Lézin, and that even if he wasn’t in the trade of helping people, in my eyes he could do no wrong. ”
Oste shook free. “You’re supposed to agree with me and be all, ‘damn, Oste, you’re an arse’.”
His father scoffed. “That I’ll agree with.”
“Mama is an angel, so I got it from you.”
“I’ll agree with that as well. Now, what’s this about? What has you in the country?”
Oste thought about retorting that certain lands were more deserving of being called ‘country’ compared to the Aixois outskirts, but he held his tongue and started to walk on. “You’re either not going to believe me, or you’ll laugh.”
“Try me.”
“I’m interested in a marriage,” Oste sighed. “It… rather feels like I’m being hunted for sport.”
Monsieur Lézin stopped. Oste continued.
“Not that I am. I—I thought I’d use a metaphor you understood. My heart is beating very, very quickly, though I’m not being threatened. It’s free will, or what-have-you.” Oste drew back and scowled when his father squinted at him. “Aha. You don’t believe me.”
“No,” his father blinked. “It’s just that I… when you… in previous conversations, you… erm…”
Oste looked down. “There is a woman who says she sees me as I am, and I’m inclined to believe her.”
His father took a step closer. “Mademoiselle Galoup?” he asked, hesitant.
Oste set his jaw. He couldn’t meet his father’s eyes.
Martin gestured towards a stony ridge. “Let’s have a rest.”
And so they did. The two sat side by side on the rocks, ate their provisions, and spoke. Oste said everything he didn’t want to. Every fear, every truth he’d managed to hide from his father until the year when everything fell apart.
“You know,” said Martin, “your mother tried to give me a million reasons to back out when I brought up the question.”
“That doesn’t surprise me,” Oste answered. He wrapped his arms around himself and trembled even in the heat.
“What did I care?” The old man shrugged and drank some water. “I loved her more than any cause for me not to.”
“I’m… I’m afraid she’d come to regret it.”
“I never did.”
Oste exhaled steadily. His father stretched a long arm around his shoulders and pulled him into a partial embrace.
Monsieur Lézin spoke into his child’s ear. “How did I raise a boy to think that he isn’t worthy of being loved?”
“Don’t blame yourself,” he whispered, because his father was no more to blame than everything else. His tender heart. His abundance of fears. His blood, and what people had said to him about it. The ‘Chasseur’ title he’d never bear. His injuries that would never heal.
“Listen to me,” his father murmured.
“I’m listening.”
“I want you to try.” He squeezed his son tighter and rocked him like he always had.
“I know you give plenty of things your all, but this is different. I want you to keep going, because I think you might be surprised by how nice it ends up being. But if you’re unhappy, and it doesn’t work out, it’s alright, Oste.
I’ll help you. I think you’re the sorts of people who could stay friends, and ought to, so if there’s a separation, or whatever needs to happen—well, it might be a little disorganized, but we’ll figure it out.
I’ll be there for you, whether you need me or not, but you need to take the lead, and I want you to.
Try, and push yourself, and above all be honest with each other and yourselves.
God knows that’s how Tildy and I have survived so much. ”
“I do want to try. I do.”
Martin pulled back and smiled. “Then what did you need your old man for?”
“To remind me of very many things,” Oste answered, quiet as a mouse. The adrenaline and fright still made his fingers twitch. “And… also because I’m still a year from majority, so, technically speaking, you’ll have to do most of the arranging.”