The Execution Read Online Free PDF

slowly returned from
deaths’ beckoning call, back to the world of the living.
    As time went by, the Old One worried
for this mysterious child, for he remained silent for almost four
years.
    In his silence, the boy was an enigma,
answering only to the old man that hobbled about the orphanage.
Ravan was obedient to the daughters, for they were always kind to
him, but he would seek only the Old One when he needed the
companionship of another, which was seldom.
    The other children of the orphanage,
in their merciful ways, accepted the silent one, never urging a
change or invading his private, unspoken realm. All of God’s
creatures have their demons, some more apparent than others. At the
orphanage, all were granted a special gift in that no one judged
another. Demons could dwell there as well.
    Simone ate next to nothing, even when
there was plenty. Edgard chewed his nails to the quick. Radouin
pulled tufts of his own hair out by the roots, and Ravan...did not
speak.
    During the unraveling eternity of
summer days, when there were rare moments of abandon, the children
cavorted. Ravan preferred to tend to his chores, instinctively
knowing what was expected, what was to be done, never having to be
asked to do it. Afterwards, though, he would almost always seek his
own solace.
    Sometimes, when the work was done and
the afternoon quiet, he could be found down in the meadow floating
twigs in the stream. Lying on his side on the mossy bank, he would
watch as, one by one, the ripples lapped their silvery tongues over
the little brown stems, bobbing them away to somewhere fantastic
and far away. When the others came upon him, they left him alone
and Ravan preferred it this way.
    The Old One taught him to fish, and
Ravan became an unexpected excellent provider, even in the winter
months. This was a gift very warmly welcomed at the tables. Once,
Ravan accidentally slipped from a snowy bank, into the creek. It
was a treacherous jog home—Ravan kept running, so that he wouldn’t
freeze. He crashed into the kitchen, icicles hanging from his
clothing, but smiling broadly with hands outstretched and a small
stringer of fish to show for it. After that, he learned how to
build fire and always had his precious flint and steel with
him.
    Eventually, he also hunted, but it was
not the addled tripping after a doe or wild boar, perhaps taking it
with the luck of hounds. He was a predator. No creature was safe
once the boy caught their trail, determined to catch his prey. It
was uncanny, and the Old One watched as the predacious instincts of
the child matured—an unnatural, wild, and frightening
gift.
    With an uneasy apprehension, the Old
One marveled and watched as Ravan became a consummate killer. He
also carefully guarded the skills of the boy, lest the sportsmen of
the town become curious of his unusual gift. Few men hunted with
the flawless fatality of this child. There was seldom a morning
when he left the orphanage, bow and arrows in hand, that he did not
return with game.
    Sometimes it was rabbit, sometimes
pheasant, but it was always a source of amazement and unsettled
mystery to the Old One. He would watch from the frosted kitchen
window to see the small form of the child struggling to drag the
body of a great stag from the edge of the woods towards the
cottage, killed by a single arrow to the heart.
    Ravan never killed more than the
orphanage required, taking careful stock of their supply and
demand. They cured and salted hams, smoked roasts and sausage
links, and dried jerky from everything he brought back. Meat became
abundant and the children were, for the most part, robustly well
fed. In the summer, the daughters even took extra sausages to town
to sell at the market. It was a time of plenty, even in the long
winters.
    When the child finally spoke, it was
quietly and infrequently, and now at twelve years of age, the Old
One knew that Ravan should soon make his own way in the
world.
    These were his thoughts as he stood
arguing with