The Tetrachromat (On HOLD)

Chapter 14. The Stigma

The overturned bucket lay on the ground next to Besson, drenching him in frigid water. Since the winter chill haunted this May's night, he yelped and rolled away, wriggling, trying to peel the shirt away from his belly. Below the belt, his situation was hopeless.

Reality pieced itself back together, like the droplets of quicksilver. He finally clued in to get up, retrieve the bucket, pull his clothes off and wring them out in the questionable concealment of the retreating darkness and the well's structure.

Yes, the darkness was thinning.  Dawn spread its wings over the Eastern sky. The normies invented too few words—red, orange, gold, scarlet, vermillion, pink, silver, bronze—for the abundance of color that shifted and glowed there.

As a city dweller in the twenty-first century, I rarely had a chance to enjoy the sight, so I gawked with an additional benefit of giving Besson his privacy.  

Before long, he joined me to watch the sun rise over the monastery's walls and the trees, foaming with blossoms. I could almost imagine us sitting shoulder to shoulder on a hill somewhere, content that there was finally someone to fully share the sight with. 

You aren't going to sleep? I asked, fighting the itch to find out what had happened to my body five hundred years into the future. 

Nay. He brought his hands up, intertwining his fingers into a grid to shield his eyes and look directly at the sun. Let Heavens rejoice... this is it, before us, Heavens rejoicing in the glory of God's creation.

Laetentur Caeli, I echoed, scanning the sunrise. Say what you will, but Latin has a wonderful gravity to it. Yup, that's maximum rejoicing.

The pettiness, the evilness of humans can't touch it, and neither can anything wrought by a mortal hand.

Mortal hands built this wall; they planted these apple trees. To me, landscapes became more interesting when man-made objects blended in with nature.

It's so peaceful without humans. Besson gathered his knees to his chest, hugged them, and planted his chin on top, trying to keep warm in his damp clothes. Do you think Andrei could have miraculously escaped after killing Dmitrii the way he had escaped from Novgorod?

Hmm. It was so frustrating to have no teeth and hands... Can you chew on a blade of grass, Bess? It will help me think.

His eyes rounded, but he leaned forward to break off a stem of grass. The tufts grew tall next to the stonework of the well, so it was of a satisfying height and tasted fresh when his teeth bit into it. Comforting.

Besson, listen. I know you like Andrei for Dmitrii's murder, and so do I. I do! That cross is super-suspicious, and the guy... he looks like trouble incarnate. But...

What?

He was at least sixteen in 1559. Okay, even if we push it, and say he was fifteen, he would still be in his forties by now.

Aye, Besson said.

He also got banged up pretty good in Novgorod. It ought to have hampered him for the rest of his life.

I waited for the penny to drop. Besson didn't move or said anything. I had to press my argument home. Andrei wouldn't be climbing any ladders, let alone roofs, to make a miraculous getaway.

Besson shook his head. Gennadii said he had special abilities.

Would you at least allow for the possibility that the girl—

He spat the blade of grass onto the ground, pushed to his feet, and brushed off his pants.

"They are opening the gates," he said, ending our conversation. "I should be there to meet Nikola. By the way, he is almost as old as Andrei, but strong as a bear and devilishly fast."