The Tetrachromat (On HOLD)

Chapter 4. Blessed by a Blessed Madman

When Besson exited outside, he had to stop and shield his sensitive eyes against the sunlight.

The monastery's vegetable garden nestled between the curtain wall and the guesthouse. Two laymen, their sleeves rolled up their sunburned arms, bent over the rows. They turned soil with their spades, and my eyes feasted on the rich assortment of shades. Ochre, coal, rust... The smell, even tinged with cow manure, promised new life.

"You came out to taste the foodstuffs, lad?" a gardener said and waved a bunch of parsley at Besson. "Worry not. On this side of the river, nobody wants to quarrel with Moscow. If your uncle falls ill, it's not any poison, it's the cook!"

The joke was dumb, but Besson joined the merriment. Luckily, the gardeners' hearty, outdoorsy laughter covered up his weedy chuckles.

"Ah... thank you for your toils. And goodbye."

His knees wobbled as he walked between the garden's rows to shortcut to the monastery's gates. His gut roiled. Poison! I spent three days dodging fists and knives, and I hadn't even thought of poison!

You think someone might want to poison you?

He clicked his tongue. Me? Nay. Those who itch to punish me for Dmitrii's murder—

He stammered to a stop, even in his thoughts. I didn't kill him!

Chill, I know you didn't. You were saying you won't be poisoned? Then why are you stressing out?

Because the tempers are settling down, but hatred doesn't. The Tsar sent uncle Vasilii from Moscow with a regiment of the musketeers and knowing Nikola... Nikola is running roughshod over the locals. Someone might slip arsenic to my uncle in retaliation.

He has it coming, if you ask me.

Besson sighed. How can you not be a demon if you whisper such evil things to me?

I tried an incorporeal shrug. Look, I trust you when you say you didn't kill Dmitrii. Can you trust me?

Demons speak with lying tongues. Besson's pointy shoulders rose in an expressive shrug—sure, rub it in, Mr. I-have-a-body!—Besides, if not a demon, who are you to whisper things in my mind?

A witness. When I said the word, it rang true. This was, apparently, what I was, a witness.

Luckily, Besson didn't ask me what I was here to witness, because I would fumble for an explanation. There was a reason I was here, even if I couldn't articulate it yet.

My friend or host perked up—for the whole of a second—before hanging his head again. I'm better off fasting, for I'll be eating at my uncle's table from now on, not at Dmitrii's.

My gaze swept the wooden lacework of the bell-tower and the crenelated walls of the monastery. The craftsmanship was amazing. Above the creations of men, heaven spread, the expanse of a thousand shades of blue. So pure compared to the shabby housing projects where I grew up. Even the air felt more alive without the car exhaust and the tar of the train yard.

Besson's paranoia seemed misplaced in this peaceful setting, but he knew better what was brewing under the pristine surface of his age.

Strangely, he fed on my wonder to take in a fulsome breath. His chest eased, and a trickle of gratitude reached me.

Before I could tell him he was welcome, Besson remembered his uncle's temper.

He galloped to do Vasilii's bidding, only stopping once, to be let out of the monastery's gates by the guards.