Life in Paintings

Chapter 35 - The Robber and His Child

Chapter 35 – The Robber and his Child

I wake up on a mountain with a breathtaking view.

I hear a child softly crying. I haven't had the best of luck with children in these paintings in general, so I'm a little cautious as I follow the sound

The kid is not alone. He's sitting beside a man. The man has a big old-timey gun.

They both look absolutely dejected. The poor kid is not wearing shoes. This doesn't look like two happy people out for a walk in the mountains.

Did the man kidnap the kid? Am I going to have to fight a kidnapper? I don't like my odds when the guy has a gun. But I never have good odds though, so that definitely won't stop me from stepping in.

            I clear my throat. The kid keeps crying, but the man looks at me, panic setting into his face. "Who are you? How did you get here? Did you follow us?" he says, one hand still protectively on the child's shoulder, the other clutching more tightly the gun.

I raise my hand to hopefully not look too threatening. "What do you want me to answer first?"

The man glares at me. "What do you want?" The kid's crying has stopped, but he doesn't look my way, he keeps his head down.

"See, that's also another question." I really need to stop being a smartass when people have weapons in their hands. I take a step closer to get a better look at the kid.

"Don't move!" the man tells me, getting up on his feet.

"Ah, not a question, that's a start. And to answer them, I'm Melody, I'm kind of lost, I did not follow you and I just really want to get to Paris. Or Ornans, depending on the year. I'd much rather go to Paris though, because it would be awkward to hang out with the jailbait right now."

"Are you mad, woman?"

I grin. I hope that doesn't look too creepy. "Potentially. Where are we? What year is it?"

I think the question catches him off guard so much tat he answers. "Prussia. 1832." He looks like he regrets it the instant the words leave his mouth.

Gustave still hasn't met me in 1832. He's like, twelve. It's so strange to think that somewhere out there there's a little Gustave running around, probably already trying to paint, probably teasing his sisters or running around his estate.

The thought kind of warms my heart.

"1832? Ah shit, that's like ten years too early for my taste," I say as a joke, which I'm clearly the only one that gets here, "So why are you guys hiding in the mountains?"

"I'm not telling you anything," the man automatically replies, not amused by me. I think he takes all of this way more seriously than I do.

This is just an instant for me, but it's his life for him.

"Smart, smart, I should start doing that too, shut my mouth. It keeps getting me into trouble," I admit.

"Leave us. We will not give you anything," he says, and catches the bag on the ground, like he wants to make sure I won't snatch it. I'm assuming everything he has a value is in there.

He's trying to protect himself, and his things from me. I probably look like some kind of beggar. My clothes aren't in the best shape. Being a mess is a sort of constant state of mine in these paintings, so much so, that I've kind of forgotten about it.

Still, this isn't about my condition, it's about that kid's. "Hey kid, did this man take you from your family?"

The man glares at me. "What?"

"I wasn't talking to you," I tell the man. I don't want to assume anything about their situation, but even if this is just a painting, I still don't want some made up child to be stuck with a bad person.

"That's my son," the man answers for him.

"Still talking to the kid, Sir." I pointedly ignore the man and look at the kid. "Is that true?"

"Yes, he's my father," the kid says softly, his eyes on the ground.

Even if he's the father, maybe the kid doesn't want to be with him. Children might not really have rights in 1832, but I don't fly that way.

"And do you want to be here?" I press.

"I want us to go back home but we can't go back home. We have no more home," he replies softly, the words catching in his throat.

"Don't talk," the father reprimands him.

"Why can't you go home?" I ask.

"Stop asking questions. Leave us. I don't have anything for you. The food we have I stole and we barely have enough for ourselves," the man explains.

Ah. The look of desperation makes sense now. They don't have anything. Very little to eat and not place to go to. I can empathize with that.

"I don't want your stuff. I don't want to cause trouble. I'm just curious as to why you can't go back home." These paintings must all have meaning. I need to ask questions if I want to figure out what it is.

"Because mother left and now everyone hates us and we can't go back," the kids says in a rush.

I frown confused. "What?"

"Gustav," the father says, chastising his son.

Hearing that name jolts something in me. My whole body is in alert. "Wait, what did you call him?" What are the odds of him being called Gustave too? I haven't seen the kid clearly yet. I need a better look at him. Gustave would be twelve right now. This kid could be twelve.

I take a few steps closer, ignoring the warning signs coming from the two people in front of me.

            It takes barely a second, of me walking closer and of the man taking his gun and aiming.

He shoots. Not at me, but the sound surprises me so much that I jump and lose my footing and start falling down the cliff. I hit my head hard enough to not feel myself fall all the way to the bottom.