Chapter 9: Visiting Day
****
Her eyes and hands were lifted up in laughter, frozen in perpetual happiness. Her lips were as red as they had been when she was alive, and her blonde hair looked soft to the touch. Her cheeks were pink with the constant exertion of loving life.
Her red dress cascaded down her body, waves of silk shimmering in the light of the sunbeam falling upon her face. Behind her stood a great elder tree. On its branches, a small bird had been placed at the whim of the painter, perhaps due to a knowledge of the woman’s great love of animals.
He walked up and gently touched the picture, his hands gliding across the painted cheek of his wife. She had been such a lovely woman, so spirited . . . so caring. She had been a great wife--and a wonderful friend.
He missed her so much.
Sometimes, he would jolt awake at night and roll over to reach out for her. But of course, she wasn’t there. She hadn’t been there for a long time.
A part of him had died with her, but just as bad was what had been born in its place. His self-loathing and guilt had risen up inside him like ravenous beasts and were slowly eating him alive.
On the night his second daughter had been born and had died with his wife, Samuel had been in bed with another woman.
It had been the first and last time that had happened, and he couldn’t explain his slip into depravity back then any more than he could now. The ache of shame beat perpetually in his breast. With every thump of his heart, a piece of it fell off and shattered into jagged slivers that pierced his soul and stayed there, unextractable, eternal, painful.
His only consolation was that she had died before she found out. Had she known, he felt the end result would have still been the same. She had lived in a world of such innocence that to have found out something so wretched would have destroyed her.
He closed his eyes, bleeding from a hundred thousand mental wounds, wrapped up in a million regrets. Today was Visiting Day.
Visiting Day was the one day a year when Assigned servants had the entire day off work to visit their families. The day was important to parents, who were finally able to give their children gifts and see how they were doing away from home.
His wife had hated the Assigning.
She had said that it was a form of slavery, and he had gradually come to understand her perspective and agree with it. There was something inherently wrong about taking children away from their homes merely to force them into servitude.
She had argued so vehemently for him to abolish the Assigning, but her pleas had not swayed him. The Nobles--particularly ones belonging to the camp that Alexander and Tempos’s father had led--were vocal in their support of it, and he dared not go against them.
Ellena had called him a dozen names--coward, slaver, child-stealer . . . . But he had stood firm. He would not destroy the hierarchy their kingdom was founded on. He feared the consequences too much.
But to placate his wife and his own conscience, he had taken a few measures in regard to servants at the castle. He had given a few people the duty of making children’s adjustments to their new lives more bearable, and he had tried to encourage those overseeing the Assigned to be kind taskmasters, allowing the children some free time where they could simply be children. He had even gone to the kitchen and informed the cook to improve the food being served to castle servants.
His wife had suggested they increase the number of festivals celebrated by the people. On festival days, servants got off half a day and were allowed to feast at the crown’s expense, so she felt it would bring a little more joy into the children’s lives. He had been resistant to the idea at first, but he had finally given in, believing it had merit. Now, there were festival days such as May Day and Children’s Day. They also celebrated Twelfth Night. Now, he associated every holiday with his wife--and with pain.
After she had died, he had stopped checking into the situations of servants. The structures were in place, but whether they were being held up or crumbling, he didn’t know. He wanted to bring himself to care, as he knew he should, but he could not. He was only a shell of a man, holding on to life only until his daughter was old enough to take the throne. He wanted to protect Loisette, to keep her safe. But he wasn’t safe himself. He was poison. And he didn’t want to subject her to that.
He wished Ellena could have raised Loisette instead of him. He didn’t know how to be a father. All he knew . . . was how to be a failure.
****
Loisette went rushing into the stable--Catherine following behind her at a more reasonable pace--only to falter at the sight of the Stable Master, Dwayne, mucking out stalls. There were absolutely no stableboys in sight.
“Your Highness,” he greeted with a bow, pausing from his physical labor.
“Where--where is everyone?” she asked in confusion. Where was Clarkent?
He smiled at her obliviousness. “It’s Visiting Day, Your Highness.”
“Oh,” Loisette said, suddenly very disappointed. She sighed to herself in frustration. She hated Visiting Day. Everything always took so much longer to get done, and her father would absolutely refuse to leave his room the entire day--not that she saw him much anyway.
With a frown, she asked the Stable Master, “Why are you here?”
“I’m a Requested servant, Your Highness,” he told her patiently. “Requested servants have three Leave Days a year, but they never fall on Visiting Day. It was designed so someone is always working, but I’m sure you knew that.”
Loisette felt her face grow warm. How could she have forgotten all that? When Assigned servants came of age at seventeen, they typically vacated their positions to go be with their families, but they could be Requested to stay, as Dwayne had. Requested servants were even given privileges that Assigned servants didn’t. They could marry, and they would also be paid for their work. The position was one of great honor, so many Requested servants never left. But they always had a choice in the matter--they could leave whenever they wanted, provided they gave a few days’ notice. She should have stopped to think about the fact that Dwayne had to be a Requested servant by sheer virtue of his age.
“I’m sorry--I wasn’t thinking,” Loisette said in a strained voice. “Of course it’s Visiting Day.”
“Everyone wants to see their families sometime,” the Stable Master pointed out gently. “You can’t begrudge them that.”
“You’re right,” Loisette agreed, feeling bad for her insensitivity. “I can’t.”
Catherine gave Loisette a light touch on the arm, and the princess turned to her.
“Come on, Your Highness,” Catherine said with strange gentleness. “We’ll come back another time to ride.”
Loisette nodded. “All right.”
****
Clarkent had felt so excited when he first saw his parents. He had rushed to embrace them, and they had hugged him back tightly. Words hadn’t been needed to express their joy.
On pulling away from them, however, his initial happiness had turned to worry. They appeared so much . . . older than his memories of them. And they seemed tired.
At first, he thought the trip had simply taken a lot out of them. It was a long way to travel, and the old cart they had ridden on was hardly the most comfortable of transports. But as the day had progressed, his concerned had lingered . . . deepened, even. Were they working too hard? They were older than most parents of children his age. If only he could be released from his current duties and be allowed to leave with them! His strong and fit young body would make such a big difference to his parents. It was less than five years until he could return home, but he was beginning to wonder--would they be able to survive long enough for him to finally go back to them?
His mother had been kind as ever, giving him some clothes she had sewn for him. “These are to play in,” she had said, her tone saying clear as words, “You had *better* be having some playtime.” He had put the clothes away, as he had most of the desserts his mother had baked for him. The desserts wouldn’t last him long, but when his mother brought him baked goods, he preferred not to eat them all in one day. Visiting Day lasted for only a few hours--he wanted the last reminders of their visit to last so much longer.
After the preliminary greetings were over, he had suggested--as he munched on one of the cakes he had received--they go to the stable to tour it, but his father had said, “I’d rather walk in the fields first, son,” and he had given Clarkent’s mother a look.
Clarkent wasn’t sure why they wanted to get away from everyone else, and it had done nothing to alleviate his fears. Were they trying to summon up the courage to tell him that one of them was dying?
Though his mother had exclaimed over how much he had grown since they had last seen him--and his father had commented on how much stronger he looked--there was a strange nervousness in both of them which went beyond excitement at seeing him. What did they want to tell him?
As they walked slowly through the field, Clarkent nibbled at one of his cakes. His mother was telling stories about what was going on with people back home.
“Opaline’s daughter is shooting up so fast that you’d think her father was a giant,” his mother was saying. “I wish we could have brought them with us, but the journey’s a bit tiring.” Her face turned sad. “And I don’t think Opaline wants to start considering the fact that soon her daughter will have to leave her.”
Clarkent pulled her into a sudden hug, holding the remains of his cake out of the way so it wouldn’t get smashed. “Mom,” he told her, “don’t worry. As Dad always says, ‘Worrying doesn’t help the cows get home.’” But in reality, he couldn’t take his own advice. He was very worried about his parents--what was wrong? And why weren’t they telling him what it was?
His father chuckled. “We only see you once a year, and you can remember me saying *that*?”
Clarkent lifted an eyebrow. “You say it a *lot*.”
His dad threw an arm around his shoulders. “Can I help it if I’m full of wisdom?”
Clarkent’s mother laughed. “If by ‘wisdom,’ you mean ‘cake,’ then yes!”
Winking, his father said, “I did have to try a few of her cakes. I had to make sure they weren’t poisoned.”
“Uh huh,” Clarkent said, rolling his eyes as he took another bite. “If I didn’t know any better, I would think you were trying to eat all of my present.”
His dad chuckled. “You might be right.”
They continued walking for a while, and Clarkent finished his cake. The sweets Gawain had been bringing him were good, but they weren’t quite *this* good. Still, it was hard to really enjoy it, his thoughts being as dismal as they were.
“How are you doing, Clarkent?” his mother asked finally, her tone suddenly serious.
He paused and toed the grass with one of his shoes, wondering if the conversation was about to turn toward the serious. “I’m doing all right.”
“Are you making friends?”
He nodded. “I am. And you know, being a stableboy isn’t too bad,” he said with a halfhearted smile. “I get a little bit of time off, especially now that I’m older.”
“We worry about you, son,” his dad said quietly. “We wish we could be here for you all the time.”
“Well, *don’t* worry. I’m doing fine. Before you know it, I’ll be seventeen and leaving this place, and you won’t be able to get rid of me!” He tried to grin at them, but he noticed them exchanging a solemn look, and he had to drop the happy façade. His brow wrinkled, he asked, “Mom? Dad? What is it?”
His mother sighed. “We wanted to wait a little longer before having this conversation, but I guess now is as good a time as any.”
He stared at her unblinkingly. “What conversation is that?”
“Clarkent,” his father said with a sigh, “there’s no easy way to say this, so I’ll just spit it out: we’re not your real parents.”
“What?” Clarkent whispered, his whole world suddenly turned upside down. Whatever he had expected them to say . . . it wasn’t this.
His mother threw an annoyed look at his father. “We may not be your real parents, Clarkent, but we love you just as much as if you really had been our own.”
“But you can’t tell anyone about this,” his father noted. “That’s very important. As far as the world knows, we’re your real parents rather than your foster parents.”
Clarkent shook his head, wanting to deny this sudden and unwelcome information. He knew they wouldn’t lie to him, but he still couldn’t help but feel a little doubtful about the whole thing. “Aren’t you listed as my parents in the Birth Registry?” he asked them. “How did the king’s men know to come get me for the Assigning?”
His foster parents--foster parents? Clarkent couldn’t believe it!--exchanged a look. “We had help forging your name in the Registry,” his mother admitted. “We knew you had to leave us when you were seven. If not, too many questions would have been asked about why we had a child past Assigning age. We couldn’t hide you away forever.”
He turned away from them, his mind awhirl. If they weren’t his real parents, then who was?
“Clarkent, please don’t be upset with us,” his mother pleaded.
He glanced over his shoulder at her and said softly, “I’m not.” Secretly, he was shocked and puzzled--but he had to admit to himself that he was also a little hurt. Why hadn’t they told him before now?
Clarkent leaned down and plucked a piece of grass to roll between his fingers. “How did you find me?” As he straightened, he saw the uncomfortable look they were sharing.
“You were given to us,” his father said at last.
“By who?”
“Please don’t ask us anything else, Clarkent,” his mother asked in a quiet voice.
“All right,” he mumbled, dropping the piece of grass to the ground. He was burning with questions, but it was obvious they weren’t going to answer them. “Then let’s just go to the stable.”
Every year, he would show them around the stable. His job had become so much a part of them that they were always interested in seeing where he worked, and usually he was glad to talk about his life working as a royal servant.
But this time, he didn’t feel like going anywhere with them right then. He wanted to withdraw to think.
“Is that cranky horse still around?” his father asked lightly.
“Yes,” he answered. But he didn’t offer forth any more information.
****
After walking around the Riding Stable and seeing Clarkent’s constant equine companions, they went to the town market. It was another tradition of theirs.
They wove through the busy stalls, looking at shiny fruit and bright baubles and lavish cloths and gleaming jewelry. Everything screamed, “Buy me! Pick me!”
“Jon,” his mother called out, waving over her husband, “look at this necklace.”
She pointed down at the necklace. It had a pendant on which gold strips were woven together, holding in place several expensive gems. Clarkent’s father made an admiring comment, and his mother reached out to touch it.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” the stall owner said with a smile. “It’s one of a kind.”
A shutter fell down over Clarkent’s face. It was another tradition of theirs that they look at items in the market . . . but not buy them.
For the first time, Clarkent truly felt their extreme poverty. And it hit him like a punch to the gut.
His mother didn’t own any jewelry--that was precious money to be spent elsewhere. There were clothes to buy and meals to make and equipment to fix. She didn’t even own a wedding ring. Only the wealthy could afford those.
He felt a sudden flare of anger toward the rich. They sat in their castles and on their estates, sipping from expensive bottles of wine and throwing unwanted table scraps to the pampered dogs at their feet. They could eat whatever and whenever they wanted. They could send someone out to buy necklaces and rings and silk clothes, never even giving a second thought to the children starving in the streets. Sure, maybe boys didn’t starve after the age of six and girls after the age of eight because of the enslavement enforced upon them--but if at seventeen they weren’t Requested to stay with their masters, then what exactly lay ahead for them in their adulthoods? Only the harsh world.
Perhaps, if they were lucky, they would find solace in the arms of a spouse. But having children with that spouse meant coming up with enough food to survive until those children were sent away. It was no way to live. The horses in the king’s two stables were treated better than that. Something needed to be done. Things needed to be changed somehow.
He was so wrapped up in these thoughts that it was hard for him to enjoy the rest of his time with his parents. All too soon, they had to leave, needing to travel home so they could return to work early the next morning.
His mother gave him a tight hug. “I love you so much, Clarkent,” she whispered to him. “Don’t forget that.”
“I won’t, Mom,” he told her. “I love you, too.” As he looked at her, she seemed so tiny and fragile. He had been having growth spurts recently, and he was already taller than her. She was so small--should he have already realized that she couldn’t be his real mother?
He felt another pair of arms wrap around him, and then his father said, “I love you, son.”
“And I love you, Dad,” he returned. There was a tightness in his chest, and his mouth felt very dry. It would be another year before he saw them.
They finally broke apart, and Clarkent’s father reached into his pocket and pulled out a small pouch.
Clarkent stared at the pouch, knowing the bottom of its belly contained a few dear coins. “Dad--”
“Please take it, son.”
Clarkent reached out reluctantly and put his fingers around it. He wanted them to have it--he knew they needed it dearly. But he also knew they wouldn’t take it.
Still, as he clutched the pouch to his chest, he couldn’t help but say, “Dad, this isn’t necessary--”
“We wanted to do it, son,” his father said with a smile. “We’ll see you next year.”
His mother came and gave him one more hug, her eyes glistening with tears. “Be strong, Clarkent. Remember we love you very much.”
He nodded and watched as they left. He knew he should probably go to the Riding Stable to see if Dwayne had been able to take care of everything, but his mind was too crowded with thoughts and troubles, so he resolved to take a walk to clear his head.
