Black Rose, a Cursed Child

II/ Messenger

      

         I was well known in these vast valleys of sunshine because of my unusual and exotic beauty. My ebony eyes and hair came from my father, a son of the valley, while my milky white skin came from my mother, whom my father had torn away from city life. I was the fruit of this strange marriage, and my fascinating beauty came from the most appreciable characteristics of these two regions. I was the pride of my parents, already well appreciated in the village. I never thought I would become the cursed child. I never imagined that I would be betrayed and abandoned by those who were dearest to me.

The winters in this region, although short, were bleak and cold. Trade was greatly reduced because of the impassable snow-covered roads, and there was no entertainment to disturb the monotony of the forgotten village. It was at this time of year that the name of our valley took on its full meaning. That is why no one missed the arrival of the man in the big black coat, who had braved the storm and knocked on our door.

It was one of those never-ending winter days. The animals were in the sheepfold, the work had been done. Huddled around the fire, we waited for the winter to pass. My father wrote letters to some distant contact, promising I don't know what exchange of products once spring came. My mother taught me to read and write, when she wasn't teaching me local songs about brave heroes. Despite the boredom of these monotonous days, I enjoyed listening to all these fantastic stories around the hearth. The arrival of the mysterious character did not go unnoticed in the village, for at this time of year the inhabitants were used to seeing only the courier pass by. I was at the window when his silhouette broke through the storm. I could make out his wind-beaten great black coat, his almost too large wooden stick. It made him look strange, almost comical to see him using such a disproportionate stick. Dressed all in black, he stood out clearly against the great blanket of snow that covered the valley. The flakes fell thickly, in an unpredictable and threatening dance. They stuck to my face, clung to my hair, and yet I stood at the window. I surely sensed something. Or maybe not. Not that anyway. The wind was blowing into my room, taking the cursed snow with it. On the floor, the wooden boards were getting wet as the flakes settled on the warm floor of the house. The coldness of the snow did not survive in this cocoon of love that nothing seemed to be able to freeze. I turned my attention back to the horizon and the man who had appeared there. Seeing him coming closer, I joined my parents by the fire and warned them of this unexpected being.

No sooner had I finished speaking than a knock sounded. There was a knock at the door. My mother rushed to open the door, convinced that it was the traveller. She was not mistaken. As the door opened, a gust of wind blew into the house, covering the floor with sleet. The stranger hardly had time to ask for food. My mother was already showing him all the hospitality customary in the region. In a few moments he was stripped of his snowy coat and his oversized walking stick. He revealed an emaciated and tired face, that of a man who has already lived a long time. His half-length, grey hair was stuck in uneven strands on his head and fell in front of his eyes. Drops of water streamed down his face, his clothes dripped on the threshold of the house. My mother offered him our fireplace to dry and warm himself while she prepared food. Taciturn, the man went straight to the fireplace, without a glance for the rest of the household. This scene will always be engraved in my mind. That moment when fate burst into my life.

A few moments passed, in a frozen silence. Or were they hours lost in the distorted time of winter?

The man's hands were blue from the cold and he turned his palms towards the burning hearth. The last snowflakes had long since sunk into his damp clothing when he turned around. The scene looked like something out of a painting. No one spoke a word or seemed to stir. My mother was still at the stove watching her soup, my father sitting at the big wooden table seemed absent. And I was still standing at the door, my feet in the puddle of slush that the man had left when he came in. There was a gloomy atmosphere, as if the entrance of this strange character had opened a breach in the carefree peace of our home.