DESPITE THE DOWNPOUR, Luc’s first day as a swineherd’s helper had not turned out badly after all. His clothes were half dry, and his belly was full. Cadeau gobbled the bread and trotted along, splashing through puddles and nipping and dodging the two pigs. He was a big, beautiful dog with a shiny brown coat, a freckled cream muzzle, and a long feathered tail. As Luc trudged home in the moonlight, he thought about the remarkable fish-filled cottage and the beautiful Beatrice. He’d never seen anyplace like the fisherman’s home, nor anyone half as pretty as the girl with long dark hair and deep-blue eyes. She was probably his age, but, of course, no one guessed that he was almost fifteen; he looked younger than his brother Hervé, who was two years his junior.
Hervé was as tall as Luc and already stronger. His upper lip was shadowed, and his voice was deep. Luc’s father often reminded Luc that Hervé could lift the heavy harvest baskets more easily; that Luc was the better climber and picked more olives went unremarked.
“Maybe you’re missing more than an ear,” said his father all too often.
Luc was no stranger to his father’s insults, but he was learning to shrug them off. He was a wise, able boy who loved his mother and his little brothers. Until his work as a swineherd in Mouette, he had spent little time with anyone outside his immediate family. They lived a very quiet life; they avoided the fishing village along the shore below and rarely visited the farming village up the road except to attend the tiny hill chapel on Sundays and holy days. For as long as Luc could remember, their only visitors were the same two soldiers, who arrived twice yearly, in the spring and fall. The soldiers brought white flour, cheeses, honey, and woolen cloth for Luc’s mother, Blanche. They brought a barrel of wine for his father, Pascal, and sometimes shoes for the boys. They talked to Pascal privately, but before they left, they always spoke with Luc and his brothers, asking how they spent their days and what they needed, or even what they wanted. Four years ago, the older soldier, a knight named Sir Guy, had given Luc a puppy. Sir Guy said the dog was for Luc alone, a gift because Luc was turning into a fine young man. For once, Pascal said nothing.
The soldiers had not come this past spring, and Luc had asked his mother why.
“Hush,” Blanche had said. “Don’t say another word about it, Luc. Especially to your father.”
Luc rarely said anything to his father, but he remembered earlier years when his father had been kinder, and Luc had been happier. His brother Hervé was born when Luc was two, and baby Pierre followed six years later. The three boys were healthy, and the harvests were good, but Pascal began to drink after Hervé was born, and over time, he went from a hardworking family man to a sullen drunk and, increasingly, a mean one. As his father became more difficult, Luc noticed that his mother had stopped singing. His mother used to sing all the time. Before Pierre was born, Blanche would put baby Hervé on her hip, and taking Luc by the hand, she would sing softly to him as they climbed the hills beyond the grove. They would look down at their house, and she would ask Luc if he could see his father in the olive grove. Could he spot their chimney? Could he see the pigs in their pen? Could he see the chickens? Luc loved her games. He squinted and concentrated until he not only could point out the chickens but could tell which was the rooster and which was the spotted old hen. His mother hid tiny pieces of broken crockery in the dirt, and Luc raced to spot them. Blanche was surprised by all that he could do. When Luc was no more than four, Pascal was taking him to hunt because the remarkable little boy could hear a rabbit breathe and see the movement of a whisker. But that changed as Hervé grew. Hervé had never been good at his mother’s games; he did not have Luc’s quickness or his gifts. Now, when he went hunting, Pascal took neither boy, and his mother’s games had ceased. Now, nothing Luc did was good enough for his father.
Cadeau barked and ran ahead to the house. Luc urged the pigs along with the staff. Pierre scampered to his older brother and threw his muddy arms around him.
“Luc! Luc! Papa said you drowned in a puddle.”
Leaning the staff against the farmhouse, Luc lifted his mud-splattered little brother and swung him around and around by his arms. When Luc put him down, Pierre giggled and stumbled in a dizzy circle.
“Are you hungry, Luc?” called his mother from the doorway.
“You gave the boy cheese as he left. And he must have had nuts and berries with the pigs. Or he should have,” said Luc’s father, who stepped in front of his wife and stood on the threshold with his arms folded across his chest.
Luc said nothing. Their farmhouse was stone, a long rectangular building, much larger than the fisherman’s cottage. The separate kitchen opened into a courtyard with a well and a generous shade tree. On the far side was a small stable, to which Luc led the pigs. He filled a pail with well water and rinsed his face and his muddy feet. Luc’s legs ached, and his shirt was damp; he was tired and very glad for Beatrice’s soup. He dried his face on his shoulder and smiled. It had been a fine day. He looked forward to tomorrow, when he would again see Pons and Mattie. And the girl.
Every day, throughout October and most of November, Luc shepherded about two dozen pigs from Mouette to the woodlands above. Most of the men in that village were fishermen, but each household kept at least one young pig, raising it in the spring and summer on table scraps and market waste, until the fall, when the pig was fattened on the acorns, beechnuts, and chestnuts that covered the forest floor. At the end of November, the pigs would be slaughtered and turned into meat for the winter. Luc’s last stop at the end of every afternoon, after he had returned all the other pigs, was the cottage of Pons and Mattie and Beatrice, where they always saved supper for him.
“Have you ever been out on the sea?” asked Mattie one day as Luc was finishing his soup.
“Never,” replied the boy.
“Would you like to go out in my boat one day?” asked Pons.
The boy nodded. “If my father will allow it.”
“Tell him you’ll bring home some fresh mullet.”
Though he longed to go out in Pons’s boat, Luc never asked his father. Their silver-leafed olive trees were filling with purple fruit, and the swineherd recovered in mid-November, just as Luc was needed for the harvest.
On his last night with the pigs, Luc was very quiet at the table in Pons’s house.
“I hope you’ll visit us after the harvest,” said Mattie.
“Yes,” said Beatrice. “We’ll miss you. And Cadeau.”
“I’ll return. I promise,” said Luc. “But tomorrow I’ll be picking olives.”
“Come back after the harvest. Maybe take a ride in Pons’s boat, too,” added Beatrice.
Luc nodded and waved good-bye.