Chapter Thirty-five

 

 

A Bitter Harvest

 

 

The significance of coincidence is often underestimated, or not even noticed at all, yet throughout history coincidence has directed lives, changed the course of wars, and altered history itself. Unbeknownst to both Tristan and Mala, the heavy footstep of chance had now stamped its mark on their existence, forcing a shift in the ebb and flow of their already fragile relationship. Some would say that such occurrences are the result of minor mishaps, while others would claim that fate is the culprit. Yet others would insist that all is as God wills it. Regardless of the root, the harvest of such occurrences is bitter, and once pulled from the ground can never be replanted.

So filled with anticipation at finally holding Mala again, Tristan arose and slipped away from the monastery before sunrise that next morning, setting his horse at full gallop. Reaching the site of the Romani camp, he found nothing. Thinking at first that he had perhaps deceived himself about the location, he walked about in the mud for several minutes inspecting his surroundings. Then, kicking at the soaked remnants of the campfire and spying deep ruts plowing their way to the road, it finally dawned on him that Mala and the Romani had vacated the site. Perhaps due to the storm, he then rationalized. Yes, seeking higher ground.

He then mounted his horse and rode about through the woods, following a course of higher elevation. “Mala!” he shouted, certain that he would see her at any moment. An hour passed as he travelled first the high ground, then circled back and searched the opposite direction, though it made little sense. Mystified, he then remembered that members of Mala’s original troupe had become involved in thievery in Paris. Yes, perhaps Fernando or some of the others had disobeyed Mala and run afoul of the Marseilles authorities and been taken into custody, he decided, turning his horse back toward the road.

Accepting this explanation coming out of the trees, he saw a farmer driving his cart the opposite direction. “Good morning, sir,” the man said, acknowledging Tristan’s military uniform, curious why a soldier would be coming out of the woods at such an early hour. “Twas quite a storm last night. Hope you weren’t caught out in it here in the woods, eh?”

“No, I was in town fortunately. Some friends of mine have been staying out here this past month or so and I am looking for them. Oddly, I cannot seem to find them anywhere and…”

“Ah, the foreign musicians!” the farmer interrupted. “Yes, I gave them permission to set camp on this small patch of land I call home.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, a strange thing. Last night in the very midst of the storm, they appeared at my cottage, paid me two gold coins for my generosity, then disappeared in the night.”

Tristan shook his head, dumbfounded, and said, “What? In such a downpour?”

“Huh, that’s exactly what I thought, lad! I asked the young woman who paid me whether they couldn’t wait till morning, but she was adamant about leaving Marseilles that very moment.” Then he scratched at his chin a moment before continuing. “Something bad must have occurred within the camp,” he then said. “She looked very distraught at the time.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, she looked upset, as though someone had died, perhaps.”

Tristan’s stomach knotted at these words as one wild supposition after another began stirring within the silt of his own confusion. No matter what he dredged to the surface, he could not uncover any reason for her to leave so hurriedly, especially without at least sending word to the monastery.

“Did she say where they were headed?” he asked.

“Nuh,” the farmer said, shaking his head, “I asked, lad, she said she had no idea. Anyway, I felt sorry for the poor thing; so young, so heavy-hearted.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Tristan with a tip of his hat, imagining briefly that he had already set his horse at full gallop down the road leading west from Marseilles in the hopes of catching up to Mala within a day’s time. Knowing this was impossible, due to the mission for Mathilda, he slowly turned his mount east and proceeded back to Marseilles. Before returning to the monastery he went first to the harbor, and like the hope-obsessed fisherman casting his net yet one final time before going home empty-handed, he walked about calling her name over and over, refusing to believe that she had truly disappeared.