Chapter 28
Jordan
"But why the markings?" I asked that night after Francois had gone to the barn to mentally prepare himself. His coronation, which would be another public declaration of loyalty, would take place at dawn the next day. Before swearing the oath, each family leader would be allowed four very carefully placed blows with a whip or a rod on Francois's back. "Why the need for the pain?"
"In the old days, there was no concept of jail in our culture," Charani said, sitting quietly, pensive. She knew what faced her son the next morning, having seen it once before. "There were three forms of punishment. You could warn, a scolding if you would. The next was corporal punishment. The third, of course, was banishment or death. The marks are to show that Francois has already paid for the mistakes he’ll make when he is King."
I nodded. An interesting concept. "I wonder how many people would sign up to be politicians if we did that in the United States."
"You mean Canada?" Charani chided in good humor. She had regained a small sense of it, using it to keep me and Syeira out of the worst of the black depths of our depression.
“On a more serious note, though, Francois is going to have a difficult next few days. He’s going to need you for support. Not only does he have the stress of becoming our new leader, but we have the ceremony for Felix."
I felt the tightening in my chest seize for second before unclenching. "I know. I’m thinking of how I will memorialize him."
Charani nodded. She brushed off her pants and stood up, stretching her arms over her head. "Then I will let you think. Good night, Jordan."
* * *
The ceremony itself took place in the backyard of the house. Two ropes had been strung from the post above the door to the barn, and two of the family leaders tied Francois up, his arms out at an angle to create a gigantic Y-shape. I winced when they lifted him into the air until his body hung two feet off the ground, his back muscles stretched painfully as he waited for his coronation gift.
Each of the leaders, sixteen in all, lined up in two lines of eight. One by one they approached and said something I couldn't understand in Romani before taking long wooden rods, maybe four feet long and about as thick around as two of my fingers. They then hit Francois across the back, taking turns to create the X-shape that I knew so well from Felix's back. Tears came to my eyes and I wanted to reach for him, but Charani laid a hand on my shoulder, shaking her head. There would be no interruption.
Francois's skin resisted the blows until the third pair, not rupturing until the man on his left swung so hard that his rod cracked in half with his blow. The ceremony didn't pause, but intensified, with each of the following pairs of men striving to open those wounds wider, the blood sheeting down Francois's back and staining his pants by the end. Tears rolled down my cheeks just as much, but still his head was held high, his eyes turned toward the sky, and I could see his eyes open and looking into the dimness of the barn.
Finally, the last blow was struck, and all sixteen men stood back, surveying their handiwork. One of them raised his hand, and in a single voice, they said something else in Romani. The man lowered his hand, and two more men ran forward, lowering Francois to the waiting arms of two more of the men. They carried him into the house, where one of them checked his wounds. He turned to Charani and spoke in Romani, her face impassive the whole time. She whispered out of the side of her mouth as the man took a bottle from what looked like an old-fashioned doctor's bag and started daubing fluid on the wounds. "He says that the wounds are deep, but that they’re just in the skin. The underlying muscles weren’t torn. For the Romani, this is good, as the scars will be wide and strong, unbroken. They’ll be a good sign of his position and the respect he deserves.”
I sighed in relief, then glanced at Charani. "Can I go see him now?"
“You can, but I’m not sure he’ll be conscious. I wouldn’t be surprised if he hasn’t passed out already from all the pain.”
I went over to Francois and knelt by his shoulder. His eyes were closed, but his face was still a rictus of pain. "Francois?"
"I . . . I’m okay," he grunted in a low voice. "I will recover."
"Then sleep for now, my love," I said, kissing his temple. “I’ll be here when you wake up.”