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They sound impatient, shrill with the heady prospect of fresh blood to wet the newly sharpened guillotine blade.
He would be sick, but nothing remains in his stomach to be emptied.
Credit: Owen Pataki; Tricia McCormack Photography
Cant have the hair getting tangled on the blade.
Most of the hair, even that from the young heads, is laced with gray.
Funny, he thinks, how terror ages a man much more quickly than any passage of time.
This way, old man, move along.
The inmates whose names werent called peek through the small slits in their doors, watching the march.
Grateful, for the moment, to be on the other side of their doors.
And now, he waits.
Must be thousands of em out there.
A twitchy man at least thirty years his junior looks at him with wide, unblinking eyes.
De Valiere nods in reply.
He was already bald and therefore hadnt required the same shearing as the rest.
A guard emerges from the prison.
All right, its time.
Up you go, he says, pointing his musket at the tumbril that awaits.
Lets not keep Madame waiting.
No back talk, you!
As if a beating could do any harm at this point.
De Valiere waits his turn to climb into the tumbril, helping an old woman before him.
She smiles wanly back at him, her trembling hands betraying her own terror.
The old man is momentarily blinded.
There are even more than he would have guessed.
A whirring noise rings past his ears, followed by a dull thud.
She cries out, My rosary!
The crowd lets out a chorus of cheers and sniggers.
The old woman mumbles quietly to herself, My rosary.
It was my mothers rosary.
Old bitch cares about her necklace till the very last!
Rot in hell, you glutted rich pigs!
Make way, I said!
The cart rounds the corner and the narrow cobblestoned street opens up into the large, packed square.
The mob spots the approaching carriage and erupts.
The noise is deafening, as de Valiere hears voices roar the nations new national anthem.
Raised up, de Valiere muses, death exalted.
The carriage rolls to a halt.
A guard lowers the tumbrils back gate and waves a gloved hand.
All right, step off.
For a moment, none of them moves.
De Valiere takes the first step, lowering himself down onto the street.
De Valiere ducks in time to miss the assault of a soft rotting apple.
The man puts his hands to his chest as if to ask Me?
The guard nods, waving his hand.
hey, dont let me shame myself, de Valiere thinks.
Let me depart with just a final shred of dignity.
The young duke is practically carried up the creaking steps, his thin frame trembling between the guards.
His sobs and protestations are audible, even over the din of the crowd.
But why must I go first?
What on earth have I done?
What difference does it make, Seigneur?
The guard is impatient; hes seen enough of this useless pleading to be bored by the last-minute hysterics.
He needs to get the show going before the crowd grows unruly.
The crowd, witnessing his writhing and his pleading, grows even more frenzied.
De Valiere stops breathing, but he cant pull his eyes away.
Finally, when the latch is pulled and the blade flies downward, de Valiere shuts his eyes.
He hears a quick noise, a brief crash, followed by a thunderous roar.
In the din, the thudding sound of the severed head dropping into the basket is lost.
Having caught this first whiff of blood, the crowd becomes even more ravenous.
The guard is looking at him now.
He lets out a slow, long breath.
So this is what it means to stare into the face of death.
One foot in front of the other, he makes his way to the stage and up the steps.
He no longer feels his own footsteps, nor thinks about how his legs manage to carry him.
He kneels on his own, preempting the guards gruff handling.
And then his stare lands on one face in particular.
Colorless eyes, skin and hair as white as parchment.
Hes come to gloat, even now?
Even in this last moment?
De Valiere holds the mans eyes briefly, swears that those pale lips pull apart in a sinister grin.
But then de Valiere blinks, forcing himself to look away.
He wont have that face be the last sight his eyes rest upon while on this earth.
Theres the woven basket again, below him this time and stained scarlet.
But he cant avoid the wide, vacant eyes of the young nobleman killed moments before.
They stare at him without blinking, without light, frozen in fear.
The eyes are so distracting that he no longer hears the crowd.
He does not hear the shrill tap-tap-tap of the drums.
He wills his mind to envision something else, something other than this present hell.
To forget the pale hair and colorless face of his enemy.
To forget the stunned eyes of the dead young duke.
He sees them chasing each other in the garden, squealing with childish abandon.
At this thought, he smiles one last time.
From the book WHERE THE LIGHT FALLS by Allison Pataki and Owen Pataki.
Copyright 2017 by Allison Pataki and Owen Pataki.
Reprinted by arrangement with The Dial Press,a division of Penguin Random House LLC.
