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Hello again all. It's taken a while, but I'm back with a second story. Hope you like it...
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"Il Qui Vit, Combat"
["He Who Lives, Fights"]
The sunlight was hot on the back of Jacques’ neck as he prodded a straggling horse along with his staff. The Rameau family sheepdog, Claude, trotted around the large, strong-smelling group of horses, yipping shrilly and guiding the animals toward the immense red barn.
Jacques looked back over his shoulder, taking in the sweeping vista of farmland and meandering streams and roads below the hill on which the Rameau farm stood. He could see the walls of Toulouse in the distance, above the green expanse of forest that separated the farms and mines of the fertile Valley from the bustling industrial cities on the eastern coast.
To his left was a massive mountain range, topped with dim white snow-peaks. On his right was the Lake, actually more of an inland sea, the afternoon sun sparkling on the dark blue waves. Beyond the Lake lay Paris, the political and military capital of France.
Though the city itself was not visible, Jacques could imagine the regiments of Musketeers that lived, trained, and fought there. He could see the shine of their rapiers, the immaculateness of their uniforms, and the drive and resolve inside them to defend the interests of France from those that would take them for themselves.
Jacques wanted, more than anything, to join them.
His mind was so focused on Paris that he lost his awareness of the here and now. His horses were wandering past the barn, Claude yipping furiously, and to make matters worse, his father Philippe was riding up on his own horse, back from his evening inspection of the farm.
“Jacques! Mon fils! Combien de fois ont je vous ai dit de garder votre cerveau sur votre travail!”
[“Jacques! My son! How many times have I told you to keep your mind on your work?”]
“Je fais des excuses, Pere. Je pensais à Paris et aux Mousquetaires.”
[“I am sorry, Father. I was thinking about Paris and the Musketeers.”]
“Paris prendra soin de lui-même, Jacques, mais les chevaux pas. Terminez votre travail.”
[“Paris will take care of itself, Jacques, but the horses will not. Finish your work.”]
“Oui, Père.”
Jacques ran to the front of the herd and turned the horses back toward the barn. Docilely, the animals clop-clopped through the doors. Having done the same thing many times before, they each made their way to their own stall and went inside.
Jacques picked up his pitchfork and scooped up some hay from the huge pile near the door. He distributed it in each stall, as the 15-year-old had done every day for seven years. After the deed was done, Claude ran to his straw pallet and Jacques closed the colossal barn doors.
He strolled past the barn and up the hill to the farmhouse. Carefully, he closed the gate and went up the path to the door. He opened it, and out wafted the strong aroma of roasting chicken. Jacques peered around the door to the kitchen, where his mother Marie sat in front of the stone fireplace, carefully turning a spit on which a plump chicken rotated above the flames.
Jacques went to the back of the house and looked in on his brother, Pierre. Only three years old, he was Jacque’s only living sibling. His sister Chloe had died of pneumonia at the age of six.
Although he was very young, Pierre looked up to Jacques a great deal, and Jacques knew this. He tried to be the kind of person he wanted his brother to be, and sometimes he succeeded. Often he did not.
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After dinner, Jacques and his father made their rounds about the farm. They rode out along the split-rail fence, past the rows of wheat and corn, among the cabbages and oats, and down to the shore of the Lake. It wasn’t until they were going back up the road to their house that Philippe spoke.
“Jacques, what is it you want to do when you become a man?”
Not expecting such a question, it took Jacques a moment to reply. “You know what I want to do, Father. I want to go to Paris and become a Musketeer.”
Jacques looked carefully at his father, but Philippe’s face betrayed no emotion. “Jacques, you know that I want for you what makes you happy. But this farm has been in our family for generations! You are my eldest son, Jacques, and it is my greatest wish to pass on this farm to you.”
Jacques knew of his father’s wish, and to refuse him made Jacques feel guilty, but he knew that working the farm was not his destiny. “Father, the farm is a beautiful and wonderful place, but it is not where I belong. I know that my destiny lies in Paris, with others who share my wish to fight for our country. It is the greatest dream I have, to be a Musketeer.”
“My son, your future is your choice to make, not mine. Having said this… I am concerned for your brother. You know that he loves you and wants to be like you in every way. If you go off to Paris and become a soldier…” Philippe lowered his head for a moment, then raised it and looked at his son with troubled eyes. “I do not know what will happen.”
His father turned away and rode on.
Jacques put his horse away and went back to the farmhouse. He climbed into his bed and lay there for a long time. At last, he felt the sorrow welling up in his eyes, and one quiet drop spilled over.
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To be continued…
-----
"Il Qui Vit, Combat"
["He Who Lives, Fights"]
The sunlight was hot on the back of Jacques’ neck as he prodded a straggling horse along with his staff. The Rameau family sheepdog, Claude, trotted around the large, strong-smelling group of horses, yipping shrilly and guiding the animals toward the immense red barn.
Jacques looked back over his shoulder, taking in the sweeping vista of farmland and meandering streams and roads below the hill on which the Rameau farm stood. He could see the walls of Toulouse in the distance, above the green expanse of forest that separated the farms and mines of the fertile Valley from the bustling industrial cities on the eastern coast.
To his left was a massive mountain range, topped with dim white snow-peaks. On his right was the Lake, actually more of an inland sea, the afternoon sun sparkling on the dark blue waves. Beyond the Lake lay Paris, the political and military capital of France.
Though the city itself was not visible, Jacques could imagine the regiments of Musketeers that lived, trained, and fought there. He could see the shine of their rapiers, the immaculateness of their uniforms, and the drive and resolve inside them to defend the interests of France from those that would take them for themselves.
Jacques wanted, more than anything, to join them.
His mind was so focused on Paris that he lost his awareness of the here and now. His horses were wandering past the barn, Claude yipping furiously, and to make matters worse, his father Philippe was riding up on his own horse, back from his evening inspection of the farm.
“Jacques! Mon fils! Combien de fois ont je vous ai dit de garder votre cerveau sur votre travail!”
[“Jacques! My son! How many times have I told you to keep your mind on your work?”]
“Je fais des excuses, Pere. Je pensais à Paris et aux Mousquetaires.”
[“I am sorry, Father. I was thinking about Paris and the Musketeers.”]
“Paris prendra soin de lui-même, Jacques, mais les chevaux pas. Terminez votre travail.”
[“Paris will take care of itself, Jacques, but the horses will not. Finish your work.”]
“Oui, Père.”
Jacques ran to the front of the herd and turned the horses back toward the barn. Docilely, the animals clop-clopped through the doors. Having done the same thing many times before, they each made their way to their own stall and went inside.
Jacques picked up his pitchfork and scooped up some hay from the huge pile near the door. He distributed it in each stall, as the 15-year-old had done every day for seven years. After the deed was done, Claude ran to his straw pallet and Jacques closed the colossal barn doors.
He strolled past the barn and up the hill to the farmhouse. Carefully, he closed the gate and went up the path to the door. He opened it, and out wafted the strong aroma of roasting chicken. Jacques peered around the door to the kitchen, where his mother Marie sat in front of the stone fireplace, carefully turning a spit on which a plump chicken rotated above the flames.
Jacques went to the back of the house and looked in on his brother, Pierre. Only three years old, he was Jacque’s only living sibling. His sister Chloe had died of pneumonia at the age of six.
Although he was very young, Pierre looked up to Jacques a great deal, and Jacques knew this. He tried to be the kind of person he wanted his brother to be, and sometimes he succeeded. Often he did not.
-----
After dinner, Jacques and his father made their rounds about the farm. They rode out along the split-rail fence, past the rows of wheat and corn, among the cabbages and oats, and down to the shore of the Lake. It wasn’t until they were going back up the road to their house that Philippe spoke.
“Jacques, what is it you want to do when you become a man?”
Not expecting such a question, it took Jacques a moment to reply. “You know what I want to do, Father. I want to go to Paris and become a Musketeer.”
Jacques looked carefully at his father, but Philippe’s face betrayed no emotion. “Jacques, you know that I want for you what makes you happy. But this farm has been in our family for generations! You are my eldest son, Jacques, and it is my greatest wish to pass on this farm to you.”
Jacques knew of his father’s wish, and to refuse him made Jacques feel guilty, but he knew that working the farm was not his destiny. “Father, the farm is a beautiful and wonderful place, but it is not where I belong. I know that my destiny lies in Paris, with others who share my wish to fight for our country. It is the greatest dream I have, to be a Musketeer.”
“My son, your future is your choice to make, not mine. Having said this… I am concerned for your brother. You know that he loves you and wants to be like you in every way. If you go off to Paris and become a soldier…” Philippe lowered his head for a moment, then raised it and looked at his son with troubled eyes. “I do not know what will happen.”
His father turned away and rode on.
Jacques put his horse away and went back to the farmhouse. He climbed into his bed and lay there for a long time. At last, he felt the sorrow welling up in his eyes, and one quiet drop spilled over.
-----
To be continued…
, pero yo lo prefereria si fuera en espanol 
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