1 The Bad News

When news of his mother's death had arrived, Refo had had no one to turn to, save

family. He was devastated, of course, and he could not help himself but to think of the easiest of

escapes, in fact, his own death, a bloody suicide, but again, of the course, he could not bring

himself to commit such a heinous crime. It was not in his nature to do so, and survival, he knew,

was of the utmost of importance. Besides, he could not give that satisfaction to his father, of all

people. His father, who stood before him now, at the funeral, dressed in black, in his military

garments—uniform, what have you—and Ref there across from him, in his own plain, dark

clothes. Refo, deeply saddened by his mother's death, nonetheless could not help himself but to

think of what his father might be scheming for him. Would he send him off to join the military?

Was there some other plot brewing inside that man's mind? Either way, Refo knew he did not

have the upperhand, but he was smarter than his father, and stronger too. Perhaps he could win

out after all, however he decided to play it.

Refo's mother had objected to military service vehemently, and Refo had been glad—he

had no desire to join the military, though not born of cowardice was it, as his father suspected.

No, Refo simply did not care to take orders so directly, and preferred to give them, and—

working his way up through the military—well, frankly, it sounded like hell to him. Perhaps, he

thought, he would find another way, but first… he would have to best his father, surely. His

name was Refoperal, his father's name, an elongated version of Refo's name, or that's how Refo

tended to think of it, rather than the other way around, that his name was a shortened version of

his father's.

No, he did not like it the other way around.

Looking back to the casket, a closed casket it was, Refo's mind began to wander to here

and to there, and he wondered, with a great passion, why it was his father had lied to him about his mother's death… oh, yes, Refo knew, and as a tear ran down from his eyes, one on each

cheek, Refo could not help but to, for but a moment, at least—before his father noticed—to stare

vehemently at his father. He even went so far as to cock his head one way, to the left, analyzing

his bastard father, before he lowered his eyes back to the ground, and stifled his weeping.

When the procession was over, they put Refo's mother in the ground, and covered her

person in dirt and blackened soils, a symbol of her strength, and prowess within the community.

Refo recalled fondly the moment his mother had helped a young orphaned boy to find a family

within the city, a rather large city, the name of which was Trespiory. Of course, Refo's father

had objected. Refo had not cared about whether or not the boy found a family, in all honesty, if

truth be told, what have you, but rather that his mother did care so deeply, as it extended to

himself, his personhood, even. Yes, he had cared deeply for his mother and… no, he was sure of

it. His father, he looked at him once again… his father must have had something to do with it. He

could almost feel it, or taste it in the air—something about the environment was different for it,

and he knew, in his heart, that his father must have done something evil.

But what had his incentive been? To kill his mother, of course, if that's what he did do.

Uncertain, Refo pondered the thought a moment before placing it in the back of his mind, as he

watched them, the funeral processors, place his mother in the earth, and cover her. In no time,

surely, she was gone, but Refo had already walked away, his father now, as well, nowhere to be

found.

Refo found the trunk of a large tree, an oak, in the cemetery and, ignoring the people who

walked past, leaned against it, clutching his heart. It was beating so fast. In a moment—he didn't

know where she came from—came the poor girl Eva, whom Refo had known since childhood.

She was nineteen now; so was he. He wondered for but the but quickly realized that she wanted to console him. She said nothing, her long brown hair falling

just past her shoulders. She was thin, and she was very pretty, but Refo had no interest in her.

Still, he was thankful that she cared for him so. She hugged him a moment and, again, saying

nothing, she stood, looked at Refo, and then walked away.

She knew him well enough to know that she must give him the time. Perhaps even, she

knew about Refo's father, as she was clever, as Refo was, or perhaps even more so. He would

call on her, perhaps, later on, to aid him. But enough! Refo could not stand it anymore. He had to

move forward, and he did, and by the time a week had passed, though he thought of his mother

fondly, he did not feel for her as he had before. He could not.

And by the time the week had passed, Refo found himself sitting in the study of his

father's estate, a large mansion, and some acres, a few houses, what have you, thinking.

Contemplating—scheming, actually. He wondered to himself about whether or not he should

confront his father, and had so for the week prior, and, though he had decided not to, at least not

immediately, he had also decided that it would be wise to say something to his father. What, he

was not sure, as he did not want to cause suspicion, but… well, perhaps he would have to

anyway. Perhaps it did not matter one way or another, and surely, Refo thought, it did not.

The study was a large, spacious room, oaken-walled with various details throughout, but

with one detail, which stood out particularly. An owl's head. The Rocumulus family crest. It had

been made by his father's father's father, Refo's great grandfather, the man who had started the

company. Sure Woods it was called—the Sure Woods Company—and had been called for nearly

a century. His right, Refo's, to inherit. His father had always claimed that it was a great right to

have, a great and amazing inheritance, however… Refo had never looked forward to it. He did

not want it, no. He would, rather, not mind to be something lesser, perhaps, and to take a wif moment what it was she was doing somewhere outside the city. Once even he had expressed this thought to his father. Of course, it

had not been received well.

Thinking of these things, Refo grew suddenly tired. He yawned and, a fire burning, low,

in the fireplace, as above stood the family crest, the owl, ever watching, he grew calm, and still,

as he nodded off sorely to sleep. When he awoke, he noted that the fire had diminished to but

embers and noted, as he searched the room from the large oaken chair in which he sat, that it had

grown dark, and that night had, indeed, befallen him. In fact, the only two things visible were, of

course, the embers within the fireplace, and the Rocumulus owl's head. Only barely so was it

visible, the owl's head, but nonetheless, it stared darkly down at Refo, as it sat across the room

from him, a distance away. He wondered again, this time for but a moment, what did mean the

owl's head? Ominously, it looked at him as if to tell him, but wordlessly, as obviously it could

not speak to him. He wished it could just say what it meant to say, that the thought or the idea or

the feeling—whatever the owl did represent—would come to him, and enter his mind. It did not,

however, come to him. Not that night.

Perhaps, Refo thought, he would return to his quarters. The servants, as they always did,

would have lit the halls with candles here and there, in a very orderly fashion, along the various

candle nooks within the mansion, as the Rocumulus Estate and Mansion were always bright,

despite its grey exterior. Of course, bright simply meant dim. At least, in this place, where Refo

lived, in this city, as nothing therein was anything more than that. It was a sorrowful place,

indeed, for some, and for others, he supposed, it was a home, though he had never felt that way.

Not actually.

At the end of his thinking, relentless as it was—it had ceased for the night—Refo did

decide to return to his quarters, where he fell into his bed, and fell too, calmly, to sleep.