Exposition and Rising Action

“Then the general was beside me, mounted on his burly bay charger, and I struggled to my feet, though my leg hurt terribly. He hauled me up behind him, on the quivering back of that strong, proud horse, and I thought I might scream with pain as he jarred my leg. The general wrapped my arm around him and kept a firm hand on the reins as he coaxed his horse into a steady canter.” The elderly man, Jasson, paced like a caged lion, limping heavily on the right side. Several spellbound youngsters in knee pants and bare footed sat in a cluster on the ground of the hut. Suddenly, the man spun left and surveyed them majestically, then continued on.
“I could feel myself slipping, but every time the man in front of me reached back and by pure will kept me in place. My vision began to swim and I knew I was close to losing consciousness. My leg felt sodden, heavy, and when I reached to touch it my hand came away coated in blood. I felt sick. I could feel the break, and it made my stomach flip back and forth.” Again the man stopped, his dark eyes burning a hole into the crowd. One young boy was slowly moving forward with each passing minute, and Jasson held a smile behind tightly clamped lips. “I don’t know how long we rode, but when he finally pulled up at the field hospital I was woozy with blood loss and babbling incoherently. Though the general was no larger than I, he was a great deal more powerful and he lifted me down from the bay and carried me into the large white tent. A doctor was with him at once, and motioned us over to an unoccupied cot, where the general laid me down. I don’t know what happened after that, but when I woke, my leg was afire again and I believe I moaned for a time before dropping back off to sleep. I do not know how long I slept, but the next thing I remember, the general was standing over me. I saluted as I lay on my back, squinting as I peered up at him. He helped me to sit, and handed me a tray of food. I don’t know what it was, but it was hot and I was grateful. He proceeded to tell me that, while I had lain comatose, he and others had signed surrender, thus ending the revolution, and we were going home.”
Jasson’s long, steel grey hair swung about as he moved his large, slender hands expressively. “The trip home was a long one, complicated by the fact that I could not move about as others could. When we came into port, I had wasted away to virtually nothing, and my now healed leg was little more than a stick. So I retired from the army and returned here.” A smile appeared on the deeply lined face, and he chuckled a bit. “Now I am little more than a storyteller. I cannot work; my leg will not support it. I cannot marry; I am old and tired, with nothing that would attract a wife. So I find solace in memories, and you youngsters.” His brown eyes rested again on the smaller boy, the one who was inching forward. The man that had paced and roared like a lion was now little more than a shell, the life that was the story now spent. “So, young Rabullione,” he said quietly, using the people’s pet name for Napoleon, “Will you leave me in peace now? The rest of you as well.” He added as an afterthought. The boys nodded vigorously, and all but the one he named ran off.
Napoleon di Buenoparte reluctantly got to his feet and started off, looking longingly back several times. Finally, he broke into a steady jog, forcing his numb legs up the slight slope to the castle, where his mother stood at the window with his father, all billowing skirts and rigid posture. She watched sadly as her young son danced and fenced with imaginary opponents, yelling wordlessly as he ran and twisted through tight corners and long hallways, pretending at the battles that old Jasson told him of.
Jasson limped to the door, his eyes sad as he strained to see the boy in the fading light. He watched until Napoleon vanished into the house. Then he stumbled to his chair and sank into it. His right leg stuck out awkwardly. Sighing, he raked his long, slender fingers through his hair. Then he settled back, closing his eyes in exhaustion as he rubbed his aching thigh. Suddenly, the door creaked and the fading sunlight lit a patch of his dirt floor. He opened his eyes and staggered to his feet. ‘Come in, Carlo, come in.’ Jasson said, his eyes quickly losing their tired cast. Carlo Buenoparte glared at him. ‘How many times must I tell you?’ He snarled. Jasson eyed him warily. Carlo continued, ‘You aren’t to fill his head with your extravagant war stories!’ His eyes were frantic. ‘It’s bad enough he’s attending a military academy.’ He ranted, his words tripping over each other as they fought to be heard first. ‘I daren’t overrule his mother on that, but my son is not a soldier!’ Carlo glared, his chest heaving, as Jasson watched him. Spinning on his heel, he stalked towards the door. Stopping, he flung one last command over his shoulder. ‘And don’t call me Carlo.’
Jasson chuckled softly, and Carlo whirled back around, furious. Jasson stared at him, a bemused expression on his face. ‘Have things really changed that much, Carlo?’ He said softly. Napoleon’s father started forward, then halted, a confused expression on his face. ‘Have you really forgotten, Carlo?’ Jasson continued, ‘Do you really believe that Napoleon is not a soldier?’ Carlo’s shoulders slumped, and he sank into the chair across from Jasson’s. Jasson settled into his own chair and studied the younger man. ‘Let me refresh your memory, shall I?’ Jasson said. His blue eyes took on a dreamy cast as he thought back. He spoke softly, confidently, as Carlo’s fury disintegrated into sorrow and pain as the story unfolded. This story had a different cast, a softer glow to it, and Jasson leaned back in his chair, and closed his eyes, and told his story.
Slowly, ever so slowly, he sighed, and opened his eyes again. ‘Carlo, my old friend, you are fighting to stop what has to be.’ Tears glistened in his eyes, but he composed himself and continued talking in short, rapid bursts. ‘He is the one. Why are you keeping him from his destiny?’ Carlo buried his head in his hands. ‘I just don’t know anymore.’ He said, finally giving voice to the doubts and uncertainties that had plagued him since his son had been born. ‘He has brothers, bigger, stronger, smarter, and more controlled. How am I to know it’s not one of them?’ Jasson shook his head. ‘You know, Carlo. Your heart knows, but your head refuses to acknowledge it.’ Carlo sighed. ‘Why is it him? He’s so small, Jasson.’ He replied, using the older man’s name for the first time. Jasson staggered to his feet again and poured water for the both of them. ‘My friend,’ he replied, ‘it is not the size of the dog of the fight, but the size of the fight in the dog.’
Carlo didn’t smile. ‘You and your sayings.’ He mumbled as Jasson sat down again. Absently, he reached for the water and drank, wiping his upper lip as he set the cup down again. Jasson mirrored him, studying his friend’s face. ‘What are you afraid of, Carlo?’ He said softly, almost to himself. Carlo ignored him, taking another drink from his cup. Jasson was insistent. ‘Well? Where’s the monster?’ Carlo glared at him. ‘You’re not my doctor, don’t try to fix me.’ He snarled, his fury slowly returning. He drained the rest of his drink in silence, then rose. ‘I thank you for your hospitality.’ He said coolly, in a voice devoid of emotion. Then he turned and walked out, leaving Jasson sitting and staring after him, shadowed with doubt as his friend walked up the hill his son had run up so gaily that same evening.
Carlo strode up the hill, breathing heavily as his softening body protested. Frowning, he forced himself onwards, using his anger as fuel for his body. He stumbled through the door, his face a bright cherry red. His wife looked up in alarm from just inside the parlor door, but quickly relaxed. ‘My goodness, Carlo!’ She exclaimed. ‘No need to frighten me out of my wits!’ This did nothing to improve her husband’s mood, and he grumbled something unintelligible and vanished up the stairs to their rooms. Maria stared after him, surprise blatantly written on her face. ‘What’s gotten into him?’ she mused aloud, her voice low as she turned back to her book. ‘Who?’ A young voice piped up. Maria jumped, then turned to face her son. ‘Napoleon!’ she said sharply. The boy’s face fell instantly. ‘Yes Mother.’ He said softly, and slunk away, chastened. She did not call after him, though her heart ached. It was a hard thing, being the disciplinarian, but the boy’s father was far to free with him. Sighing, she set her book on the side table and lifted her skirts to avoid tripping as she climbed the stairs.
Carlo sat by the window, one leg stretched out on the rest of the bench seat, the other bent as a brace for his arms. He didn’t turn as she entered, seeming not to notice. Instead, he kept his eyes on the horizon. As Maria watched, astounded, a single tear traced slowly down his cheek, pausing in the lines around his mouth before falling from his jaw to his lapel. Concern filled her face as she stood in the doorway, unsure. She had never seen her husband cry before.
Carlo rubbed a hand over his face and shook his head, like a man awakening from a truly deep sleep. Then he caught sight of his wife and turned his head away again. ‘I am ashamed.’ He said quietly, his deep voice filling the once silent room. He gestured to the chair near the window seat. ‘Sit. We need to talk.’ Maria sank carefully into the padded wicker chair he pointed to, folding her hands in her lap nervously. Carlo continued to stare out the window as he started to talk. ‘Look outside.’ He said, gesturing languidly. ‘Tell me, my dear, what do you see?’ Maria leaned forward, uncertain. There were rolling fields and small herds of cattle and horses, but nothing of particular importance, and she said as much. She felt, rather than saw, Carlo’s eyebrow’s shoot up into his receding hairline. ‘Not important.’ It was a statement, an incredulous repetition, as though making sure he had heard her right. ‘The animals and crops that clothe and feed us are not important. The people that tend the fields and cattle are not important.’ Carlo kept his tone measured, even pleasant, but his cheek twitched dangerously. Maria backtracked quickly. ‘I thought you saw something truly incredible and interesting, is all.’ She said quickly, hoping to make amends.
Carlo smiled grimly. ‘Interesting. Incredible. Important.’ He repeated her slowly, giving her time to consider the meaning of each. He nodded towards the scenic landscape below them. ‘You see that down there? Do you see those people? You are right. I saw something important, incredible, and interesting. Everything that goes on down there is all of those things. I want our son to be part of it.’ Finally, Maria saw where it was going. ‘You don’t want him to be a soldier, is that it?’ She said shortly. No beating around the bush for her. She shook her head as he nodded firmly. ‘Carlo, Carlo.’ She said softly. ‘What happened to your free spirited, strong headed ideas? What happened to the man I used to know?’
Carlo didn’t respond, and his wife’s voice rose in pitch and volume. ‘Coward.’ She spat. ‘If you really cared for him, you would let him follow his destiny.’ Glowering, she rose. ‘He will finish his education here, and then it is my wish that he attend the Ércole Royale Militaire in Paris. Am I understood?’