While walking down the hill again, young Thom had a good view of the village and from one particular side he could hear the recognizable screaming of a pig whose throat was being slit. Inside the village, he followed the plume and crackling sound of fire and eventually the smell of the burnt pig’s hair. Upon arrival at the butcher’s house, he found the pig hanging upside down, its skin being scrapped and washed by two men. Young Thom knew very well that the next step would be even smellier so he hurried to arrest the working men. Already a knife in their hands they greeted the stranger. Once again young Thom introduced himself as the son of the blacksmith and was about to ask for his sister’s whereabouts, but the elder of the two interrupted him before he even could raise the question and the man said they knew nothing of her. From the letters of his mother and sister young Thom knew that this could not be true for his family had lived at the butcher’s house, so he insisted that surely they must know something. The men replied with irritation and demanded that they should be left to work. Young Thom left them, as indeed the men had work to do, but he was set to return that same afternoon. As he walked away, the intestinal sounds behind him made him sped up his pace.
Finding a better place to sleep was the task at hand.
Some of the houses brought back vague memories and young Thom decided to search for the guesthouse that he remembered, mainly from those fancily dressed people that always stayed there. Young Thom slowed down when walking by the blacksmith’s house. The constant hammering sound suddenly stopped and young Thom felt a shiver through his body when he saw the silhouette of a man against the red glow of the fire. Young Thom quickly continued down the road. It seemed more and more people looked through windows and doors to get a glimpse of the stranger of whom they no doubt had all heard by now. Although he replied the looks with nods and smiles, none of the people responded back, and if they did, it was by turning their heads away and continuing with their work.
Next : The Butcher's Daughter
Friday, February 29, 2008
Friday, February 22, 2008
His Mother's Grave
When asking for a place to sleep, young Thom was met with silence. But then one man stepped forward and pointed upward. At the back of the barn, young Thom could see a ladder towards a hayloft. He thanked the man who he assumed to be the owner and said he would go to sleep immediately. By the time young Thom reached the loft, all men had already left the barn. Only the owner remained present to point out that the barn’s door would be locked and that young Thom should knock on the inner door towards the main house in case he was in need of something.
Not many hours later, before dawn, the barn door was opened again, and without a word, the owner brought some bread, cheese and milk to young Thom. While eating and drinking, he thought of his mother who had died less than a year ago. The news of which he had been informed by letter, and so he asked the owner of the barn the way to the graveyard and also the whereabouts of his sister of whom he hadn’t heard since. The barn owner pointed at the cross of the chapel that could be seen above the trees at the top of a hill. About the sister he did not know, but perhaps young Thom should ask the butcher. It was the place where both his mother and sister last stayed. Young Thom thanked the barn owner again and left for the graveyard.
It was a sunny day, and yet the village appeared quite dark. It was much unlike young Thom remembered it, but that should not have been a surprise. The last time young Thom walked about these houses was the day he left here to work in the factory at the other end of the country. Only his mother had been there to wave him goodbye. His father had not returned from war long before that day and his mother was not able to support a son while being pregnant of a daughter. But young Thom did not know of this at that time. Indeed, he only came to know of the girl’s existence through the writings of his mother and, years later, those of his sister herself. Her handwriting was therefore the only thing he knew of her. All of this was on young Thom’s mind as he cleared one year’s weed from his mother’s grave – a wooden cross that was about to break.
Next: The Butchers
Not many hours later, before dawn, the barn door was opened again, and without a word, the owner brought some bread, cheese and milk to young Thom. While eating and drinking, he thought of his mother who had died less than a year ago. The news of which he had been informed by letter, and so he asked the owner of the barn the way to the graveyard and also the whereabouts of his sister of whom he hadn’t heard since. The barn owner pointed at the cross of the chapel that could be seen above the trees at the top of a hill. About the sister he did not know, but perhaps young Thom should ask the butcher. It was the place where both his mother and sister last stayed. Young Thom thanked the barn owner again and left for the graveyard.
It was a sunny day, and yet the village appeared quite dark. It was much unlike young Thom remembered it, but that should not have been a surprise. The last time young Thom walked about these houses was the day he left here to work in the factory at the other end of the country. Only his mother had been there to wave him goodbye. His father had not returned from war long before that day and his mother was not able to support a son while being pregnant of a daughter. But young Thom did not know of this at that time. Indeed, he only came to know of the girl’s existence through the writings of his mother and, years later, those of his sister herself. Her handwriting was therefore the only thing he knew of her. All of this was on young Thom’s mind as he cleared one year’s weed from his mother’s grave – a wooden cross that was about to break.
Next: The Butchers
Friday, February 15, 2008
The arrival
[All short and dry. Pure facts. No dialogues.]
It was the 4th of September, and young Thom felt the first chill of autumn while making his way through this dark landscape that looked like a battlefield the day after. One could not tell which was darker: the gray thunderclouds so heavy they should fall down or the muddy brown hills like rheumatoid knuckles. Oblivious to all of this, his head bent down to avoid the lashes of rain and hail, young Thom, the son of a father who died in one of the great wars hardly made his way through a stream of mud that should have been a road. But it was the only road to the village, as young Thom knew, for he once lived there with his mother and his unborn sister. In those days that road would have brought visitors to the village, travellers, most of them on their way to the city. But now not many travellers would come here, so young Thom thought as he entered the village square.
All windows were dark, but then he heard some laughter coming from a barn, and saw some streaks of light underneath the door. A dozen men sitting at tables in groups of tree or more went quiet and looked at the visitor as he entered. Young Thom removed his cape to reveal his head and knowing the men could not recognize him after so many years he introduced himself as the son of Thomas Seton, the blacksmith. There could be no doubt that all of them remembered blacksmith Thomas, for all of their tools where forged by him, and he’d shod their horses hooves. Furthermore, the father of young Thom had been the spokesman for the village. He talked well, and not many dared to challenge his rhetoric, if only for his mighty and rising physical appearance. Yes, the men did remember Thomas Seton, and they could see that it was indeed his son who stood before them, both feet firmly on the ground, slightly apart, his strong shoulders bracing his wide chest and his head straight up. One could not stand more proudly.
Next : His Mother's Grave
It was the 4th of September, and young Thom felt the first chill of autumn while making his way through this dark landscape that looked like a battlefield the day after. One could not tell which was darker: the gray thunderclouds so heavy they should fall down or the muddy brown hills like rheumatoid knuckles. Oblivious to all of this, his head bent down to avoid the lashes of rain and hail, young Thom, the son of a father who died in one of the great wars hardly made his way through a stream of mud that should have been a road. But it was the only road to the village, as young Thom knew, for he once lived there with his mother and his unborn sister. In those days that road would have brought visitors to the village, travellers, most of them on their way to the city. But now not many travellers would come here, so young Thom thought as he entered the village square.
All windows were dark, but then he heard some laughter coming from a barn, and saw some streaks of light underneath the door. A dozen men sitting at tables in groups of tree or more went quiet and looked at the visitor as he entered. Young Thom removed his cape to reveal his head and knowing the men could not recognize him after so many years he introduced himself as the son of Thomas Seton, the blacksmith. There could be no doubt that all of them remembered blacksmith Thomas, for all of their tools where forged by him, and he’d shod their horses hooves. Furthermore, the father of young Thom had been the spokesman for the village. He talked well, and not many dared to challenge his rhetoric, if only for his mighty and rising physical appearance. Yes, the men did remember Thomas Seton, and they could see that it was indeed his son who stood before them, both feet firmly on the ground, slightly apart, his strong shoulders bracing his wide chest and his head straight up. One could not stand more proudly.
Next : His Mother's Grave
Preface
Well...here it is.
A first attempt at trying to draft a story online.
Reading a little chapter about every week is probably not going to attract many readers, but I do hope to get some comment once in a while.
But I see this blog as an experiment.
In fact, I'm hoping to learn a lot from comments.
I'm relatively new to story telling, I'm not a native English speaker, etc...
So feel free to comment on everything. Going from logical mistakes in the story, to bad formulation or punctuation. Tell me when it's getting really boring or when you can't wait to read the next part.
While the story evolves, I will probably add some graphics here and there.
But I have no idea where the story will lead to, or hey...even where this blog will lead to !
Note that remarks and reminders for myself are [written like this].
Here we go.
Happy reading !
A first attempt at trying to draft a story online.
Reading a little chapter about every week is probably not going to attract many readers, but I do hope to get some comment once in a while.
But I see this blog as an experiment.
In fact, I'm hoping to learn a lot from comments.
I'm relatively new to story telling, I'm not a native English speaker, etc...
So feel free to comment on everything. Going from logical mistakes in the story, to bad formulation or punctuation. Tell me when it's getting really boring or when you can't wait to read the next part.
While the story evolves, I will probably add some graphics here and there.
But I have no idea where the story will lead to, or hey...even where this blog will lead to !
Note that remarks and reminders for myself are [written like this].
Here we go.
Happy reading !
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