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