slipped into an apologetic tone.
Nicholas watched as his brother’s words spun their charm on their father: as had been done countless times before. There was no malice: there was mischievousness, and Nicholas knew their father subconsciously knew he was being manipulated. In a way Nicholas envied his brothers ways, and it was easy to understand his popularity with the village girls. Handsome: tall with brown eyes, and loose golden hair the colour of freshly baled straw; indeed longer than some of the girls that he was constantly in the company of. In reality it was only the colour and length of their hair that marked any great difference between the two brothers. Nicholas's hair being black as night, and only just brushing past his shoulders, though he always tied it into a tail. Soon Philip was sat with them, helping himself to the offerings greedily.
“Your tardiness has only one benefit,” muttered their father turning to Nicholas with a wink of his eye. “Be quick to take your fill, for I fear that one of our tribe may eat the bowl from which we serve”. His humour was back again to the embarrassment of Philip, who immediately slowed the movement of ladle from plate to mouth.
It was the day before temple day; a day they would finish work well before dark so that they could prepare and decorate the place of worship ready for the dawn service: bearing this in mind Nicholas spoke hesitantly. “I would like to visit with Jonathon later, if that would cause you no trouble?” he looked pleadingly at his father.
The man sighed, other than the never-ending maintenance there was no urgency for his son’s help. “I see no problem,” he said looking at the woman. “More reading I gather?” He referred to Nicholas teaching the other boy all that he himself had learned of writing and reading from Nicholas’s mother.
“He is doing well at his learning. I think that I shall be able to teach him little more.” The comment was aimed mainly at his mother. She was one of the few educated people in the village; most village folk learning only what they needed for work, household duties or to know which coins would buy a flagon of ale. His mother would not speak of where she had learned this rare skill. At least only vaguely, saying that she was lucky as a child to have known educated people. Nick had never pressed for more information, though he was always curious for more detail.
His father too was different from most men, who could barely read. He could also write sufficient words, and understood more than the moderate math required to carry out his providing work.
Nicholas appreciated this good fortune with both parents, but it was his mother who had encouraged him as an infant, regaling him with tales of a library at the house of the Alderman.
He had, had no real concept of what a library may mean, as few manuscripts were available to village folk, and barely any were needed to undertake their daily lives. But those early formative years had created a thirst for knowledge in Nicholas that few other boys had.
The stories of a library had proved true, and he had purposely set out to make friends with the serving staff. With offers of help in their work around the great house he had, had both access and opportunity to read books, though without the Alderman knowing. Eventually he had been found out and ordered from the house, along with a serving girl who by chance happened to be caught with him. It was one of the few instances in his life that he regretted: not so much for himself, that was a risk he had known and accepted, but for getting the girl in trouble. He had begun to like her, but that mattered little now that she had been sent away.
His mother’s words as he stepped outside into the weak, but pleasant rays from the still rising orb, warned him that they would be at the temple till dark, and that they would eat late.
It was going to be a nice day, even though there was a chill in the morning air, an occurrence that would slowly become more noticeable and severe as they approached the season of ice. He muttered to himself. ‘It is going to be a wonderful day‘. He had no idea how wrong he was about to be.
The workday passed in a pleasant and relaxed way. The fruits grown during the dry had all been harvested, wrapped and stored in sand, so father and sons worked together treating Hessian sacks with preservatives ready for long term storage of the soon to be harvested grain. The only real work they felt they had done was in stacking small bags of untreated seed on the raised benches where the community could access them for the next crop sowing.
Nicholas was sad that it would be some time before he saw litchis, mangoes, and papaw on the tree again. He loved the tropical fruits, and it was only the thought that after planting the crops, there would be the budding apples and cherry blossom to lighten the foreboding winter that cheered him up.
The midday meal came soon enough, and his mother after having spent the morning washing, cleaning, and baking, brought loaves, cheese and pickles, followed by fresh buttered scones. Philip still trying to get into good favor with their father went to fetch a large pitcher of sweet well water to wash it all down.
After the meal both boys tendered to some small repairs on the wagon so that it would be in good order for the work ahead, but their enthusiasm for labor had passed, and Nicholas was pleased when bidding them not delay the evening meal for him, he left
Most of the fields behind the grain stores were now being ploughed and though the smell of freshly turned earth was pleasant; and the furrows made by the plough shear may have looked neat and tidy from afar, it was a different thing again to walk them. The soft crumbling earth made for a heavy going; by experience he found it easier if he stepped over the raised soil, and into each rut. Vaguely wishing that the seeds had already been strewn, and that the soil had been evened out so that the frost could break it down, he eventually arrived at the path, and through to the edge of the woods.
As the walking became easier his mind wandered in thought. It was festival, time to be at one with Mother Earth. Soon village folk would be gathering at the tavern; but he had said he would be late, and arriving when everyone else had supped their share made him uncomfortable. It wasn’t he disapproved; which he didn’t: it was more embarrassment that he had to force smiles and amusement to unamusing ale influenced humour. It was a relief when he decided instead to return past his own private place of solitude.
Jonathan's house was of similar style to his own, but attached to a single large building that was used to grind the grain. A small stream ran past the rear: diverted from the great river; turning a large timber water wheel. Nicholas could see it was still, indicating that the sluice was diverting the water, and that the workday was finished.
A youth his own age; though a little stockier, and with almost white hair came out to meet him. He smiled in welcome, but Nicholas spoke first. “I have a need to be with nature today. May we talk together in the fields?”
“I will bring fishing rods, and we may try our luck in the river”.
Nicholas knew it was a favorite pastime: almost an obsession of Jonathan's. There would be no use talking further of fields. Nicholas accepted the rod that appeared almost magically in good mood. Though he would have preferred to continually walk the grassed lanes, the following hour was well spent.
It was to be believed that the fish were deaf, for the boys talked incessantly about everything, and nothing. The periods of silence were few and far between, as were the bites.
When as evening approached and they were packing their equipment, Jonathon spoke more seriously than he had. “…I had the vision again last night.”
Nicholas looked doubtfully at him.
“It was the same, a great red bird, with wings too short to fly, yet it did, at a great wall. Trying time and again to pass; and then at last the wall fell. It is a premonition Nick of that I am sure.”
Nicholas didn't know what to say. Jonathon’s grandmother was always saying things that other people could not understand, and because of her Jonathon too believed his dreams foretold the future. Nicholas would not say what others did, that the old woman was unsound of mind. He wanted, whenever his friend spoke this way, to discourage him, so that he would n
ot be thought of the same.
“I don't know what they mean, but dreams they are. You must be careful not to make things out of that which does not exist,” he said quickly, but as soon as he had uttered the words Nicholas regretted them, for he saw the hurt on the others face.
The boys walked in silence for a while, but soon the exchange was forgotten and they were again talking, the invitation and prospect of Jonathan's mothers cooking, dominating the conversation.
Though he tried to refuse sustenance it was early evening when Nick left to return home, remembering almost too late that he had promised himself a few moments of solitude. He cut across to the edge of the forest to a thicket on top of a small rock outcrop
Nicholas sat and looked across to the mountains. Their rounded peaks lit and emphasized in the last parting rays of daylight. He had no concept of how high the mountains were for they were much farther than he had ever ventured, but dry or winter, their tops were always covered in snow.
He sat in silence and watched as the relics of sunlight slipped over and the peaks turned to pink: the reflected colour spreading across them as if by accident some god had spilt wine, on a crisp table cover. He watched enthralled; now the change had begun, it