N/A This is one of my assignments for the writers group I am in. Hope you all like it!
The old man sat huddled in the corner, the freezing wind working its way through every crack and crevice in the ancient barn. He shivered slightly as he looked out from beneath his hat, pulled low over his eyes. His face was wrinkled like a prune that had been left out in the sun.
He was alone.
He wasn’t alone by choice; no, circumstances left him, people left him. First his wife after the hailstorm in ’69, his parents when they died in that car wreck, his children abandoned him with their mother.
The people of the town ignored his existence, he lived so far out that nobody bothered with him anymore. He had earned his spot on the “queer old hermit to avoid” list. He would never admit that the title made him happy. It meant that nobody would bug him or try to make friends; he didn’t need any more of those after all of the knives to his back. He never saw one of them ever again.
A shrill whinny cut through the icy air drawing his attention back to the present, his mare, the only thing he had left in world that he actually cared for, writhing in the pains of labor. Something was terribly wrong.
He moved forward and stroked her neck softly while muttering in an attempt to calm her so he could see what was happening. She looked at him with white-rimmed eyes but settled down slightly for him. He patted her neck then moved back so he was behind her.
The foal was backwards. He hid the concern that flooded his body at that simple discovery. He had to appear calm, just like he had to in the war, appear calm and everyone else will follow you.
Again he began to utter soothing words as he set to work. He had to somehow get in and turn the baby around so that it would slide out head first. Some of it already showing, the back legs bent so that they were still inside the mother. The old man pushed the foal back into the womb keeping his hand inside as he searched for one of those hooves.
He felt the warmth of her body, the safety it had once meant for the life inside completely gone as the walls caved in around it and breathing became a desperate struggle. It forced you out into a world not nearly so warm and comforting.
A world that was cruel and heartless. A world that had rejected him.
It had even rejected him when he had fought for them, watched his comrades die for them. He sighed as he pushed away the memories so that he could focus on his mare, he finally grasped the tiny foot he was looking for and began to turn the baby around, working slowly, carefully.
He finally got it into the correct position, the difference immediate. Her next contraction helped him to pull the tiny life all the way out and onto the straw. His mare turned her head to look at the work she had done before laying it back down onto the ground, exhausted.
He glanced at her and saw that she would be okay so he turned his attention to the foal lying feebly on the ground. He immediately set to work on it, rubbing it briskly to keep it warm in the cold weather that was getting on freezing.
He couldn’t lose another life; he had lost so many in the war, so many men died in his charge. So many. Then even after all of their sacrifice America had rejected them, they had come home to riots and signs of peace, a young girl had spit on him when he had gotten off of the train.
He sighed; it was almost as if love and peace had taken a new meaning. People died in the riots and everyon seemed to hate anything that had to do with war. The soldiers had found no peace when they had arrived home.
The foal struggled slightly, kicking out its spindly legs in a weak attempt to stand. He shushed it quietly and kept up the rubbing forcing warmth into its body. He couldn’t lose another life.
His mind took him unwillingly back to the past, back to the place he swore he’d forget. And he had managed to for years, drowning it all in a bottle. His pain had dulled over the course of time and eventually he had stopped drinking nearly as much… Mostly because he didn’t want to go into town anymore, people asked too many questions. Questions that he never wanted to deal with again.
He just couldn’t stand to see another thing die. His cousin had been shot down in front of his eyes; his mind began to replay the scene for him without his permission. They had been deep in the jungle, trying to hunt down the rebels that had the advantage over them.
Peter, his cousin, had taken the lead scouting ahead as they moved along. They all were scared, scared out of their minds but they kept the fear shoved down, locked away somewhere deep inside so that it would never be able to show. It had been the most fearful he had ever been.
He had been keeping an eye on the surrounding foliage, the thick vegetation ample cover for a sniper. They hadn’t seen any lately, but today would be the day that would become untrue. As he looked back on it, it all happened in slow motion, the sharp report of gunfire, everyone dropping to the ground while simultaneously looking to the trees for the hidden man. He had looked to Peter, he had seen him fall. The blood poured from his chest as he clutched it in a desperate attempt to stem the flow.
They had killed the sniper, but Peter had also died as well. He had wept for nights after, hiding the pain so he could continue his duty to his country.
He looked down at the foal as it kicked its legs once last time before going limp and for the first time in years the old man felt the unfamiliarity of tears on his face. They ran down and dripped into the coat of the dead foal, falling faster every one.
“Why?” He sobbed brokenly, speaking to no one in particular, “Haven’t I lost enough?” He whispered. There was no answer in the wind, no light in the dark to show him the reason.
He sat back on his heels and rocked backwards, “Why?” He asked again. He was speaking to no one, no one cared anymore. He sighed as he looked at the foal one last time before standing on aching knees to grab a tarp…
His mare stood back quietly, she knew in her own way what had happened and her face was sober. He broke down sobbing; he lost another one, another one that he failed to save.
He didn’t know how long he had sat there before he felt the hand on his shoulder. He looked up at a young girl, her age unknown.
“You okay, Mister, why are you crying?” She asked him, her head tilted slightly to the side. He stared at her for a long time, how long had it been since someone asked him those questions? He couldn’t find words to speak as the child sat down beside him, “It's okay, she’s in heaven now,” She said confidently.
“How do you know?” He asked hoarsely.
“Because,” She said, “I just know,” He looked at her.
“I’m not sure I believe in heaven anymore,” He said.
“Why not?” He didn’t know why he did it but he told her everything, maybe it was something about the way she stared into his eyes letting him know she was listening; nodding her head every now and then to encourage him to go on.
“And that’s why I don’t believe there’s a heaven anymore,” He finished. She stared at him for a long time, her childish face deep in thought.
“My mommy once said that life was like a rose, you can’t have the pretty flower without the thorns that give you ouch,” She said, “I know she was saying that there’s always a heaven,” She turned to him with a bright smile. He looked at her for another moment before facing the open barn door.
The sun was just beginning to rise, filling the sky with bright shades of orange, red, and yellow. The frost on the ground glittered in its rays. He turned back to the little girl, a smile creeping onto his weathered face but she had disappeared just as silently as she had come. In her place sat a single rose, thorns showed sharp along its stem that was topped with the full bloom of the blossom.
He smiled to himself. There was always a heaven.
