Frosty Wind Made Moan

7

7

Before the belt began its downward strike, a shadow passed across the room and Edward hesitated. He, along with the boy and Toby, turned their heads towards the doorway where Toby could see the shadowed form of the boy's mother, her long dress touching the frame of the door on both sides. She didn't set foot in the room.

"Edward. This is hardly the time." With a voice that came almost as a whisper, the mother addressed the father. "We have guests and you are neglecting them."

Toby couldn't believe his ears. Here was a woman, a mother to a young boy, thinking of others before her own son. Saying that the father neglected them while he held a belt, ready to beat the boy for crying. Toby's own Mum and Dad had never raised a hand to him, even though he had done things, in the past, that he felt certain he'd deserved a smack for.

Then he looked towards the father, Edward, and watched as he lowered the belt, folding it several times before returning it to the draw. He looked disappointed! With one, final, disgusted look at the child, Edward turned away, moving to the doorway where he took his wife's hands in his and kissed her on the cheek.

"Of course, my dear. Quite right." Edward took hold of the door handle and, without looking at his son, began to close the door. "If we hear one more sniffle, boy, you will not sit for a week."

The door closed with a solid click and Toby heard the key turn in the lock. All the while, the boy had not moved from his position, bent over the bed. Not until long seconds after did he move and, when he did, he turned towards the lit oil lamp that Edward had forgotten to take with him. The boy huddled close to the lamp, a hand reaching up, almost touching the glass cover.

"Come. There is little more to see here." The old man patted Toby's shoulder and Toby heard the grinding sound that heralded the appearance of the magical fireplace. "Do you see, now? Do you see true cruelty? Have a care and know that the cruelty you believe you have suffered would seem pitiful to this boy and that girl out in the snow."

The old man turned Toby around, taking his shoulder and leading him towards the fireplace, where the warm, welcoming, comforting flames were something the young boy, that poor young boy, did not, could not, feel. Toby looked over his shoulder to see the boy holding a hand to his mouth, hiding the sound of his tears.

Before the old man could pull Toby into the fireplace, Toby shrugged the hand from his shoulder and ran back into the room. A sound reached his ears that he had not heard before. A whooshing sound and the sound of fire growing. He turned back to see the old man disappearing in a funnel of flames and the fireplace began to grind once again, disappearing as fast as it had appeared.

There was little Toby could do about that. Either the old man would come back for him, or he wouldn't, leaving him stuck in this past, or this dream. He would worry about that later. Right now, he wanted to speak to the boy. He needed to speak to the boy and his own problems could wait.

"Hello?" With caution, he stepped forward, towards the boy and the light of the oil lamp. "Are you alright?"

"Who is there?" The boy's head whipped around and he dropped to the floor, shuffling as tight as he could to the large bed. "I'm not crying! I'm not! I'm a man and men don't cry!"

"No, you're not a man. You're a boy, like me." Toby had almost reached the boy and crouched down, worried he might scare the little curly-haired child. "And I've seen lots of men cry."

That wasn't strictly true, though he thought a little lie, here, wouldn't hurt. He had seen men cry, but not as many as he had said. He'd seen his Dad cry, when he and Mum had talked in whispers about their divorce, thinking Toby couldn't hear. He'd seen men cry on tv, for all sorts of reasons. Happy crying, sad crying. Men could, and did, cry. What this boy's father told him was the bigger lie.