On The Summer Night

One summer night

​The late summer sun set slowly over the hills of Anglo-Saxon England, painting the wheat fields in a warm, golden shadow.

The air smelled of freshly turned earth, burning wood in the hearths, and the deep sweat of men who had spent the day bending their backs over the dry land.

​For Jude, who had recently turned twelve, that scent was the only thing he had ever known.

​Wiping his forehead with the edge of his worn sleeve, Jude watched his father, Mark, push the last plow toward the shed roof.

His father was a sturdy man with dark hair and thick, calloused hands like leather, yet his eyes always held a quiet gentleness whenever he looked at his family.

​"We made it through another day, my boy,"

Mark said, giving Jude an affectionate pat on the shoulder that almost made him stumble.

"If this keeps up, this month's harvest will be enough to pay the tributes and put away plenty of grain for the winter."

​"I plowed two extra furrows compared to yesterday, Father,"

Jude replied, straightening his back with a touch of pride.

"In a year or two, I'll be as strong as you!"

​Mark laughed, a deep sound that vibrated in his chest.

"I'm sure you will, Jude. You've got the stature and heart of a great man. But let's go inside now. Your mother will already be waiting, and you know how much she hates cold soup."

​They stepped into the small house made of stone and wood.

Inside, the heat of the hearth welcomed them with an enveloping orange light.

Denise, his mother, was stirring a large cast iron pot hanging over the flames. She was a gentle, mannered woman with the same expressive eyes Jude had inherited.

​Sitting cross legged on a wooden bench,
a nine year old boy was trying to whittle a piece of wood with a dull knife.

It was Jobe, Jude's younger brother.

There were only three years between them, but their bond was unbreakable: wherever Jude went, Jobe followed like a shadow.

​"Have you two finished pretending to work?"

Denise teased, looking up from the pot with a warm smile.

"Sit down. The soup is ready, and I've just baked the hard rye bread."
​
"Jude says he's going to plow the whole field by himself next year, Mum!"

Jobe exclaimed, looking up from his piece of wood and gazing at his older brother with admiration.

​"Oh, really?"

Denise said, walking over to ruffle Jude's curls.

"Then I suppose I'll have to give him the biggest portion of meat tonight."

​"Hey! That's not fair!"

Jobe immediately protested, pouting, though his serious act didn't last long before he burst into laughter, caught up in Jude's own chuckles.

​They all sat around the rough wooden table.

For an hour, the outside world ceased to exist.

There were no kings, no taxes, no warriors.

There was only Denise's voice telling old stories, Mark's jokes about the neighbor's sheep, and the affectionate bickering between Jude and Jobe over who got to scrape the bowl clean.