An eager axe plunged the wood splitting it in half. A hot day's work was still half done and there was still a long way to go.
The chopping of the axe into the wood, whilst it was held by the fourteen-year-old would not have looked more professional. The boy had learnt a lot in his growing up. His maturity was a bit sinister and complex as compared to the rest of his age who lived in the neighboring area. Of all the boys in this homestead, none could evenly be compared with the young man in an off-white shirt, short, grey tattered pants and black beret, cutting firewood in terms of skill.
Relentlessly, he gripped the axe and slammed it into the tough blocks of wood with all his might, in a struggle to finish his duties before the sun fully rose, otherwise he would be sweaty and disgusting at the end of the day, that being the least of his problems
"George can you come and have your food, dear?" a womanly voice came from the small house; stone-worked with three rooms. It was quite low standard with a chimney atop. The house was very peasant like, with the masonry looking like rusting iron made into a shelter, the roof barely standing proud on top. It was a sad excuse of a house.
The end of the 17th century showered peasants such as this family with a grief and uncomfortable life that ripped away their joy, happiness and hope. The summer sun would sometimes ravage the crops as the rich built canals everywhere on the good plots, on good soils whilst the Marcels and the rest of their 'kind' got the bare, rocky soils of land to labor and reap from. As a result, they built homesteads and clustered together until they formed villages all around Britain to ensure their survival.
George stood aloof, wiped the sweat off his brow.
"I'll be there in a few minutes, mother," he replied.
At this, light footsteps could be heard as they approached closer to the open front door. A thin, pale woman emerged with a protruding belly, her hand on her back. She was wearing a long, brown dress stained as if it were worn for decade without wash. She had long, black hair that slid onto her shoulders and its beauty covering all the other pitiful features of poverty on her face, along with dark brown eyes that shimmered when the sun shone on them, making her look no less than celestial in sight. Tears trickled down her cheeks lightly as she stepped forth.
"Son...you and your father wish to kill me, don't you?'' she asked, her voice trembling from fatigue.
"Wilson is out there hunting and gambling for something to eat, and you want to work yourself to death."
George looked at Martha
as was her name
, pitifully. He lay down his axe and walked up to his mother.
"Mother, please go in and rest. I need to finish this work before father comes. The other children always ask me why I always come to school with hideous bruises," said George.
Martha sighed.
"Heaven have mercy on your father, George. One of these days he's going to kill you in front of me," she said.
"Quickly mother let me take you back inside. I'll eat later," said the strong young boy as he gently grabbed his mother by the hand.
He walked her into the house and lay her on the bed, that creaked with the old wood seeming to give out. George then served the broth his mother had been preparing on the fire and took it to poor, weak Martha where he fed her slowly.
Hunger, fatigue, frustration caused great discomfort on the thin thirty-two-year-old such that her movements were slow and pitiful.
George put his mother to sleep and then took care of the fire Martha had used to cook the broth. Afterwards, he went outside to finish his work.
He piled up a heavy heap of nicely cut wood, enough to suffice a month for one household cooking once a day. His axe had done him well. A good day's work deserved a good day's treat. The boy drank some water and rested for a while before deciding to spoil himself a little.
The sun was now sitting on top of the trees and George's hands ached of great pain from wielding the axe against the wholesome mahogany wood that he had chopped down. His wish of finishing the wood cutting earlier had proved impossible considering the great number of wood he had to cut with precision and caution following the basic fact that he was using an axe that bore a heavy burden on his small body.
Earlier the previous day, George had ventured into the forest, which was about a mile and a half from the village and caught some hamsters using a technique he'd seen some of the boys do as a hobby though he never really associated with them. It took a great deal of time before he mastered it, since he would spectate and admire the exceptional skill he saw.
Since Wilson was not present, gone to a distant town in search of dealings for food, the boy had undressed the creatures, roasted them and saved them for a special occasion...which apparently was now.
On the rock, George lifted up a small leather bag that he had been given by his mother on his ninth birthday, where all four hamsters were laid, dead and cooked over fire as they were and drew one out. He drooled over it as the urge for masticating ravaged his inner being. His glands swelled up with passion, impatience and vigor through his teeth.
In the midst of a potential frenzy, George heard the sound of boots, stomping on the hard ground. It seemed like a heavy tired man, walking unwillingly on the bare rigid surface of the earth and immediately the young man knew that the 'monster' had arrived.
Wilson walked towards the house with a large leather bag on his back. His face looked dark and his eyes red as those of one having pepper burning within them. This made everyone hesitate to offer a simple greeting, especially George.
Afraid and shaking, the young man put down his treats and stood to welcome his father.
"W…. Welcome father," stammering the young boy said.
The tall, aggressive adult gripped George's little arm and struck a fatal glance at his bag
George's
with the hamster on top.
He dropped his heavy bag which fell to the ground his eyes sporadically going up and down reflecting clearly that in his mind everything was not all settled. Definitely something was brewing.
George swallowed hard.
"Young man....is that yours?" he finally spoke, asking the most obvious detail that his delusional eyes were seeing. He bellowed with every breath like a bull, every breeze from his nose blowing over his bushy mustache. George hesitated to answer. He looked down, his eyes beginning to twinkle before the terror of what might possibly happen next gripped him.
Wilson loosed hold of the boy's arm and pulled George's blonde wavy hair with his powerful hand. The beret came off.
"Young man…...is this YOURS?!" Wilson boomed with a hoarse voice that chased the life out the boy.
George with his small, round and bluish eyes could see his father's sweaty, dirty face and how he reeked of liquor and unwashed flesh pounded on the young man's nose. His black curly hair had dampness of perspiration.
"Y…...Yes father," softly replied George.
Wilson smiled and let go of the young boy's hair.
The little boy was still trembling, tears already coming out of his ducts.
Wilson advanced, walking closer to the boy.
"This isn't your house. You seem to be getting too comfortable. When the cat's away the mouse will play, eh?" Wilson growled.
Swinging his arm, Wilson hammered his fist into George's face and the boy floated dizzily and drifted away with the pain and crashed onto the ground.
Quickly, feeling the intense and close continuity in the current terror, George lifted up his upper body and wiped the blood oozing from his nose. Fear and frustration grappled the boy and he began to panting heavily.
"I want to teach you a valuable lesson, boy. This….is my house. No one does anything outside my approval. Understood?!" barked Wilson.
George nodded pitifully.
"Have you no mouth boy?"
"I do sir".
"I doubt it. That's another lesson you need, you little devil."
"No father!"
"Get your little butt into the pantry," said Wilson. "I'll meet you there."
George hurriedly ran into the house. Wilson reached down to the ground and grabbed George's roasted hamster and munched on it whilst he staggeringly walked to the back of the house and picked up a whip twisted two ply and hung on a nail that stuck out from it.
The man then walked into the house, his judgment half murdered by liquor and closed the door shut.
It was quite a horrible Sunday for George.
Shortly afterwards screams and groans were evident, encompassing the whole compound coming from within the house only lasting till dark, then there was a deep silence.
The neighbors who lived about forty meters from the Marcels, heard but could not act, for no one dared to stand up to Wilson and intervene after his rounds of debauchery. Everyone knew how fiendish the man could be. He would act very violent, flinging strong uncoordinated fists, splattering murmurs and harsh words everywhere, and if by any chance he recognized you, you would wish you had not met him.
Early the next morning, as the sun began to rise, yawning and sprinkling the light that the fauna and flora and so desperately missed through the night, everything came to life. The sight of the beam of light penetrating through the tree leaves and lightening the skies was magnificent.
The local rabbits began to hop, unfrozen from the cold of the night.
A steady knock gently sounded on the door of the Marcels. It repeated itself several times and finally the barrel bolt latch opened. Wilson emerged, sleep hanging in his eyes.
He looked down at a lovely young girl with long red hair made up into pig tails, politely smiling. She had caramel skin and large blue eyes. Her youthful face which had cheeks dotted with fading freckles was a delight for all around the homestead. She was dressed in a pretty white dress and a pair of neat sandals.
"Good morning, Mr. Marcel," she said.
"What do you want, Penelope?" Wilson rudely asked.
"Is George coming to school, today?" Penelope asked.
"No…. he's ill. He won't be stepping in Mrs. Castle's class for a week," Wilson said.
"Oh…. ok then, please wish him a speedy recovery for me then, sir," said Penelope, disappointed.
"I sure will." The door banged before the pretty little girl and she turned and went her way.
Later that day, the Marcel's house was completely silent. It seemed deserted up to noon. Wilson, in the heat of the day, then left the house and took his bag which he had left outside and then took off.
Inside, George lay on a cloth on the floor with his pair of torn and messy shorts on. He had nothing on his upper body where scars, bruises and dark marks were all over. He had not slept until midnight.
His mother arose, the previous night she had just merely watched as Wilson beaten the springful youth out of their only son with the whip and also his fists.
Martha knelt down and shook her son awake.
Her touch was gentle, as one who had failed to get out of bed since the morning, the energy to lift herself up and another diminutive person within her was synthesized by catching sight of her son lying idle on the floor. After some moments, George opened his eyes.
His vision was impaired and blurry.
"M…. Mother…," he stammered.
"I'm here, son," comforted Martha as she staggered upon hearing the boy's broken voice.
"Am I late? For school?" George asked.
"Yes darling you won't be going to school for a while," she said.
George struggled and sat up. Martha smiled at the young boy her eyes going glassy. By now George was seeing much clearer than before. All that was in his mind were the pictures of his forty-six-year-old father inhumanely plundering his flesh with a herder's whip. His body was excruciatingly sore.
"Don't worry, son," said Martha rubbing her tummy. Her heart ached with pain at the sight of her son whom she had wished to be at school.
"Soon you'll have a little brother or sister to share your time and love with."
George smiled a bit but deep within he too was bearing a deep sorrow that strangled his happiness.
