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monarkokingdom · 8 days ago

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Pottok woke very slowly. There was something irresistibly tempting about the idea of another half hour rest. It was one of those days you don't get much done anyway. Maybe it would rain, he suspected without reason. He could tell before he even opened his eyes, it was going to be a cool, humid, and overcast morning. Opening his eyes, he looked out the hole in bedroom wall. One may be tempted to call this aperture a window, which could have been the intention of its original design. It was not filled with a glass pane. One could stick their arm out of it, and catch a bird mid-flight. In the winter, they simply hung a bedsheet in front of it to retard the cold. Looking out this hole on that dreary morning, Pottok was delighted to find that he was right. Entirely forgetting his fatigue, he had to share this prophecy with his mother.

"MA!" He called out to her with panic in his voice, totally alone in his bedroom, as if he had just seen her fall before him.

"Ma!" He cried again, flying out of bed and into the kitchen. Herbs hung from the bedroom doorframe, and in his stupor, he forgot that he had placed them there. He received a slap in the face, though not entirely unpleasant, from some freshly picked basil.

His mother watched her son stumble into the kitchen with amusement. He noticed she was sitting by the door in her favorite chair. Particularly as she got older, she refused to come to bed. She would prefer to sit on her own, in an uncomfortable wicker armchair which was slowly collapsing under her weight. A heap of upswept snapped wicker pieces collected at her feet. For an older lady, she retained mass well.

"Ma. You still like sleeping out here, huh? These nights are getting cold; you're so far from the fire." He said with a look of genuine concern on his face. Pottok didn't try to conceal his emotions, because he didn't have the capacity to do so. His face was eternally honest. Both when called for, and similarly when it wasn't.

“What are you worried about me for?” She asked.

“Wow! You’re up early.” Pottok changed both the subject and his mood quickly, without recognizing it.

“Didn’t sleep.” She replied flatly.

“Do you sleep?” He asked with a half-smile.

“Hardly.” She replied with a full one.

But even in the midst of summer, she was bundled tightly, revealing only her little sunken eyes and hearty cheek bones. This was by choice, as even in her infirmity, she was always aware of her appearance. She was one of those old ladies who, having lived such a long and hardworking life, actually developed quite a few masculine aspects. Only in recent years, she possessed facial hair which didn’t stray far from her chin, but whose wispy hairs could be seen from across the room. She detested this, and fought it valiantly when it began, as much as she could. Though, since she became immobile, she would require her son to do it for her. At first, he shaved her regularly by her plea. Eventually, he became annoyed with the frequent grooming, and tried to convince her it was of no importance. The woman became silent on the matter, though she would never accept in her heart that the war was lost. Such traits ran rampant in the family. Growing up, Pottok had a full beard by age 13, and was nearly bald by age 22.

"I couldn't sleep much once I realized, but I didn't want to wake you. Someone came in the night." She said softly and quietly, as if he was still asleep.

"Oh?"

"Yes, look there." She whispered, slowly raising a bony finger attached to a shaky hand.

She pointed to the small wooden entry table by the door. This table, constructed meagerly out of local wood, was home to half of his possessions. It was perpetually covered in various dirt caked metal tools, saddles, horse shoes. These items were not only native to the table, the surrounding floor was covered by them as well. Pottok took everything inside that wouldn't stand the elements, in attempt to make the most of his tools. He certainly could not afford to replace them, so his own home functioned much as a barn. It would be wrong to say he didn't have money, as many of the nobles paid for him to house their horses, but it was no exaggeration to say ALL of this money went directly to their care. He only accepted payment which would cover the exact costs for the animals' nourishment, so he had to fend for himself and his mother for food, and anything "extra". To the farrier, "extra" was defined as the bare minimum for survival: Food, clothing, and other necessities. He often relied on charity, and borrowed his neighbors tools whenever possible. Now, atop this pile of well used tools, lay two foreign items which stood out over the junk as clear as day. On a muddy pick lie a neatly folded envelope, and next to that, a Styrian squash.

"Oh." Pottok casually lumbered over to, and picked up the piece of parchment. He examined the handmade scribbles briefly before turning back around and making for the fireplace.

She caned her neck forwards, as if she meant to impede his progress with her head, "Aren't you going to take it to town?"

"What for?"

"Have someone read it? Learn what it says."

"No."

"Son! Why not? The mystery! We haven't a guest in ten years! Last night, someone came in, must have been dead of night, only during my fifteen minutes sleep, and leaves a note with a gourd attached!" She exclaimed in utter panic.

"What of it?"

"Don't you want to know who it's from? Wouldn't you like to thank them for the gourd?" Is what she said, but Pottok knew she wouldn't let it go. She was an endlessly curious woman, which was unbearable to deal with since she had become lame and could no longer investigate herself. Now, Pottok was her detective, ever translating and explaining so the feeble woman knew every detail he did. Even if he threw the note in the fire, she'd piece together the ash and study it until she taught herself to read.

He clutched the paper tightly in his hand. He too worried about who it came from.

"I'll take it, yeah I'll take it to town." As he shoved it carelessly in his pocket, crumpling it as he did.

What his mother hadn't realized is that there was no longer anyone left in the town to take it to. She was veritably living in a shack in the woods. She had no outside connection, not even to their village. Pottok brought her everything, including the holy communion on Sundays. Very few in the village knew where they lived, and all the ones that did were gone away for the war. Pottok could hardly count, but if he could, he would estimate fifteen or so people remained in total. They were all, almost exclusively, those in need of care, and their caregivers. Of course, this included the local priest, whom Pottok was extremely fond of. His father passed many years ago, in his youth, dying in some war he'd never been told much about. Since, Pottok sought out the priest for morals and direction, and relied on his mother to teach him agrarian life. He brought many of his problems to the priest, especially when he could not talk about them with his mother, either because he didn't want her to know about them, or because she was the subject. This particular problem had the potential to be both. Usually, his personal matters he desired to discuss solely with the Lord. Pottok was a simpleton. He was not laden, not burdened by any stretch of the imagination. His problems were light, domestic, petty. But they were nonetheless his, and to him they were grand. He was an easily upset fellow, if you can imagine it, with his big hearty smile he was so fondly remembered for. He craved, nay required routine, and when things did not go his way, he became very upset. Losing half the village to war was one of these instances, and he found himself visiting the local church frequently as a constant source of comfort. Today was no exception. He was perturbed.

The church was very small, constructed entirely of wood, situated atop a steep incline. It was crafted a generation before he arrived by the locals at the time. The mount was difficult to ascend without carrying anything, Pottok could not conceive how they had once carried lumber up it. As to why it had to be built there, in that exact place, a very holy woman at the time commanded it, though that was all that was said on the matter. He heard much of this woman and her deeds when he was young, but never an explanation on that particular judgement of hers. It seemed rather counterintuitive for a place of worship to be so inaccessible, but the villagers believed her to be a saint, her word divined from a source otherworldly. The outside of the humble building was almost foreboding, as the wood in the region was of a dark variety. The planks used to construct the roof were somewhat lightened, stained by the sun. The sole indication that this was a holy place, apart from the bell and steeple which sat almost directly above its slanted roof, was the large indentation of a cross on the perimeter wall. The cross seemed to sink much deeper into the building than it actually did, due to its deep impenetrable shadow in the daylight. At first glance, it looked like it was painted black, with small poinsettia bushes to either side. Never once had Pottok come to the building to find the large wooden door closed. Never had he approached with such hesitancy either.

He habitually knelt, crossed himself on the threshold, and removed his hat as he entered. The interior was much more inviting. On the walls, there was carved a large countenance of St Francis, the patron of the institution. Everything in the church, including the altar and pews, were made of the same wood as the outside, though inexplicably appeared brighter now. The ceiling was magnificent in its own regard. Each plank was angled so that as they ascended they would lie interchangeably, one in light, and one in dark. This gave the illusion that the ceiling was much higher than it really was. A pristine carpet, also crafted by a local tailor within his own lifetime, lay down the center of the aisle. This he treaded across slowly, dragging his muddy boots without intending to. The priest was nowhere to be seen. So Pottok stood silently, meekly, wringing his hat in his hands, before the sacrificial altar.

As if performing in a play that he had forgotten his lines for, he stared at the ground and began uttering a prayer without kneeling. And as if on cue, the priest came out from behind the tabernacle.

"Pottok?"

The priest adored Pottok. The priest adored all the villagers, it was his job, but if asked in the right company, he would concede he loved Pottok especially. There was one instance, which he would recall fondly, where Pottok was alone in the pews during the Eucharistic Adoration. This was not abnormal; Pottok came to church alone most times, at hours no one else did. The priest never knew if this was on purpose, his jovial front did not lend itself any hidden depth. He sat for nearly an hour before the sacrament, with an unchanging expression, nearly motionless. The priest did not want to shut it away while there was still someone in the church. The hour grew late. Happily, but somewhat concernedly, the priest came to him, wondering if he could aid the fool. He asked Pottok what he spoke to the Lord during this particular visit.

"I have said nothing." Pottok replied without any consideration. "I'm just… looking at Him, and He is looking at me."

Such an answer moved the priest greatly, often to tears, with its definition of Pottok's beautiful simplicity.

Today, the giant stood before him, so evidently morose. The priest did not want to call attention to this.

"Pottok, have you come to speak with me today?" He inquired with a vocal fondness he could not conceal, but Pottok could not interpret.

Pottok slowly reached into his pocket and produced the crumpled note. He held it out in front of him almost shamefully, without words, like a child who was presenting something they had stolen to its rightful owner.

The priest immediately found it strange Pottok would have anything written on his person, or anything to be written upon for that matter. The priest took the letter and began to read it at once, with urgency.

"My son," the priest started, looking up solemnly at the hulking mass of muscle. Pottok was a beast of a man, capable of performing the labors of three men. He had always been strong, but he had a heart as soft as butter. "You'd do best to throw it in the fire."

Pottok actually grinned at himself for his intuition. "Please father, I’d like to know what it says."

"It's the Republican draft."

"The draft already happened." Pottok quickly asserted.

"Someone has paid for you to be their substitute."

"Now who's done that?" He snapped savagely.

"It doesn't say. They didn't leave a name." "My." His grin had widened into a ferocious smile, unbecoming of the simpleton, with malice in his eyes.

"I will tell no one of this Pottok, you ought to get rid of it."

"I cannot deny the draft, father."

"You are not bound to this duty. You cannot be spared for the combat. You have to care for the animals that have been left with you. You have to care for your mother."

"The Republicans won't hear that! They'll come for me, and they'll take me away! You've heard what they do in the cities."

"Have faith my child. Do not fear. God will provide for you, and he will protect you."

"Y-Y-Yes" He stuttered, a problem he hadn't experienced since his youth. "Thank you father, may I have your blessing?"

Pottok received the blessing, and shuttered as a cold wind blew through the open door.

After fetching water for each of the animals, and finally for himself, Pottok returned home. He lit a fire and placed a small pot of water over it, which would serve to both cook and wash down a meal. He intended to make breakfast, squash and eggs. An odd combination to be sure, but Pottok was raised to eat what he had when he had it. The exception to this rule was when he had extra, and these days especially, he never had extra.

Taking a dull and rusty kitchen knife, he cut open the squash in one chop. The inside was soft and infested with insects, who had already hollowed a good chunk of it out. He began at once to remove the insects, and as he cleared a layer of them, he only found more, burrowed deeper than the last. He had half the squash under his fingernails, mixed with a hearty dose bug entrails. He laughed aloud in disgust and frustration.

Regaining his composure, he swung a reassuring glance at his mother, not wanting to worry her. She did not seem to notice.

"Ma?"

On occasion, she drifted. She bobbed her head along to some inaudible music. She was there, they were talking, and suddenly she was gone deaf, blind, and mute. She contented herself now, sitting in her favorite chair, merely breathing.

He wondered if he too could hear the ephemeral music mother heard. A distant, tinny tune. Brass trumpets of mourning, solemnly playing their mysterious victory requiems over the dead and dying. The fire crackled loudly beneath him as the water came to a boil. The caretaker or the killer? He imagined himself firing a musket, something he had no experience doing. Once, when he was a child, he attended a festival where they held a sharpshooting contest. He recalled the sound of shot had upset him terribly, he was perhaps seven years at the time. Then he thought of who he would be fighting, his fellow countrymen in this awful civil war. He hoped they'd send him to Egypt instead, at least that way he wouldn't run the risk of having to bayonet one of his neighbors from down the street. Finally, he imagined the soldier designated to report Pottok's death to his family. If such a soldier was able to find his home, he would knock the door thrice, leave a written notice for the illiterate, then leave, assuming no one to be home. Inside his mother would lay still, in her favorite chair as always, unblinking, unfeeling, finally able to sleep. Neither cold nor warm.

He held the kitchen knife in his left hand, with the blade closely hovering below the knuckle of his right index finger. He began to apply pressure against his skin using the rusty edge, judging what he could do with the dull blade. He inhaled slowly and raised the knife again in anguish, before angrily stabbing it deep into the squash.

He hobbled over to and knelt in front of his mother's fixed gaze.

"Ma. I need to ask you a favor. Can you take out my front teeth so I cannot tear paper cartridges? Can you take my finger? I do not think I can."

She sat, staring past him at the cobwebs in the corner, nodding affirmably, unlistening.

"Someone's bought me to replace them in the draft. They purchased me without even leaving their name. A gourd as recompense. They bought me for a gourd! Only reason they couldn't get me the first time is because I don’t exist in any of their legers! We bullied those nasty draft boys away the first time, they aren't welcome here anymore. This means it was a local, ma! One of our neighbors, our friends, someone who knows where we live! The coward! They know where we live, so they must know we would never support the Revolution. They didn't even leave their name! No one will care for you except I, they do not see that. You do not see that. Who will care for the horses? Who will care for Constantin's animals? For Leon's? I care for all of their animals! I-"

And the idiot began to weep on his mother's lap. Woken from her reverie by maternal instinct, she lightly ran her bony fingers across her son's bald head, as if aiming for hair which was no longer there.

"What's the matter?" She asked, now seemingly conscious again. "What's wrong, Po?"

"I've been drafted." He said soberly this time, with resignation.

"Ah." She said quietly, leaving a few seconds of silence before adding, "All is well. You'll make a good soldier. You're a very strong man." She comforted.

"Ma. Don't say that. I'm not going to be a solider. I'm not going to fight anyone. I would never. I can't."

"It's okay. It's an honorable thing to fight for one's country."

"That's not my country. If I didn't fight for Constantin and our village, I certainly wouldn’t fight for their enemies! And most of all, I'd not leave you."

“I reckon… now would be a good time for me to die.” She whispered to him, sounding as if she was trailing off again.

“Lord forbid! What are you saying?” He asked her, shocked and unmoving.

“I want to go to Him. I want to go to my God. I’m ready.” She announced calmly.

“Ready!? Ma, He, and only He decides when you’re ready. Never say such things!” Pottok reprimanded.

"I'm sorry Po." She announced softly. He looked up. She wore a deeply sad expression, one he had not seen on her before. "I don't think you can avoid it this time."

"I'd rather die! I'd rather die than fight for the Republic!" He shouted back at her defiantly.

"And so you shall!" She resounded powerfully, with energy she did not seem to possess. "They know where we live. They came in the dead of the night to make it known, what makes you think they won't do it again?" Her lips were quivering.

Pottok never understood others effectively. He was horrified. He could not understand his mother's pain in this moment; he could not understand where her words came from. He could not see that she didn't want to burden him, and she could not see that he had never considered her a burden before. The two stared at each other, in silence, faces downcast. This expression was so rare for her, he was examining it thoroughly. Each wrinkle was mountainous, bulging off her skull as if it meant to escape. It made her appear dreadfully ugly. They sat, listening to the crackling of the fire and now boiling water, in a standoff without words or weapons. His mother frustrated him so much in this moment, he felt it necessary to swallow his childish, violent impulses, and recognizing such, stood solemnly. He had already begun to accept the order to injure and abuse in his heart.

"Go Pottok. Suzanne visits me every few days for tea. I will be okay." His mother commanded.

Pottok was particularly sensitive to input from authority. He took the opinions of others always to heart, and held no qualms being led by the hand to a destiny he did not decide. This life of obedience was not one he sought to abandon. Only now, his orders seemed to conflict, coming from different masters. He stumbled again out of the house through the open door in the kitchen, grabbing his coat and hat, leaving water boiling on the stove as he did so. He walked through the yard, in his work boots and rags. He went off to look for the front lines. He thought he could hear the marching drums already, thumping to the tune of his heart. A soft rhythmic fluttering came from somewhere in the forest around him, which grew louder with every step he took, until he felt a soft tap on the brim of his hat. It had begun to rain.

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