Angus Craddic was in a barrel.
He hadn’t always been in a barrel but now, in this moment, he was vividly aware that he was, without a shadow of a doubt, sitting in something that very much resembled a barrel.
A scotch filled barrel
Deja vu danced around his thoughts and the act of rubbing his eyes drew a yelp as a result of damp hands and a poorly foreseen consequence.
‘What a fine mess you’ve gotten yourself into this time lad’ He muttered to both himself and the interior of the barrel. The enclosed muffle of his voice along with the closeness of his knees made Angus fully appreciate how little space he could currently occupy.
Attempting to push upward against the lid greeted Angus with an unyielding lack of movement from everything excluding his own wrists. Even the scotch seemed impassive to his plight, sloshing around with his movements and then returning to stillness without any ceremony.
Feeling around in the darkness Angus noted that the barrel’s wooden interior was peated with small beads of wax: this was often done by coopers to fully waterproof the barrel at the cost of ruining the purity of the scotch. Judging by the burn that followed each of his breaths, Angus concluded that the liquor must nearly be as strong as it was wet, and after a small taste test he coughed up a mouthful of confirmation.
‘Gods! It’s cheap scotch’ the travesty of his entrapment was now compounded by the poor quality of its liquid. ‘why did it have to be cheap scotch?’ Angus was struggling to remember what he had done to deserve this bizarre punishment, but the recollection of his last few hours was proving to be blurred in more fragments than not.
Cramped yes, but the solid wood of the barrel seemed to offer Angus a coddled type of safety that reminded him of something much like an aggressive hug, and the pitch darkness was lulling him into that beautiful drunken type of sleep where you wake the next morning fully clothed and miraculously near your own bed. So, terribly lost for options — and beginning to feel slightly drunk from the fumes — Angus decided that the best course of action was to panic. Raging without dignity Angus thrashed and kicked with the minimal amount of force that his cramped location allowed him. Proving useless against what was a very well made barrel, his tantrum had loosened up the tightness that was forming in his lower back and managed to settle him into a more comfortable position. All but giving up, the calmness of exhaustion and a secondhand type of inebriation settled over the barrel’s interior.
George Halthorpe was a meek man of a timeless kindness. He lived alone with his stock horse, Ted, and grew turnips to sell at market. It was on this beautiful morning that George sat quietly in his wagon distracted by the worried thoughts of becoming old. He, for the first time, had realised that he was beginning to get on a bit in his life. These thoughts had begun that morning at the market, where one year past he had lifted a full barrel of scotch onto his cart with ease but today he had to call for help. How had his strength left him so quickly? Puffing at his pipe with concern he let Ted, the horse, amble his own way home.
Trundling along with a contentment that only an elderly horse could exude, Ted had stopped to eat a particularly nice looking flower growing by a fence
‘Come now Ted,’ said George lightly flicking at the reigns ‘Ye’ can’t be eaten’ ery’ flower that grows on the road ome’. We’ll be missin’ dinner if ye’ dawdle.’
Twitching his left ear in a cryptic response Ted left the flower and resumed his slow walk home. As he had a little better hearing than his friend, Ted noticed he could hear that same type of singing he sometimes heard coming from the tavern late at night. Unbothered by muffled singing, as it never had done him any harm, the old horse twitched his ear again and kept pulling the cart home.
George was not a cart maker but after a few goes, when he was younger, he had cobbled together something that he was quite proud of. After spending hours sanding the wood and forming it all up, George varnished it carefully and painted the tray a light green. Nearing ten years old now, the cart still rode fairly straight and the only trouble it had ever caused was the left wheel coming a bit loose every now and then. But since it wasn’t much of a problem on a flat road he didn’t see the need to fix it.
Normally on the way home George would have to guide his near-sighted horse, Ted, around the potholes by the riverbend but today he was lost in contemplation…
THUMP
Lurching to the side the cart’s wheel left the axle and tipped the frame downward, ending with a rough stop. Startled from his seat George leaped up just in time to see his heavy barrel of scotch bouncing off down towards the river.
‘Ah bother! You right Ted? Sorry bout that old friend.’
Stillness, movement, too much movement, far too much movement and then the blinding brightness of daylight all happened in quick succession.
Angus wasn’t happy about any of this.
Jacob McCray
-2019
Sunday Short Stories 