George Halthorpe heaved against the still weight of his broken wagon.
This simple cart had survived nearly 10 years of pottering to and from the farm, and although the left wheel had a bit of a wobble about it, George was rather attached to the old thing.
With a thunk, and a twinge in his lower back, the farmer righted the wheel onto its axle and then jammed a carrot into lock pin housing. ‘Sorry Ted. Looks like yer’ lunch tis’ gonna have to help us home today’ said George as he patted his horse, Ted, on its side.
The old horse looked longingly at the carrot and exhaled in argument.
‘Ah come now lad! Ye’ll get ta’ eat it when we get back.’ he continued clambering back up onto the cart with a tired movement.
Ready to set off again George frowned as he caught the last glimpse of a full barrel of scotch bobbing away past the river’s bend. The struggle the old farmer had that morning in trying to lift the barrel up onto his cart had thrown him off his usual even headedness. But, he thought, a winter without Scotch might put some strength back into his arms, and if the waning season’s crop was undersized he could always try and ferment some turnip wine. An old Garan saying passed through George’s mind as he waved off these thoughts and tried to cheer himself up: To push something up a hill without thought is hard to plan when chasing it down the other side.
The uncountable mountains of Northern Gara quietly watched the old farmer and his horse trotting back along the dirt road back to their farm. Overhead the waning day’s sun threw orange streaks across the sky allowing the night to follow in it’s worn path. George, lost in worry, began to wonder how his three sons were doing these days:
Martin, his eldest, was probably down a mine somewhere, the stubborn lad always was destined to stick his head in the ground at some point. Garrick, no one was to guess where Garrick was; he might be captain of the merchant navy or just selling rugs from a market stall in Yansir, anything was possible with that boy. And then his youngest, Alistar; that young lad may be even old enough to grow a beard by now. George laughed and wondered if he’d recognise Al with a beard.
Above the wagon a Gryphon tumbled through the cooling night air with a listless ease, moving seemingly without intention.
‘Bloody noisy buggers’ said George as he watched the gigantic figure continue past a burst of feathers where a pigeon once flew. ‘Well, least they stop th’ dragons from eaten’ th’ lettuces, eh Ted?’ he joked, jumping down from the cart to unlatch the gate and put away his wagon for the night.
Throwing a blanket over Ted and then letting the old horse wander out to the upper field, George took off his hat and looked up to the first stars of dusk. Folding his arms with a sigh, he thought, in a moment of melancholy, that it might be nice night to wander down to Mary’s headstone for a spell; it had been a while since he’d said goodnight to his wife.
…
And so sitting on the wall they once built together, while staring off into the Boreal Valleys below; George chatted to Mary about the day and the ever changing winds of North Gara, and it was in this moment that he felt an old ember of joy stir somewhere in the back of his chest.
Closing his eyes with a smile he thought, ‘My, my. It’s such a beautiful day’.
Jacob McCray
-2019
Sunday Short Stories 