Two men stood by the headstone of George Halthorpe as Autumn had begun to drop its leaves upon the hill.
The day grew pale, casting a long shadow across the ground: blanketing old memories, allowing them rest.
Beyond, the setting sun had lost the valley in shadow, small plumes of smoke wicked into the sky as distant firelight wavered; tonight the world stood quietly.
The brothers were silent as they watched the valley grow dark, the unchanged landscape of their youth seemed almost to be a painting of life before.
Their father had stood on this hill, smiling in joyful pride as they were born into this world, and now in his faded footstep they too stand, trying to find any other word than goodbye.
His presence hung empty.
They had once all lived on this farm, growing and hearing stories of the wild world around them. Their father would laugh and tell tales of fable and foe, youth flooding back into his excited frame as he fended off imaginary dragons with his giggling sons in tow.
The world grew from their pleasant valley. Lands of flooding rains and barren deserts were hidden only by the horizon: legends of men tall enough to reach the clouds captured their imagination; books telling of cities hidden within ruins enthralled them. All of these places the sons dreamed of, and as they grew they left in search of them.
The oldest went East, searching for hidden riches within the endless mines of the Garan mountains. The second, carefree as the wind, headed South, writing of his travels and exploring the deserts of the Sandsea.
A third son had also left the farm, and on this day he did not stand with his brothers.
Worry lay within his absence and the brothers prayed that he rested this night in distant lands, too many horizons afar to return on this day.
And so they left.
Tired from their journey the two brothers walked in silence; they walked together, sharing the same thoughts, as the path led away from their home and down into the valley below.
In time the night grew cold, rain drummed upon the cobbled path in slow melody as the brothers walked, they continued until they reached the tavern by the river’s bend and walked inside without a word.
Lifting their glasses both men were drawn to stillness, they knew that soon this day shall pass and so too others. Clocks will ever wind downward, circling the same unbroken path. They paused, silently agreeing to return when shadows again grow long upon the hill. Just one will walk here then.
The old tavern’s scotch carried warmth to their hearts as they drank: It was a feeling of missing, a memory of their father.
As they left the tavern that night the two brothers did not say goodbye. The hour was late and both knew too many goodbyes for that day. They had departed content, a handshake was the last words they shared as, for both, life was all they had left.
Days will pass and mountains will become the plains.
The land and soil may not remember a man who chooses to walk lightly upon its surface, but his absence shall be profound.
This was a man able to mark the earth without leaving a scar.
In his gentle step he leaves behind only memories, the memory of a good man
[—]
As the day ends a final wreath was laid.
‘Dad’
Sunday Short Stories 