by David Clark
After that day, William continued to see Harris, Oliver, Finlay, and his uncle from time to time strolling through town aimlessly. Each time he sees one of them serves as a reminder that being a farmer wasn’t a bad way to make a living.
3
“William, you ready?”, John yelled from outside. He was standing next to a cart hitched to his faithful burro, the most useful tool on his own farm. That burro not only pulled the cart to town, but pulled the plow in the field, hauled loads across the property, and anything else John needed him to do. William had one too, but being a bit older, it was best used for the jobs around the farm, not for trips to town.
“Yep,” he said as he emerged out the door of the smokehouse with three large slabs of cured pork. “One more,” he said, and dropped the meat down on an empty spot in the cart. Back into the smokehouse he went, but he re-emerged quickly, this time with two large chunks of pork belly. “Last pig of the season for me. The others have to plump up a bit.” A quick look back at his animal pen caused a grunt from the three hogs that remained. It was as if they knew they were the topic of the conversation.
The two men walked to town, as they had more times than they could remember. Many times, alongside their fathers as they led a burro, or sometimes a horse, that pulled a cart behind them. For the past ten years, it was their turn to lead the cart, their responsibility, and their lives. The conversation during these trips hadn’t changed much through the years. The topic was always the same, dreams. They each dreamed of something bigger.
John wanted to expand the family farm, an idea he had been pitching to his father since he was only nine. Something he felt would force his father to see him as grownup, no longer a child. Instead, his father had brushed it off as just that, a childish dream. “You don’t understand how much work it takes to keep up what we have,” he always said. Even now, John still dreamed of doing just that.
The dreams William had were loftier. He was a farmer, only because the other option was, well, less attractive. Farming was less likely to take his life. Of course, there are still dozens of ways you could die on the farm. The thought of leaving Saint Margaret’s Hope was one he couldn’t remember where it came from. No one had ever mentioned anything about leaving to him. There were no encounters with strange or mysterious individuals who told tales of the outside world. It was just a thought. One that he spent many an afternoon sitting on top of the cliff imagining. His gaze looking out over the ocean at nothing in particular, while his mind pondered what was out there.
Meadows and horse tracks gave way to sparse buildings and cobblestone walks as they crept closer to town. The shoes of the burro, and the wheels of the cart that were silent on the dirt and grass path, now clattered and clopped on the stones. The midday sun may have chased the mist away for the moment, but the cool air still hung around. The walk in did not exert either of the young men, yet William still reached up to wipe a few beads of cold sweat off the back of his neck and his brow. John noticed this, and an obvious lack of color in his friend’s face. “Is one of your friends around?”
“No!”, William snapped back.
“You sure? You look sick.” John then followed the path of William’s eyes, and said with a bit of a sneer. “Good day, Ainslee.”
“Good day, John, William. Heading to town?”
John looked at William. The color was gone from his face. You would think he had seen a ghost, but that was really not something that would spook him. This situation, on the other hand, was something different. Something that petrified William. With raised eyebrows, John tried to encourage William to speak. Instead, he was a statue. Frozen expression and all. With no sign of hope that William would come around, John gave up and responded, “Yes. Market day.”
“I will be in town later. Maybe I will see you around.”
“Maybe so,” John said. He nudged the burro in the side, and they started forward again. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched William, to make sure he didn’t need to give him a nudge too. He didn’t, William was moving all on his own, shoulders slumped and slack jawed.
Before they had passed the end of the stone fence that surrounded the large two story cobblestone estate, they were greeted again. This time by a middle aged man, someone who would be their fathers’ age, in fact, he was a close friend of their fathers’. Deep character lines on his face hinted at the years spent at sea, but his waist coat and buckled brogues told a different story, something more provincial.
“Good day, boys. Going to market?”
“Good day, Lord McLayer,” they both said.
“Yes sir. I have fresh turnips and root, you need any?”, offered John.
“That I might. You two have a good day.”
When the two were clear of the estate, John cut William a look. There was no doubt William saw it. There was a reply look shared between the two friends.
“What was that about?”
William returned the look again.
“You can talk to Lord McLayer, but can’t utter a sound to his daughter?”
William didn’t have a reply. Not one that would explain the situation. It was something he didn’t quite understand either. Ainslee McLayer was their age. He and John had been around her for years. Several years ago, he found himself feeling more nervous around her than before. More aware of anything he may have done embarrassing. A comment, joke, or anything else that made him appear less refined, and more like a child, sent a dagger through his soul. John had noticed it too. It was hard for him not to. There were activities that William would not take part of when she was around. Something as simple as skipping a rock across a pond on the back acre of his father’s farm was an activity William avoided when Ainslee was near. John would rib him about it in front of her, which always drew his ire in the form of a look or a comment.
All he knew was, anytime he caught her green eyes and rosy cheeks framed by her flowing red hair, every ounce of confidence drained from his body, and he hated it. She had been, was, is, a great friend. He fancied her, and at one point considered courting her. It would never be permitted though; she was royalty, and he was just a farmer. Not to mention, why would she even consider him? The life he could offer her would be so far below her station.
The two made it to town. The first stop was at the butcher’s, to sell the slabs of pork and chunks of pork belly. William had promised him that sow a few weeks prior. Mr. Arlen saw it during a visit out to see William. He had done business with his father, and made a point to visit their farm, and several of his other regular suppliers to check out his future supplies. When he spied the animal during a recent visit, his hands shaped the cuts his brain was making, while his eyes took in the beauty of the beast.
The payment for the meat was a bag with a few coins, but that wasn’t the most valuable to William. Not that he didn’t need them. He needed to purchase the few other supplies he didn’t have means to provide for on the farm. Oh, and bread. He had meal and wheat on his farm, but not the talent to create a fluffy loaf with a hard crust. His attempts always produced something that resembled a field stone. The commodity he received, that held the true value to William, was the five pounds of tender beef steak Mr. Arlen had wrapped up waiting for him. A real treat. His mouth watered just thinking about throwing a hunk of that on the fire when he returned home. The rest would be salted and hung in the cellar to dry. That would have to wait, William and John had a few other items to take care of in town first. John still needed to sell the bushels of turnips and parsley loaded in the back of the cart.
On Front Street, just along the wharf, stood a public market. There were no booths or buildings that made it anything official. Just dozens of people gathered with their goods to sell. It had started as a place to buy fish from the local fleet. One by one, farmers tested their luck and wheeled in a load of their freshest crop. No one remembers who the first one was, but it didn’t take long before each of the major farms in the area were regulars. No one complained. It was a win-win for ever
yone.
John directed the burro into an empty space. Using a stone, he blocked the wheels to keep them from rolling down the slight incline on the road. The cart itself leaned down a little toward the back, to create the perfect display for his goods.
“Keep an eye on it?”, John asked.
William just nodded. It wasn’t a big ask, nor one he was unfamiliar with. This was the same routine every week. With the cart in place, William watched it to make sure it didn’t roll any, while John unhitched the burro and walked him over to a water trough surrounded by green grass. This may have seemed common sense, but as with much the two of them had learned in their endeavors, they had learned this particular skill the hard way. Neither had paid too much attention to what their father’s did on the trips into town. Instead, they ran through the market with their friends in town. Many times, their fathers had to waste several minutes at the end of each day searching for the whereabouts of their sons. They would be found running in the streets, sitting on the wharf as they watched the fleet come in, or at any of the three or more friends they had made in town on such previous trips.
They should have paid better attention during those many trips. Each lost their father at a young age. The winter of 1710 was a bad one. Storm after storm blew in from the coast. The wind, rain, and cold were relentless. At times it wouldn’t let up for weeks. The problem with being a farmer was, neither the animals nor the crops cared about the weather. Both needed to be tended to. This invited in the other thing that blew in with the storm, the creep. That is what his mom had called it. The type of cough that crept in and stayed. Started as just a hack here and a hack there, but got worse over time, until it was all the time. Those that could afford visits to the town surgeon were given herbs and liniments. Not that they did any good. The coughing continued until life left them. First, his mother, and then, three weeks later, his father. That last week was filled with tasks around the farm, while his father directed from the house. This was the first time William was responsible for the farm. John’s parents followed in the coming months. Both boys were traumatized by the loss of their parents. William more than John. John never saw the ghosts of his parents around the farm. Something William did on more than one occasion. At times it warmed his heart, but at others, it chilled it.
Of the many things their fathers had taught them during their dying days, how to secure the cart wasn’t one of them. Maybe it was something they had assumed wasn’t needed, since the boys had accompanied them on many trips into town. It didn’t happen on their first trip in, or even their second. Something that William believed now was just dumb luck. On the third trip, they leaned the cart downward, like both boys remembered seeing their fathers do, as well as everyone else there. When John unhitched the burro, William’s eyes exploded before his mouth screamed. The cart started to roll down the incline, gathering speed the whole way. Everyone stood and watched as it rolled through the market. No one laughed, even though both boys later thought the image of a cart loaded with turnips, wheat, and roots rolling down the road was humorous. It avoided any other carts and people, but caromed back and forth between a few buildings before it tipped over on its side. What remained of their crops fell onto the ground with a flop. The rest was scattered up the road, tracing their path. Even with that calamity, they still managed to sell everything they brought. William believed people bought from them because they felt sorry for them. For the loss of their parents, and their inability to do something as simple as chock the wheels of a cart.
4
With both the cart and burro secured, William left John to his bartering. There was no set price for anything, just what the buyer wanted to pay, and what the seller was willing to accept. William had no patience for such things. One reason, he wasn’t very good at it. John got on him all the time for offering too much and accepting too little. Something William just waved off.
Much like he used to as a young boy, William wandered the streets. It was not an aimless wander, as he followed the same path he had for some years. The destination was always the same. It wasn’t the Lion’s Pub just off the corner of Front Street. a popular stop for many after a long day at the market, but not for William. His endpoint was the same as it had been since he was eight. A spot with a rock that stuck out a tad higher than all the rest. Perfect for sitting. The view was the wide open ocean. Not a view of the harbor, mind you. After his one experience, there was no pining for days out fishing. This was more pining for what else was out there. Out there beyond the dark blue expanse and cloudy skies with the occasional patch of blue. What did the rest of the world look like? Was it like here? Meadows of lush green, dotted with stone-walled homes? He didn’t know. Not many in St. Margaret’s Hope did. He couldn’t remember the last time any visitor from anywhere else had wandered into town.
William spent hours upon hours on that rock lost in thought. Nothing distracted him. Not the white birds that swirled around hoping he had a morsel of food to share. Not the people that walked past, that at times, paused to look at him with a curious gaze. This occurred more now than it did when he was younger. It wasn’t an odd sight to see a child sitting on a rock looking out at nothing, but a grown man was something different.
“Um hum,” coughed a delicate voice behind him. A light shadow now shed over William’s back.
“Um hum,” again. William didn’t stir.
This time there was no cough to get his attention, it was a tap on the shoulder that sent William spinning around and grabbing at the rock to avoid an embarrassing tumble into the water below.
“Relax,” said the voice.
William steadied himself and wiped the fear created sweat from his forehead. He looked up and saw the vision of an angel standing over him. The sun haloed around flowing locks of curly red hair. The voice that asked him to relax, was the sweetest sound he had ever heard. His eyes adjusted to the sun as the angel sat on the rock next to him. Her cherub face came clearly into view. Green eyes, rosy cheeks, and perfect lips.
“Do you see what you are looking for?”, asked Ainslee. Her hand met his on the rock, sending a little flutter through his heart. That would be the second time today she had done that to him.
“Nah,” he said. His gaze moved from her, back to the open ocean.
“What do you think is out there? You, more than anyone I know, have dreamt of leaving.”
“I honestly don’t know. I just feel there is something greater planned for me than this. If there is, it has to be out there.” This was something William had felt for as long as he could remember. It was also something he had once asked his father about. His father hadn’t agreed or disagreed. Instead, he told William, “God has a purpose for us all. Our job is to find it and do it the best we can, in the service of our lord.”
The local priest, Father Henry laughed, when the precocious ten year old boy asked him about it after a Sunday sermon. “My son, you are far too young to worry about such things. When it is time for you to know your purpose, you will know.” The cheery, and cheeky, priest patted him on the head and sent him on his way to play with the other kids while he talked with their parents, but even then, William knew he was different. He hadn’t seen any ghosts yet, but he had felt something. A sensation, and desire, that he couldn’t put his finger on. What he did know, whatever it was, wasn’t here in St. Margaret’s Hope.
“Why didn’t you talk to me earlier?”, asked Ainslee.
“Your dad was there,” William said. His head dropped, and his eyes stared at the rock next to where he sat.
Even with her face skewed into the cock-eyed expression she gave him; she was still a vision of beauty. Two quick, but soft, pats on his hand remind him of the warmth of her touch. The cold north wind invaded the space left each time she lifted her hand up. The feeling was a comfort, and he knew she meant it as such. She had done it before. Usually just before she said, and there it was, “He is just a man. He respected your father. He will, he does, respect you.”
“I a
m just a farmer,” said William. This was the same response he had given several times before.
“You need to stop that. That is honorable work.”
William just shook his head. She didn’t understand at all. It had nothing to do with honorable work or not. Ainslee deserved a life he knew there was no way a farmer could provide. Of course, that wasn’t the biggest obstacle in his way. There was still that talk. The talk that terrified him more than any ghost he had encountered, and more than the thought of going out for another fishing trip. There was no way, Lord Sheamus McLayer, the town elder and largest landowner, would ever give his daughter’s hand to a farmer.
This was a dance his mind had played over and over for years. Each time, the steps still led to the same result. Which was why neither he nor Ainslee had let John, or anyone else, know they were a little more than just two people who waved awkwardly at each other. They both understood each other, but what William also understood was, it couldn’t be.
She wrapped her petite hand around his and said, “Let’s take a walk.”
“What? Here?”, he asked. His eyes were wide open, and he scanned around for anyone that might see them.
“Sure, why not? Just up the road a bit.” She wasn’t taking no from him, and stood up, pulling his hand with hers. One thing William had learned, once she set her mind on something, he couldn’t change it.
They walked hand in hand. She strolled confidently next to him. Their hands swung between them. William wasn’t as confident. There was no denying he liked how it felt, but that was overshadowed by the worry of the wrong person seeing them. He didn’t know what would happen, but he knew he didn’t want to find out.
The further they walked without passing anyone, that fear melted away slightly. So much so, he didn’t notice that she had led him another three streets further than just up the road, as she had said. Past the pub. Past the town center, which was still empty, and up toward the church.
