 |
| ...a bit of a mind-reader. |
Louis Shalako
“If you are lonely when you're alone, then
you are in very bad company.” Their hermit was something of a philosopher, once
he’d been primed with a couple of drinks—and a hot meal. “Young people take the
most ridiculous chances, when they have their whole lives ahead of them. Old
people, with so much less to lose, are far more cautious. Perhaps it is because
they understand the value of that life, and what it really means in the grand
scheme of things, which is, exactly—nothing.”
And yet a life, was all a man really had—that
and his self-respect.
The man had gotten some kind of education,
somewhere along the way. That much was clear.
“What, then, is the purpose of one’s life?
One life. Your life, my life, her life—why, it is there to be lived, and
nothing more. And life is, ultimately, to face death. Each of us in our own
way. For without death, there can never truly be life, for life is joy, life is
but a dream, my young amigo, and death is…death is reality. It is the one true
reality for each and every man, woman, and even the most recently newborn
child.” He puffed contentedly. “Thank you for the cigars, incidentally. That
really was thoughtful.”
“Huh. I’m sure that must be true. You are
also very welcome. And, ah, and what about the girl?”
“Yes. I sense your interest, young man, but
give it up. She’s stone-deaf, very innocent I should think, uh, but in answer
to your question, she seems to have adopted me. For reasons which remain
unclear.” He knocked back the last of his cup. “She has a very good heart, and
an even better soul.”
“You got that right, sir.” He grinned in wry
humour.
And a pretty fine pair of lungs as well, but
he didn’t say it.
Éliott was nursing his own drink, looking
around in curiosity. The place was bigger inside than it had looked from the
outside.
Thoughtfully, he shoved the bottle in a
little closer…
We are fishers of men, or so it said in the
Bible. Sooner or later, he’d take the bait. All he needed was patience,
persistence, skill…and a lot of love, he guessed.
A lot of fucking risks, but they had to be
taken.
Not even three metres across the front wall,
the interior went back a good ten or twelve metres, widening out as it went.
That would have been what made the site attractive in the first place, with one
small little wall to build up front and then the roof, trussed with logs or
even whole tree-trunks or so it seemed. It might have even begun life as a
simple animal pen, or maybe just a trap if one cared to go all the way back to
Neolithic times. The slope of the roof had the effect of making the space look
larger than it truly was. There were a pair of bunks back there in the far left
corner. God alone knew what kind of mattress might be found under the faded
blankets there, and the stove was backed up against the right side, about halfway
into the room. There was a fireplace beside the stove, with the pipe for the
stove going up, over and hooking into the chimney. The fireplace had been built
out of stones and either mortar or just clay or something. The stove would have
come much later, the pieces hauled in on someone’s back, and bolted together on
site. The place seemed to get lower or deeper at the back. It was a couple of
steps down. There was raw, sloping, naked rock in places, and yet some effort
had been made to floor it in salvaged wooden planks, anywhere that was level or
anything that could reasonably be leveled with some work.
Assuming two fires going at once, assuming a
good pile of firewood, whether kept indoors or out, it would be warm enough to
get through a winter in the mountains. You could always burn the floor in a
pinch—
As for the girl, she sat on a wooden kitchen
chair, the old man had a bench, his back to the wall, and he had a short little
milking stool. It seemed the man didn’t get too much company, but a couple of
stiff drinks had mellowed him out a little and he seemed in the mood to talk.
“How do I say I love you.”
The two of them had been signing back and
forth, and he had no idea of what they were talking about, other than
discussing him. They must have had something else to talk about—
“It’s a bit early for that, don’t you think.”
“I meant her.”
“So did I.”
 |
| Something of a philosopher, with a couple of stiff drinks in him. |
They kept signing, with her eyes coming back
to him from time to time, and him barely able to tear his eyes away. The hermit
looked his way.
“I only wish I was a younger man myself.”
The girl looked embarrassed, and it seemed as
if she might be able to read lips. Either that, or minds.
The old man regarded him anew, as if for the
very first time, assessing him.
“Huh.”
It was all he said, and the other had to
grin.
That was about as good an answer as he was
likely to get.
There really was a love at first sight—
He was convinced.
Éliott took another careful little sip.
If it was worth having, it was worth the
pursuit. He was only going to get one life—for whatever the hell that was
worth.
One life, and one girl in particular, and
that would be more than enough for him.
***
“How come she speaks so well. I mean, uh. She
seems to swear well enough.”
It was a question that had been bothering
him.
“Ah. Her family. She’s gotten a good
education, I will say that. They sent her off to a special school. I suppose in
some hopes that she might be able to live more or less independently. They
would have had all the usual hopes of her being married, all the usual things
that so-called normal people do. Anything other than being a burden, which is
always a consideration. They’re not exactly rich, but then, not too many people
around here are. She reads, and writes, or so I believe. You might try writing
your name down for her…she’s had all kinds of specialists, teaching her to
speak properly—with the deaf, the pronunciation can be way off, as they never
actually hear the words as spoken by another person. Too often, people think
they’re retarded when it’s just that they don’t speak very well. Ah, she does
lip-read, pretty well, otherwise, she would hardly have been able to teach me
anything…”
“So, she’s taught you a few signs, then? How
long did that take, anyways.”
“Oh, not too long—” But then again, it was
only a bare few signs. “Imagine that, the perfect woman—a woman that doesn’t
talk.”
It was bitter enough, but it wasn’t him.
Éliott shook his head.
It wasn’t that way at all, and he would have
taken her at any price.
“She talks. Besides. It really isn’t like
that—” She wasn’t perfect, that much was true, but only that much.
He hadn’t met too many perfect people in this
world. Not so far, anyways. He sure as hell wasn’t one of them, not in any
case.
How could one ever put it in words?
It really couldn’t be done now, could it.
The girl had unpacked her basket, and Éliott
had hopped up to offer what help he could. It was good to be close to her, shy
as she was. It was interesting to see the hermit had a couple of water buckets,
and a tub big enough to heat water in for washing up, or better yet, a good
shave.
It was a chance to confirm something he’d
already glimpsed, a horrific, half-healed gash on the left side, rear of the
head. It was great, red, oozing sore and that thing really needed treatment.
Hadn’t she seen it? Or perhaps she hadn’t the
signs for it, or perhaps the old man hadn’t been able to read those signs, yet
he seemed completely unbothered by it.
He had no signs, but he could at least point
and make silent movements with his mouth. She nodded, looking scared for some
reason. This was not the time to push too hard, not with either one of them. He
helped her pull out her humble offerings, probably all she had to give, the
items surplus in the sense that certain vegetables all came in at once and
they’d just go bad otherwise. Radishes for example. A man could only eat so
many radishes. You couldn’t eat them fast enough, and that was just a fact. Ha.
Four more eggs. As for the carrots, they were mostly a lot of leaves and about
as big around as his little finger. There was a wedge of cheese and half a
baguette. It was plain enough fare, and little enough for a man to live on.
They found places to put it all, although cupboard space was crude to begin
with, and small enough by any standard. The eggs went into a big bowl, useless
otherwise with a big crack in it, there being literally nowhere else to put
them where they wouldn’t just roll away...
He went to his own shopping bags, and began
pulling stuff out of there. As surmised, the hermit had no refrigeration, no
ice-box, bearing in mind it would be a long haul. It was uphill all the way
from the nearest store, and ice cost money, so this was no big surprise. He
lined up the tins in a row, and organized them as best he could, labels up
front just like mother always did. He’d completely forgotten a tin-opener, and
was relieved to see one in there. All he could do was to hang the string of
sausages over a nail sticking out of the wall that someone, now lost in the
mists of time, had tapped into a crevice. She seemed a little happier to see
all of that food, and he showed her the razor and the soap as well. She bit her
lip, searching his eyes for intentions. All of a sudden, she nodded…she was
intuitive, he’d give her that much, but then, she’d pretty much have to be.
Fuck, it was like his heart just swelled up sometimes with this one—
Taking up the washing bowl, he filled it with
water and put that on the stove, which was burning low.
He pulled out the sweater. He showed it to
her, and then took it down and laid it on one corner of the lower bed, and two
pairs of socks. There was definitely a bit of old-man smell down there. The
bedding was…not good. She must have been watching. How could she not be
watching.
He went outside to get more light firewood
and the girl and the man went back to signing.
Stoking up the fire, admittedly, it was
rather warm in there, even with the cold stone walls made up of the very
mountainside, and with the door left open. It was a warm day to begin with. The
window did not seem to open, there was no screen, so that was the best one
could do. As for himself, he hadn’t eaten since the previous day, but he could
wait just a little bit longer. It might even be good to go hungry once in a
while, it gave a person a certain perspective. A tonic for the nerves. As for
the hermit, looking at the pan and the plate, and what was left of his
groceries, he’d had a pretty good breakfast, or was it lunch this late in the
day.
They were going to need hot water.
 |
| We're going to need some hot water and bandages here... |
It was just work. It was nothing to be afraid
of—
He soon had the fire going to his
satisfaction.
“So, sir. The
Man with No Name. I occurs to me that I’m just a poor, lonely stranger,
passing through these here parts, on my way to somewhere else, ah, hopefully,
and, ah…ah, and I could really use a shave, and a change of socks.”
The hermit grunted, looking into the bottom
of the glass.
“With your permission, of course. I would
like to heat some water. Also, I was thinking that maybe we could get a couple
of buckets of fresh stuff. Perhaps you could have the young lady show me where
to go for that—” He had another thought. “I don’t mind washing up, and helping
out a little around the, uh, house. I’m always real happy to chop wood and
stuff like that. Er, keep an eye on the stove, please. There’s no need for that
to boil over.”
There was a grunt of acknowledgement if not
exactly agreement…or encouragement.
“Thank you for your kindness to a stranger…”
An old Chinese proverb, a prophetic one, and one the hermit might have heard
before.
The head came up and the man gave him a look.
Turning to the girl, he made a couple of signs. Assuming success, Éliott
emptied one bucket into the heating water on top of the stove. Tossing the last
of the coffee out into the underbrush, he filled the coffee pot as well as she
stood expectantly, hands brushing at the sides of her skirt, which tended to
cling. Taking up the two empty buckets, it seemed they were ready to go. There
didn’t seem to be too many objections.
With a nod and a look back at the hermit, she
turned for the door.
He dropped the buckets, struck by an impulse.
He rummaged through his jacket pockets. The pen and the notepad were there.
“Something wrong, young man?” The voice was
slightly slurred, uncaring.
“No. No! But you were right. I really should
write my name down for her—”
He resolved to do just that, and maybe a few
more things besides. Certain song lyrics came to mind, or would that be too
mushy.
Every little breeze seems to whisper Louise,
for example.
END
Chapter Thirteen.
Louis has books and stories available from Google Play.
Thank you for reading.
