To the old man in the rocking chair under a down comforter, the profound silence of the fading afternoon brought back memories of a time at the other end of his life when only the wealthy could afford the cost of quiet and peaceful retreats. Others had to put up with the noises of consumers, arrogant in the assumption that their wasteful lifestyles could continue indefinitely.
Today there was no sound other than the susurration of the sea breeze, tame on this clear day in early October, containing few scents, and carrying a chill it had rarely borne during the first decade of twenty-first century global warming. However, as traumatic as it had proved to be, the rapid warming had been short-lived in this part of the world. Everyone in England had been surprised by the speed of its fading, particularly the people who had studied in school the history of the glacial periods and of variations in earth's climate. There had been rapid climate changes in the past such as those that occurred 11,000 years ago, but nothing like the changes that had brought on the prolonged warm period, then suddenly ended it in Northern Europe.
Gordon Heatherton had been making kindling wood by splitting short pieces of fir. He could peel off pieces one growth ring thick like a chef making celery sticks for very small people, his cleaver rising and falling in rapid succession that told of his still firm grip and his concentration. Now he wanted to bask in what was left of the sun's rays and let his eyes rest on the distant undulating landscape as it fell gently towards the sea that formed the horizon, stretched across his vision in a more or less straight line.
The river, winding through the folded land, glinted here and there where the westering sun was reflected as if someone had struck arcs for tiny lamps. And as the sun moved the lights winked out then came on further downstream. On clear days he loved seeing the red orb slide into the sea and sometimes couldn't help wondering if parents still told their curious children how the light was extinguished by the water only to be miraculously rekindled the following morning. But he suspected few watched sunsets any longer, and fewer thought in terms of miracles. However, something in the order of a miracle was going to be needed if his son and his two boys were going arrive safely in Marseille for the trip to the warm lands across the Mediterranean.
In Gordon's boyhood in the village, down a thread of a road as remote as anything could be in Dorset there used to be very few seconds of silence between man-made sounds that intruded themselves into one's consciousness all day long. The beep of a video-phone, the whir of wind generators, children’s voices in play or argument were part of the normal background. Now he waited in silence in the afternoon sun for the crunch of rubber tires forcing little rocks against each other to announce the arrival of his son and two grandchildren.
At last the excited voices of children, then the repeated ringing of their bells announced their presence before Gordon could see them pedaling slowly up the path, each bike with its trailer of precious possessions in tow. He'd been expecting them any day now and was eager to see them. He threw off the comforter and stood up.a little stiffly, using the handrail to negotiate the porch steps. It wasn’t only his infirmity that kept Gordon from striding down the steps; his level of energy was not as high as it used to be when there were more calories in his diet.
The two youngsters, who had sprinted along the flat before the house, dismounted gingerly, stretching their legs, and rubbing sore backsides. The younger was full of information and chatter. “It’s warmer here than at home, Grandpa" said Tom, as he squatted to ease his muscles. “Can we go fishing tomorrow?" When he rose he hugged his grandfather quickly; his brother gave the old man a longer hug in silence, a slightly rueful look on his face. Though he smiled, he was obviously in pain.
"There's hot water ready for you two," offered Gordon to his grandsons. Then, “Go soak those sore legs!" As they hobbled into the house, he watched his son get out of his bike and close the plastic canopy. The younger man shook out his legs as if they were trousers, and pulled his father to him with wide open arms. Both were watery eyed while his son patted the old man's back reassuringly.
"Have a good trip?" enquired Gordon stretching his arms so he could look into his son’s eyes.
"Pretty good, Dad," he replied. "Couldn't find much to eat on the last leg of the trip, though. Sure hope you've got enough here!”
"I do, Son. The fish have been plentiful, and people have left crops and cattle in the fields. How were things looking in the Midlands when you went through?”
"Empty," was the single word reply. His son paused. "There's a big difference since I came last May. Junk all over the place; not much sign of people working; very few places to eat and those only carrying local harvest food. No long haulers. There were farm tractors on the roads, a few motorcycles and of course, bicycles. What did you think of that long line of bikes I showed you yesterday on the phone?”
“They looked pretty ragged. Must have been on the road for weeks.” Gordon paused.
EDITOR'S NOTE: This story will be published in FOUR CHAPTERS. Chapter Two: January 17 2014;
Chapter Three: January 24 2014; Chapter Four: January 31, 2014
Michael James-Mined in England. There thrown on the wheel for impress of first hands.
Turned and shaped in Berkeley.
Fired and painted by students of Tamalpais district which he left in 1993.
Writes essays, stories, and poetry.
No comments:
Post a Comment