The little boy’s throat had gone sore by the time he’d finished telling the story and it was only now that he came to notice how heavy his eyes had gone. To take account of this, he let out a loud yawn and then lay back in his sleeping bag, trying to find a comfortable position. For a brief moment there was silence, except for the dim hoot of an owl from somewhere far off and the sound of the boy shuffling around. He presumed his father had drifted off into sleep part way through the story and was ready to close his own eyes when, suddenly, his father turned on his side to face his son.
“Not bad at all,” he said with a faint smile. “I knew you could tell a good story if you put your mind to it. In dark times like these, we need good storytellers – it’s a good way of being able to escape from the pain and sorrow of reality.”
Despite this praise, the boy simply shrugged his shoulders as if it was no big deal and muttered modestly in response – “It was a bit of a mumbler really,” before adding more enthusiastically, “Not like your stories Dad. Your stories are the best.”
There was no lie in what the boy was saying. He honestly believed that his father had the potential to become a bestselling author some day and couldn’t understand why, instead of making the most of the skills he had at hand, the government were forcing him to go and fight in some distant foreign land. It really was a complete and utter waste of talent and although the boy was only young, he’d seen enough war films in his days to understand that many people who go to war to fight for their country don’t ever come back. It was dwelling on this that a rush of troubling thoughts began to pound away at his mind and made his head begin to hurt. What if his father was destined to be one of those people? Who would be there to tell him stories at night whenever he was upset then? Who would be there to love, cherish and look out for him when times were hard?
In this moment of worry, with all his fears out in the open, he finally managed to muster the courage to ask the question he’d been meaning to ask all night.
“Why do you have to go Dad?” he whispered sadly, his lips trembling under the glow of the torchlight.
On hearing this, his father reached out with one of his muscular hands and gripped his shoulder tightly. He looked at him dead on in the eyes as he did so, but didn’t respond to the question his son had asked. Instead, rather like a politician who feared the odds were against him, said something of which was extremely optimistic in the circumstances and knew he had little power to guarantee. Simply, with a faked smile spread across his lips to numb the boy’s concerns, he said:
“I promise you son, I’ll be back in no time.”
The End
YOU ARE READING
A Kingdom of Our Own
AdventureA coming of age adventure set at the height of the Vietnam War
