A Fool's Tale

Chapter 1 - Uncle Martin

Most of my past is a blur of fog and shadows, but the day I left home is permanently etched in my memory.

I was home alone, and scared, for I was a six year old child, and my parents should not have left me on my own. The front door crashed open and a huge man with a great bushy beard filled the entrance. I cowered, but he paid me little heed. Instead, the giant crashed about the house and filled a burlap sack that he clenched in one of his meaty hands. It seemed to me that we were being robbed, but there was little I could do except make myself small and hope not to attract the attention of the thief.

After what seemed to be an eternity of banging the man stumped outside. I crept to the porch and watched as he flung his sack onto the back of a weather-beaten horse drawn cart. The burglar then turned from his wagon and studied me with cold, black eyes. His scrutiny started at my feet and swept upward until meeting my timid gaze. He grunted then scowled and heaved himself onto the front seat of his cart, clearly unimpressed with what he saw.

"Boy, I'm yer Uncle Martin. Yer parents died of the white plague last night. Yer to live with me."

He didn't pat the cart seat encouragingly, nor did he provide me with reassuring words or condolences. Uncle Martin merely reached into his pocket and pulled out a steel flask, from which he took a long pull, before picking up the reins.

I quickly clambered onto the wagon for I could tell he was preparing to snap the reins against his horse and leave me standing in front of my home, tears running down my cheeks, and my throat hitching, as I tried to hold back my grief.

I heard a loud snap, then we lurched forward. The rickety two-wheeled wagon rattled to life. I jostled uncomfortably to the beat of the horse's hooves, for the little used road was pitted with hard stones.

There was plenty of room for two on the cart's wide seat, but my uncle sat in the middle, crowded against me. A nearly overwhelming stink of alcohol and sweat assaulted me, but strangely, I didn't mind. After hearing about the loss of my parents I relished any sort of human contact, and I leaned close against him, breathing in his sour odor gratefully.

Uncle Martin didn't speak during the ride, and I didn't know what to say to this stranger with such hard eyes.

Eventually, he pulled the horses away from the main road. We jounced even more roughly through the forest along a narrow trail until we came upon a rundown shack in the middle of a large clearing. My uncle hopped from the cart and rummaged around the back for awhile. I sat still, making myself small, unsure of my place in his world. When he stepped away from the rear of the wagon Uncle Martin had the burlap sack over one shoulder. He looked at me and grunted, as if surprised to see I was still there.

"Well come on then," Uncle Martin grumbled and disappeared into the rickety shack.

Awkwardly, I clambered from the wagon then trudged to a flimsy wooden door hanging askew from rusty hinges. When I pulled the thin iron handle, the door creaked loud enough to cause a pair of nearby jays to shriek in annoyance and flap away.

I stepped into a dreary, foul smelling room. The stink of alcohol and sweat had seeped from my uncle's pores into the moldy wooden logs of his cabin. I cringed, wishing I could flee from the rank place. The door snapped shut with a clatter.

Uncle Martin tossed the sack on the floor beside a small oak table at the center of the room. A silver necklace tumbled free. My eyes sparked with recognition. The glittering piece of jewelry looked familiar. My mother's. I desperately wanted to dig through the bag and see what Uncle Martin had taken from my parent's home, but I was wary of my new surroundings and unsure how to behave around the grim man.

My uncle stumped to the fireplace and bent down over a heavy iron pot perched on an iron grill. He slowly stirred the contents with a long, wooden spoon, and as he stirred, he mumbled under his breath. I could not make out what my uncle said, but I sensed anger in those mutterings and stayed silent and still.

He turned to me. "Boy, sit at the table."

There were two chairs. I took the one furthest from my uncle. It rocked back and forth on uneven legs and I had difficulty keeping it from tapping back and forth.

My memory fails me, but I think we ate then, sitting in silence at his small table. Likely we had a thick stew of turnips, carrots and potatoes. It's what we always ate.

After the meal, Uncle Martin pointed toward a tattered wolf skin spread on the floor in front of the fireplace. "That's where yer sleepin'." He retreated to a cot at the other end of the cabin.

I spent my first night – and many more – shivering, the ragged wolf skin pulled to my chin, inching ever closer to the fading warmth of the dying coals. I often wished my parents would come to me during those sleepless nights, but they never did. My only companions were the cold tears rolling down my cheeks to quivering, quiet lips.