A Fool's Tale

Chapter 2 - A Treasure Claimed

The days passed slowly, sealed up in that isolated cabin. I believe that in my uncle's eyes I was similar to a horse or dog, needing food, shelter, and if I misbehaved...punishment. During one of our meals I dropped my cup of water. It clattered loudly on the table and a stream of liquid sluiced across the surface and dripped onto my uncle's lap. Without hesitation his open hand swept around and slapped against the side of my head. My ear rang with the force of the blow. I didn't know whether to cry or run. I believe it was my first time being hit, though I can't be sure. It's possible my parents also hit me, but I don't think so.

I started to cry.

My uncle rounded on me. "Ya better stop makin' that noise boy, or you'll regret it." His voice was menacing and his eyes pitiless. My sorrow would get me no mercy in this place. I swallowed my tears, put my head down, and stared at the table.

He grunted in satisfaction. "Yer soft, boy. Tomorrow, I'll put you to work. If yer goin' to stay, ya may as well be of some use."

I nodded and sat still, waiting to be told when to sleep.

I don't recall speaking in the first few days I lived in that foul home, and my uncle didn't encourage me to behave any differently.

The next day, Uncle Martin showed me around his property. It was a brief tour.

"There's some chickens, a horse, a well, and a woodpile. I also got potatoes, turnips, and carrots." He pulled on his black, bushy beard. "I think that's everythin'."

I nodded as if he'd imparted me with knowledge of great importance, for I'd already learned to be respectful at all times around my uncle.

He turned, picked up a large wooden bucket and pushed it into my hands. "Go to the well, draw some water then bring it back to the house when yer done."

I hurried to obey. The well was close to the edge of the forest, just beyond a half-dozen rows of carrots. I picked my way past the vegetables. Little insects leapt at me as I disturbed the unkempt garden with my passage.

Upon arriving, I was surprised to discover the well to be a sturdy piece of handiwork. The first example of such I'd seen since arriving. The stones were neat rectangles, fitted together in a perfect circle and held together by mud caulking. On tiptoe, I peered into the black hole. It was too dark to see the bottom. I stood confused, looking at the bucket and then to my uncle. How was I supposed to reach the water?

"Use the crank, ya damn fool!" my uncle shouted. He turned his hand in a vigorous motion.

I looked around, trying to figure out what he was talking about. There was a small triangular roof of wooden shingles over the well. A long piece of metal that ended in a handle was secured just below the shingles. I walked to the handle and turned it. It rotated with a squeal, and a rope that I hadn't noticed tightened, coiling around the metal bar.

Eventually, a battered metal container hanging from the rope rose into view. I reached for the container and pulled it close. It was heavy and filled with water slopping over the rim. I was pleased to see the water was pure and clean, unlike most everything else on my uncle's property. I did my best to pour the water into the bucket, but much of it spilled back into the well and onto the surrounding stonework. The large bucket was only a quarter full after my first attempt, and I needed to repeat the process again. It was a little easier the second time.

After the bucket was half-full I gripped it in both of my small hands and awkwardly wrestled it to the shack. The whole time, Uncle Martin observed my exertions, shaking his head disappointedly, as if I were the most pathetic creature he'd ever laid eyes upon.

"Every mornin', I expect ya to fetch the water, and I won't be remindin' ya." He glared at me until I nodded with understanding.

Next, my uncle brought me to the rows of vegetables. "Now boy, yer next job is to pull out the weeds, but take care not to disturb any of the taters, turnips and carrots, or I'll tan yer hide."

I spent days laboring in that garden, pulling weeds until my hands were raw and red. When I showed the swollen hands to Uncle Martin, he nodded sagely. "I knew yer parents made ya soft. You'll toughen up soon enough, now that yer bein' raised proper."

The two daily chores I was responsible for were fetching water and gathering sticks for tinder. I was too small and weak for most tasks – like chopping wood or repairing the many broken items around the little farm – and my uncle complained bitterly every time he asked me to do something I was incapable of. Though, in truth, I believe he got pleasure from berating me for my shortcomings.

'What use are ya, if ya can't chop wood,' was a common refrain of his.

At least once a month Uncle Martin ran out of alcohol. When he did, he would travel to a nearby village for supplies, bringing vegetables to trade. He never brought me, and before leaving he always warned me not to venture far from the shack, for there were dangerous wolves and bears in the region. I believed him, because I'd heard the wolves howling at night.

The first time Uncle Martin left me alone, I immediately began searching the cabin for the burlap sack with the necklace that had fallen loose. The necklace was my only link to the past and I desperately wanted to see if the bag contained other treasures. The cabin was small and it didn't take long for me to find the bag stuffed under my uncle's cot. I pulled it free. The sack was filled with bits of jewelry and ornaments. I quickly spotted the thin silver necklace. A plain locket dangled from it. An image of a woman leaning down and kissing my forehead while the locket bumped against my nose rose before me. Mother. My eyes widened with excitement. I snatched the necklace and jammed it into my pocket. It was the only recollection I had of my family, and the urge to take the necklace was overwhelming, though I knew Uncle Martin would punish me severely if he ever found out. I pushed the other treasures back into the bag and stuffed it in place under my uncle's cot.

From that day on, I was always careful to keep my mother's necklace hidden from Uncle Martin, but when I wanted comfort, I developed a habit of touching the pocket that held my precious treasure.

I haven't mentioned the worst part of my life in great detail, for it's painful to recall, but my uncle hit me often. He was especially cruel at night after drinking. It was a small cabin, and I had no place to escape. I say without false modesty that I learned acrobatic skills far beyond most children my age. Tumbling and dodging his crashing fist was no small skill in that cramped arena.

Unfortunately, it was usually a matter of time before one of his heavy hands caught me. I learned to shift my body in such a way that the blow glanced away rather than striking me flush. And with any hit, no matter how small, I shrieked great wailing cries, and let fat tears roll down my cheeks, for I'd noticed my uncle would continue the punishment until he was satisfied I'd been hurt, and then he would merely shout at me to shut-up.

I say 'punishment' because that's the word he used, but it was just an excuse to abuse me. Sometimes the wood was stacked too high, or sometimes it was too wide, or perhaps when I brought the bucket of water, a few drops spilled upon the porch. There was no satisfying Uncle Martin. He always found a reason to 'punish' me.

As I grew older, my acrobatic skills improved. There were even some nights I avoided his touch completely, dodging and leaping around the tiny cabin until he collapsed into a drunken slumber, leaving me to curl up by the dying fire under the ratty wolf skin. My uncle would awaken the next day, as if he'd forgotten what had happened the night before, but the one thing he never forgot was to check his stock of alcohol, and verify he had enough for another night of drinking.

Uncle Martin continued travelling to the village at least once a month for supplies, and I became braver over time. I started exploring the woods closest to the hut, but I was always careful to race back to the shack when I heard the sound of his returning cart crackling across the forest underbrush. Unfortunately, my caution lessened over time, and it was inevitable that my uncle would eventually catch me.