A small, drab village protected by barbed dead trees was in the grasp of a cold winter. The dead of February. Signs of past snow leave white patches on the brown and black soil. Sprigs of what can only be recognized as dead grass reach for the setting sun. A blanket of night is upon the village.

Each house is unique in its structure and materials. Some, timber with tin roofs, others red brick with black shingles. Some one story, others two or three. Remnants of gardens, back yards, and wood fences only add to their uniqueness for each owner seems to build at their pleasure. Cloggings of horse and buggy are the only signs of life in the cobblestone streets along with the drizzling rain and flickering street torches.

Thick smoke billows from each chimney, leaving a thick fog that rests above the small village, about a dozen houses or so. Dim street lights cut through the musty air to leave some sort of pathway to the entrance of the Bord house. A small cottage with a fenced in front yard. Chipped and scratched white painted bricks with cupped terracotta shingles. Hot smoke comes from the small exhaust poking from the roof.

Mother is occupied with a leg of mutton and cabbage. Her kitchen is decorated with iron pots and pans hanging from the ceiling. Specks of rust come from the years of use and maltreatment. The heat from the wood stove keeps the cottage comfortable for the whole family. She grabs a handful of salt and rubs the small pebbles on tonight’s dinner. The stench of boiling cabbage only adds to the comfort of the Bord home.

“SUPPER IS ON IT’S WAY!” She loves to keep the house updated.

Father is finishing his work. Etches from his ink dipped quill echo in the small living room. He does all of his writing on an ornate desk in the corner of the living space. The chair creaks with every movement of his body. A brown bear skin rug covers most of the dark, hardwood floors. Its open mouth and dark eyes stare at the entrance of the home. A bronze, spindly chandelier holding tall eggshell candles brings light throughout the whole room. Light reflects from metallic frames holding painted pastoral scenes. Amber fields, farm life, simple times and hard lives.

Lucious heard the faint calls of Mother from his dark room. A small space. Dim flickering lights are coming from a rusted iron lantern on a wooden nightstand.  The large goose feather bed envelopes Lucious as he cuddles by Mother’s handmade quilts and hand sewn pillows. The checkered patterns were engraved in his head, the realest thing he can keep in his mind. The young boy loves slumber and dreaming. More than life itself. 

He lives to dream.

Drifting in and out of sleep, his ebb and flow of life is all he wants to do and all he’s ever done.

Lucious gets into a more comfortable position and covers his ears with a pillow.

I.

Lucious’ eyes shoot open and notices the sun warming his skin. Vermilion and amber petals fall to the ground as he clenches spring flowers. Deep breaths fill his lungs with clean air, he exhales with relief. A vibrant butterfly glides past with black wings, outlined with bright yellow, spotted with red speckles. His hands supplant the verdant grass as he grabs handfuls.

He rolls his head over and spots a tree. Beautiful, thick roots gnarled and intertwined with the countryside. The branches reach out for the life of the sun. He walks over and appreciates the roughness of the bark. The hand touches the other side of the tree, it feels different. He pulls his hand back and rubs dust and ash between his fingers. A dull heat can be felt. Looking to the other side of the trunk, its branches above look like the roots below, twisted and bare nubs. He views farther and the beautiful grove is engulfed in flames! Flaming leaves and flowers drift in the soft wind.

“LUCIOUS!” says Father from the door ajar.

“Supper is almost ready, help your Mother set the table.”

Lucious shambles to the table. Mother’s thick quilt is draped over his body. He places three place mats, twisted wrought iron forks, spoons and knives in that order on the long wooden table. Heavy gray wooden bowls placed in the center of each table set. He plays with the hand carved divots and leaves indents with his dirty fingernails.

Father slurps broth and it dribbles down his long, stringy peppered beard. He crunches a piece of bread before he wipes his face with a linen. He tears through the muscles of the lamb and gums the tough meat. A small tinted glass smacks the table after a glug of whiskey.

Mother delicately cuts the meat from the bone and joins it with a small pedal of cabbage and the fork gracefully enters her mouth. She places the fork on the linen and uses the spoon to taste the cloudy broth.

Lucious stares at the haunch of mutton at the center of the table. The steaming bowl of cabbage sits in front of him untouched. His deadpan eyes look at the intricate detail and sophistication of the ram’s muscles. The many layers and colors and textures are mesmerizing. The daily routine of the animal took over his thoughts. Grazing the fields, feeling and appreciating the run rays on thick white or gray wool, itching its ribbed horns on a wooden fence. Living and prospering without thought with the other farm animals. No dread or worry of what comes the next day, the next week, the next year. No pondering what to do with its life or its passions. Only living life itself. This thought consumed Lucious and his supper slowly turned cold.

The cabbage broth starts to film while Mother yells across the table. “What’s the matter Loo? Not hungry?” Lucious only responds with a stare and a mixing of his dish with his utensil. The film folds into the layers of cabbage flesh and he shoves it in. “Just something on my mind, Ma.”

“You must do… You sure spend a lot of time in that dark room all day. I should only expect something profound to come out of that. Haha. My boy is just like his Father. Too much in his mind and not enough to say. That’s why I write. Ya’ know?”

Father slices mutton from the bone, dips it in broth and eats loudly.

The table stays silent as Father continues to eat his meal. “Well… Are you going to tell us?” Mother follows this with a playful laugh. 

“It’s nothing. Really. I just need to get back to bed.” He politely pushes the chair back in place, leaving the table as it was and returns to his room.

“Don’t worry about him. He’ll figure it out…” Father gulps the rest of his whiskey and returns to his writing desk.