Bonfires & Ale
He was a bugger of man when he was alive, full of a drink
and angry words. I’d spent years dodging his fists only to have to endure his
weeping apologies the next morning. No one respected him, not even his own
mother. In the village he’d run up debts, verbally abused the grocer and on a
good night he’d be so damned drunk he wouldn’t make it back at all. Those
nights we slept sound, the boys huddled together next to me on the straw
mattress.
There
was never money enough to keep hunger at bay. I took in washing to make a few
extra pennies, and the boys outgrew their boots so quickly that I couldn’t
afford replacements. Often they went barefoot. In winter it was any cut down
material I could spare to tie round their feet to keep the cold out.
But in
June the bugger finally drank his last drink and was found slumped in a
doorway. He’d gone to meet his maker. What a disappointment that must’ve been
to him! Maybe the fiery furnace of hell would make him recall everything he’d
put us through. I hope he stays there. But the worry hovers over me so I’ve got
the boys outside building the bonfire. Make it big, I tell them.
I’m not
sure if the boys really understand what happened to their father. They’re only
six and eight, though the eldest is out there earning now, running errands. And to be honest we are doing alright, thank you, since the bugger
died. At least the money is all ours now the debts are paid. I sleep better,
though the boys are restless. They think he might come back. I tell them no,
but they also know what day it is today and we’re not the only ones building
bonfires.
Just in
case, I’m going to leave an offering of ale in the barn, the one he spent more
time in sleeping than actually doing anything. I had to sell the horse. Poor
thing, it was a bag of bones and had no work left in it. He ran it into the
ground, despite my warnings.
I go out
and check how the boys are doing. They’re running around chasing one another.
Yes, you old bugger, they’re happy without you, and I intend to make sure they
stay that way.
We are a
strange lot in the village. Most folk stick with old ways and who's to say they're not right about this day? Tonight all the doors will be left open and offerings will be left on window
ledges for the souls of the departed. My suspicion is that they don’t damn well
come. Why would they? Unless they’re in hell. They’re probably much better off
where they are than here in this world where poverty and hunger stunts the growth
and morning comes too soon for tired bones. I think, though I never say this to
anyone, that someone walks around the village in the night and eats and drinks
the offerings, probably some poor soul with no home and hardly a crust for his
belly. Or maybe it’s someone playing tricks on us. Even so, just in case, I am
covering my back and those of my children.
The evening is darkening. My
neighbours have already lit their bonfire. Others follow and soon the sky is ablaze,
the air full of heat and smoke. I take a torch to our wooden mound and the boys
watch, captivated by the roaring yellow fames licking into the night. I urge
them inside and to bed. I follow soon afterwards but I can’t sleep. The flames
flicker shadows across the wall and then I hear it. The sound of shuffling
outside. Something crashes. I’m too tired to move. But anyway logic tells me it’s
my neighbours because for them this is a night of merriment, and the ale is
flowing. They wait for a glimpse of their loved ones returning. Fools, I say
under my breath. I’ve shut my door. He’s not welcome back here dead or alive.
The noises die down and my eyes
are heavy. I can’t keep them open much longer. Just as I fall between sleep and
consciousness there’s a sound of wood falling. I tell myself it’s the bonfire.
The wood is settling; the sparks are crackling. And then there are heavy steps
on the stairs. My heart thumps. He’s back. How the hell do you kill a dead man?
I get out of bed and search for something to hit him with. Maybe his bones will
break if I knock him down the stairs. The children move in their sleep, murmur,
whimper. God, if you exist, couldn’t you have kept the bugger up there in the
fiery furnace? What kind of God are you to let him do what he did and then let
him out to haunt us all over again?
I push the extinguished candle
off the tiny three legged table by the bed and raise it just as the door slams
back. I stare into his face and lower the table in shock for his features are
wizened and ancient, papery and ashen. His clothes are smoking, his hair
singed. ‘Help me,’ he says in a broken voice, eyes black in their sockets. His
skin is blistered and flaying. I scream so loudly the boys wake and begin to
cry. The bugger looks at them as if he’s just remembered they exist, that he
fathered them, but I’m out and past him while his attention is on them, running
downstairs. I realise I am still clutching the three legged table. He is now behind
me and I throw the thin wooden piece of furniture at him. It passes right
through him and breaks on the stone floor. I scream again and charge out of the
house to the barn where the glass of ale sits untouched on our last bale of
straw. Instead of offering it to him as he approaches I turn and throw the
contents over him. In a whoosh he ignites. Flames consume him and he’s become a
living torch. His screams thud into the wooden posts and walls of the barn, and
all I can do is stand in horror watching him writhe in agony. The heat drives
me backwards. Then suddenly he disappears. I mean he’s gone. Poof! All that’s
left are a few fragments of burnt cloth and ashes. I stare at the place where
he’d been standing. I don’t know how long I’ve been here except I’m cold and
the little ones come in bleary eyed and confused.
‘It was a bad dream,’ I tell
them, enclosing them into my arms.
‘Will him come again?’ the
youngest asks.
‘No.’ I reply. ‘You can sleep
easy now.’ I take them back to bed and tuck them in. I hope I am right and that
he will never come again. But if he does I’ll have the ale waiting.
©2016 Heather Walker
2 comments:
Good one Heather.
Thank you, Lynda.
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