The village hides a secret

The uncle took gigantic strides over the thorny undergrowth. “Come with me,” he urged, heading towards the church. The father followed, but the boy lingered behind, much like the church before him, motionless, consumed by weakness, and a familiar sensation of vertigo from within. No, he truly shouldn’t be here. Suddenly, a firm grip on his left wrist, and his father pulling him like a dog. And like a dog, the boy followed, mute, oblivious to the wild plants embedding their thorns into his legs, cross-cutting everywhere until the force of motion separated or broke them.

Per aspera ad… Home.

“Dad, let’s go back, please,” the boy pleaded, holding back the pain.

“What’s wrong, had enough of the village?” the uncle inquired, hearing him.

“No, brother, we just arrived. Everything’s fine,” the father replied to his brother, disregarding his son’s request.

“I know why you’re going through this,” the uncle said to him bitterly. “But what about him? You do know what lies behind the church, you haven’t been here in twenty years, but you remember, you remember, don’t you? If it weren’t for me, you’d never have found him. You’d have forgotten about him.”

The uncle instructed the boy to pull the rope hanging from the church’s roof until the bell rang three times. “Once for each of us,” he briefly explained, and initially, the boy pulled his father’s sleeve out of fear, but his father just pushed him away. As the bell echoed through the mountain foothills, the uncle yelled, it seemed, towards the sky:

“We’ve arrived, brother! Both of us! And the boy is with us. I promised you I’d bring them, and here we are!”

The father simply bowed his head, consumed by guilt, which as the tightening noose around his neck, had been choking him for some time. The uncle pulled a metal flask from one of his deep pockets and handed it to the boy’s father. The father took a swig, then passed the flask to his son.

“Is it good?” the uncle asked. “Excellent,” said the father.” Excellent,” said the son.

“You know what, it is excellent,” confirmed the uncle finally acknowledging his own mastery, then poured the brandy over the unkept grave and addressed the departed:

“You’d love it too, brother, 18 degrees, and locally-grown plum.”

The journey back home was thorny and painful, but physical pain took a backseat, at least for the boy. If his father hadn’t been pulling him so forcefully by the hand, he might have remained beside the church, petrified alongside it. This church and I share much, the boy mused, for instance, the fact that nobody truly cares about us.