Friday, July 20, 2012

The Iron Age : Scene Sketch


Romans could still remember the first day he had seen a lawman. 
His father was working in the fields, his mother in the house. The sun shined a deep ripe red overhead. Approaching home it was difficult for a stranger’s presence to go unnoticed. Mother always saw them first. Before a newcomer could round the last set of trees and announce their presence, before making the walk up to the house, she was in the kitchen rendering sweet offerings.
For a young Romans this style of contrivance had made little sense. So much work to please some stranger, so much work that Romans knew he would have to clean up after.  Longer than it took him to understand  women, and longer than it took him to realize  he was wrong on that account, he one day realized the importance of his mother’s way of saying ‘hello, and welcome to our home.’ Father could render another human at ease with a sturdy handshake and firm eye contact, but mother used sweets. Travelers never expected hospitality the way mother expected to give it, and so they were always happy to have made their journey. Whether they came from near or far with their burdens, they always left with strong souls prepared for the next passage.  This lawman was no different to mother’s than any other traveler.
She looked out from her celery green eyes set into a field of red speckles.  Wheatgrass hair tied back, framing her honey warm face, she was soon at work, tossing flour against the counter, and painting her pan with sugars and butters. It was a ritual, which was another important part of the process Romans refused to appreciate as a boy.  Instead he would let his eyes rest on the counter top like almonds, fingers curved over the edge lifting his wafer youth up inch by inch until he could tilt his nose back and let the smell fall into him.
Mother could see a mirror of her green eyes staring up from the counter edge, buried under floppy patches of her husband’s rusty hair,  small fingers spider-walking across the counter for the nearest morsel.  Scoldings were also a ritual she had perfected. But not today. The exact moment Romans expected to feel a spoon tap his knuckles, or hear his name in the thunderous way only mother could say it, nothing happened. He was confused and could feel his stomach make an unpleasant tight feeling as he cheeks grew warm, and the heartbeat of a guilty boy quickened. His gaze reaching hungrily across the counter, he watched both mother and her spoon as he retrieved his hand, chocolate prize held firm within.  She only smiled,  leaned over and kissed his hair. Encouraging her rascal could be dangerous, but today there were other concerns occupying her mind. There was a lawman coming to her door and all she wanted to do was slow time.
The power of the kitchen ritual was a power of meditation, a power of prayer. For mother she always came out of the kitchen with the same strength in her soul her cookies gave to passing strangers. Pain vanished and love grew behind those doors, all of which was needed to face a lawman. Lawmen were always a storm crow , bearers of burdens, who left their quarters darker colder and sadder.
The strange man was approaching the front door, when mother brought her labors out of the kitchen, ready to greet him and his news with the same warmth her ritual demanded. Father had come in by now and greeted the man at the door, inviting him in. The lawman was young Romans noticed. Still too young to see the passage of time, all men in the eyes of this young boy were just Men. This man however made Romans’ father look old, tired, weaker. Perhaps Romans had always noticed the streaks of gray hair, and the leathery  skin of his father, but time never felt so scary until the lawman walked in with his bold youth and even dark black hair. To Romans the lawman looked clean for a traveler, a long coat, a wide-brimmed hat, tall and narrow,  where dirt could be seen tossed across  the salt-stained clothes of his much broader father. The man in his black hair and dark clothes, unbridled himself one of many satchels, unbundling stacks of paper and square parcels for father and mother to inspect. Their faces looked cold.
The conversations that followed were too fast for Romans, too many words. Not enough time. They grew louder at points, and calmed at others, like swells of rain in the sky. No one seemed to be eating the cookies, and even Romans had felt guilty to try and reach for one while mother and father looked so serious. They talked for a long time about the house, about Romans, about the sky. The lawman was unchanged and could only unroll new parcels as explanations for every question they laid before him. Long after mother’s cookies were cold  and the sun had set, the traveler packed his papers together, gave a formal bow, offered an apology and left.
Before sunrise they had left their home and were soon sharing the lawman’s road as travelers. Many things stayed behind, father’s tools, mother’s pans still on the counter. The last thing she managed to save was the parcel of cookies which she hid in her son’s bag to keep him happy. She wanted to spoil him just enough to keep him young especially on days like these. The ritual was all she needed to pack up the most important things she had and keep them safe. 

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