Tuesday, May 16, 2006
A LITTLE BRIEF AUTHORITY
Signs of the coming storm thundered away in the distance.
He swung the spade up, then brought it down, swiftly and accurately. Even though the blade was sharp, and there was still power in those arms, it barely cut through the surface, wedging halfway down in the waterlogged soil.
Spring this year had been unusually wet and no one had been able to plant their potatoes.
He had tired of waiting.
Pulling hard he brought up the clod of earth and pushed it to the side with his boot.
He swung again. Two strokes needed to do the work of one.
The first drops of rain splashed pizzicato onto the already soaking ground. He would continue until the row was dug. Enough potatoes to keep a family of three for at least a month.
He swung again.
Power of will, and strong arms, had carried out many a task more difficult than this one; or so he reasoned.
It was not as if he needed to plant potatoes. He had a more than adequate pension, had acquired a number of apartments, which he rented out and which had supplemented his income for many years.
He also owned the land.
The thunder rumbled more loudly and the first knife-slash of lightening cut the sky just beyond the ridge which enclosed the western edge of the valley.
He turned back to his digging.
Solitariness appealed to him. All his life he had worked with people. Even when you command you can’t just be yourself, you have to consider how people will react. Giving an order is useless, unless it’s obeyed. Only escape to the village and farm work had kept him sane.
Not that he had been born in the country. He was a town lad. His father had worked as a waiter in a none too classy restaurant; his mother cleaned other people's apartments. They had had no other children.
He looked at the growing furrow and smiled. Character was needed even here in the fields. It was character that had kept him his position despite the revolution, despite backstabbing colleagues and despite her, not exactly unexpected, lack of support.
A small, black cloud started forming inside his head with the thought.
What did it matter? He was strong enough.
He became aware of the growing darkness, and the rain. The rich, red earth, fertile and productive if you looked after it, started melting into a paste at the bottom of the trench.
Better stop, he thought.
He looked over to the car: A Brigantia. No foreign imports for a man like him. Not inexpensive, not the bottom of the range: An estate, just right for the trips he made out here.
It was on the track which cut across the valley from the rough country road he'd taken when he came straight from town. He hadn’t bothered to drive on to the village. He didn’t intend to let them laugh at him - behind his back of course, they wouldn’t have dared say anything to his face, not even disguised as a joke.
They wouldn’t be planting anything in this weather; they preferred to wait until there wasn’t time to grow enough to keep them alive over winter - and then ask the State, or him, for a handout.
They were her people anyway.
It had been her land.
That had been a major factor in his decision to marry her, the land. And her still attractive body. A man in his position needed a good-looking wife, one that was aware of the impression she was making.
The cloud in his head grew almost imperceptibly and darkened slightly.
A bright flash, followed swiftly by a crack of thunder, like the splitting of dry, diseased wood when you chop down a dead tree, brought him back to his surroundings.
Big, heavy drops were wetting the old jacket he wore. He made for the car across the field, mud sticking to his boots, weighing them down. He left the spade behind, and the sack of seed potatoes he intended to plant. He would just let the storm pass over and then get back to work.
In the car, as he sat and smoked, he listened to the rain tap out an almost regular rhythm on the roof. There was something in it, just on the edge of consciousness, that reminded him of their early days. The wind was getting up too. He threw the half smoked stub out through the gap at the top of the window and wound it up.
He swung the spade up, then brought it down, swiftly and accurately. Even though the blade was sharp, and there was still power in those arms, it barely cut through the surface, wedging halfway down in the waterlogged soil.
Spring this year had been unusually wet and no one had been able to plant their potatoes.
He had tired of waiting.
Pulling hard he brought up the clod of earth and pushed it to the side with his boot.
He swung again. Two strokes needed to do the work of one.
The first drops of rain splashed pizzicato onto the already soaking ground. He would continue until the row was dug. Enough potatoes to keep a family of three for at least a month.
He swung again.
Power of will, and strong arms, had carried out many a task more difficult than this one; or so he reasoned.
It was not as if he needed to plant potatoes. He had a more than adequate pension, had acquired a number of apartments, which he rented out and which had supplemented his income for many years.
He also owned the land.
The thunder rumbled more loudly and the first knife-slash of lightening cut the sky just beyond the ridge which enclosed the western edge of the valley.
He turned back to his digging.
Solitariness appealed to him. All his life he had worked with people. Even when you command you can’t just be yourself, you have to consider how people will react. Giving an order is useless, unless it’s obeyed. Only escape to the village and farm work had kept him sane.
Not that he had been born in the country. He was a town lad. His father had worked as a waiter in a none too classy restaurant; his mother cleaned other people's apartments. They had had no other children.
He looked at the growing furrow and smiled. Character was needed even here in the fields. It was character that had kept him his position despite the revolution, despite backstabbing colleagues and despite her, not exactly unexpected, lack of support.
A small, black cloud started forming inside his head with the thought.
What did it matter? He was strong enough.
He became aware of the growing darkness, and the rain. The rich, red earth, fertile and productive if you looked after it, started melting into a paste at the bottom of the trench.
Better stop, he thought.
He looked over to the car: A Brigantia. No foreign imports for a man like him. Not inexpensive, not the bottom of the range: An estate, just right for the trips he made out here.
It was on the track which cut across the valley from the rough country road he'd taken when he came straight from town. He hadn’t bothered to drive on to the village. He didn’t intend to let them laugh at him - behind his back of course, they wouldn’t have dared say anything to his face, not even disguised as a joke.
They wouldn’t be planting anything in this weather; they preferred to wait until there wasn’t time to grow enough to keep them alive over winter - and then ask the State, or him, for a handout.
They were her people anyway.
It had been her land.
That had been a major factor in his decision to marry her, the land. And her still attractive body. A man in his position needed a good-looking wife, one that was aware of the impression she was making.
The cloud in his head grew almost imperceptibly and darkened slightly.
A bright flash, followed swiftly by a crack of thunder, like the splitting of dry, diseased wood when you chop down a dead tree, brought him back to his surroundings.
Big, heavy drops were wetting the old jacket he wore. He made for the car across the field, mud sticking to his boots, weighing them down. He left the spade behind, and the sack of seed potatoes he intended to plant. He would just let the storm pass over and then get back to work.
In the car, as he sat and smoked, he listened to the rain tap out an almost regular rhythm on the roof. There was something in it, just on the edge of consciousness, that reminded him of their early days. The wind was getting up too. He threw the half smoked stub out through the gap at the top of the window and wound it up.
