Fiction, Rob Moore

The Storm

The sun is sinking in a molten blaze of glory, suddenly visible below the leaden mass of cloud that has brooded all day over the two men. Now they are lit up as if on a golden altar as they sit on the wagon’s running board clear above the hedges that otherwise keep the lane in a deep shade.

“A storm is coming,” says the older man.

“D’ya say so?” says the younger, wiping a sleeve across his grimy forehead.

The older man glances sideways at the younger, then clicks at the two horses that are pulling them and their cargo peaceably along. 

“Well?” asks the younger.

“Maybe you think it isn’t true”

“I see no sign of your storm.”

The wagon rumbles on, piled high with sheaves that the men have laboured to cut, gather and bind. It fills the lane with its bulk, heaving its way between the aged, crowding hedgerows that scratch away at the flaking paint on its lofty sideboards.

“Father Matthew says that the truth is… ”

“… and who decides this… truth?” interrupts the older man.

“The Lord decides.”

“The Lord God Almighty or the Lord of all this?” the older man takes a calloused hand from the reins and gestures at the land all around them; at the high hedges and the balks and ridged fields that stretch away down to the dark line of the river.

“He says in truth that sin is everywhere; and that Bell… Bee…”

“Beelzebub?”

“Yes. …corrupts all those who are not pure of heart.”

“Your Father Matthew is quick to cast stones.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means I know a truth or two about the Father Matthews of this world.”

They sit in silence while the horses plod on, a cloud of gnats spiral aimlessly above them in the late summer heat. Horse harnesses jingle, a high treble above the ever-present bass rumble of the wagon’s wheels. 

“You’re not curious on the subject of liberty?” the older man begins again.

“I know that each of us has his place in God’s order.”

“And your place is not to be curious?” he grins wryly at his companion.

“My place is to bring in the harvest.”

“And to do nothing else? Not to use the gifts God has given you for His Glory?”

“What gifts?”

“Your voice to speak the truth. Your mind to perceive righteousness. Your hands to take action.”

“Those gifts are equal in us all.”

“Are they now? Did you not take arms in the Great Rebellion?”

“I did. I fought for my Lord at Newbury.”

“You fought for your liberty?”

“I fought against tyranny.”

A pause, the wagon lurches over a deep rut. 

“I expect you saw a lot of other dead Carters and Commoners ”

“At least we now have peace, and the tyrant king is imprisoned.” 

“So do you have your liberty? You and your dead Commoner companions?”

As they round a bend in the road a great house comes into view set on a low hill below them; it sits in a verdant expanse of grass, its sides studded with tall dark windows, columns support its wide portico.

“Why are you afraid to answer?” 

“This again? Will you question me throughout the livelong day? I’m not afraid.”

“Are you a man who would read the Pamphlets then?”

The younger man says nothing. He looks fixedly at the silent house below them.

Then he says “At the Assizes months back before the feast of St Thomas there was a man who talked like you do.”

“Oh yes?” 

“Father Mathew read us his pamphlet.” 

“..and what did you think of that man’s pamphlet?” 

The metal strakes on the wagon’s wheels are studded with hobnails to cope with the Surrey mud; now on the dry compacted surface of the laneway they make a sound like millstones grinding against each other.

“They took off that man’s ear.”

The younger man looks sideways at the older man and raises an eyebrow.

“I lost this ear to a musket ball lad.” The older man fingers the ragged skin hidden behind his long greying hair.

“Foot or Horse?”

“Horse. Dragoons.”

“And now it is over.”

“It is far from over,” says the older man. “There is still work to be done.”

“And so you have come here.” 

“I go where the work takes me.”

“Harvesting?”

“Harvesting… Gathering.” The older man makes a seesaw motion with the flat of his hand. “It is hard work, but it is eased by help from those like yourself.”

“I still see no storm.” 

“It will come upon us both nonetheless.”

The wagon rumbles on into the gathering dusk, it’s cargo of sheaves rustling and whispering.