Before all things, it is important to mention that this fic was co-authored with a-thesis-film-destroyed-me: he came up with the original idea and is responsible for all the awesome in this story: I just wrote the filler. I hope you enjoy this new fic!
There were few times that Sherwin could say he felt truly safe: one of them happened to be when he was riding his horse, Shirley (his little brother usually debated with him over that one point and called the stout gray mare a pony; the older boy, needless to say, didn't agree), walking the sun-hardened paths through the immense wheat fields and occasional forests dotting the countryside.
In those times, nothing else mattered: there was a calming rhythm to the clopping of the animal's hooves against the ground, the waves of wind curving the golden fields. This was a time he allowed for himself to daydream, and of course indulge in his own guilty habits that he had to wait all day to evacuate: swinging his legs, fiddling with his hands, twisting and pulling his hair, spouting gibberish. At home, he had learned not to do such things. Shirley was the only member of his family and friends who didn't seem to mind this, and he was grateful for having been gifted with such a calm and loving animal.
Today, however, was different. Even before he pulled the bridle over her head, she was pawing at the ground impatiently. The redhead had checked her feet, her food, her stools and field, but nothing seemed amiss. She was just antsy, he had decided, and had hurriedly vaulted onto her bare back and set off without further ado.
Yet now, even though he had allowed her a short canter, an activity that usually calmed her down to a more manageable level, she tugged at her bit and tried to speed forward. Sherwin wasn't sure what to do, something that he was used to being easygoing now turned stressful, and could think of nothing better to do other than shorten his rein.
This was not a good idea. The mare stopped suddenly, trembling in a way that made the boy extremely apprehensive, then she bucked. Nothing big, nothing that would eject him, an experienced rider, but it unsettled him enough to make him loosen his hold for a fatal second, one that the dastardly horse chose to use by jerking her head forward, snapping the reins clean out of his hands, before setting off at a full-speed gallop down the beaten-earth path.
Sherwin squeaked, scared that the loose tack would be thrown over his dear horse's head and get tangled in her forelegs. He would not fall himself, and the dizzying speed wasn't really that bad, but his gut clenched with panic as he held onto her mane with one hand, the other trying desperately to get a hold on the loose, thin piece of leather that might mean both of their demises.
The redhead boy could tell that they were way off course. The road was no longer earth, but hard concrete. The sound of Shirley's hooves clacking against the surface was painful to hear, the noise grating against her rider's ears, but still the reins evaded him, like a snake teasing him to grab its tail. Inexplicably, she made a sharp turn off the main road, one which nearly sent Sherwin flying, but he held on tight and braced himself as they crashed through forest.
Branches flew at him, and no longer could he concentrate on catching the reins. Instead, he ducked, keeping as close as possible to his horse to avoid getting smacked in the face. Again, they emerged into daylight, and even before Sherwin could look around and take in their surroundings, Shirley screeched to a jarring halt that sent clumps of earth flying this way and that.
This time Sherwin could not stop himself: still holding the speed that Shirley had imposed upon him, he flew forward over the small gray horse's head and straight into the person standing right in front of them.
His landing was surprisingly soft: Sherwin had been thrown in such a way that he fell on his feet, at least, and the person stood there was strong enough to take his weight. However, he had landed face first in their chest, so for a second, the boy could only take in the heavy smell of leather, engine oil and cigarette smoke, before he took a quick and panicked step back, waving his hands in an apologetic gesture.
Now that he wasn't so close up to the person, he could make out some more details: a boy, probably his own age or older by a year or two, skin dark but eyes surprisingly clear, hypnotic even. A leather jacket, slicked back hair and tight jeans completed the picture, and indicated very clearly that this person was not from these parts. The crucifix hanging at his neck only reassured Sherwin minorly, but by all accounts this was definitely not the kind of person he would be authorized to spend time with under normal circumstances.
The boy in the leather jacket seemed to have frozen, without doubt shocked by the horse and rider's unannounced appearance, but was now regaining movement, one eyebrow shooting up to meet his hairline and making a gesture forward, reaching for Sherwin's arm. The redhead pulled away, hissing at the unwarranted attention, but when he glanced down at said arm, he caught sight of a long scratch tracing an angry line from wrist to elbow. Probably a tree branch, he thought dully, before shaking himself out of it when the boy with the suspicious clothing tried yet again to reach forward to examine the wound.
His intentions were good, Sherwin could tell, but he could not deal with this kind of thing right now. With a quick shake of his head, he turned down the offer, quickly vaulted back onto Shirley's back, and in the same swift movement kicked her sides and sped off, leaving the stranger with only a cloud of dust to converse with.
Something wasn't right, the redhead thought. He slowed to a walk when he got to the dreaded asphalt surface, the clacking sound duller than if Shirley were cantering, much to his great relief. He now recognized where he was, the house they had just been to had been abandoned for years, but it had obviously been sold now, despite its reputation as the local ghosts' haunting. Sherwin shivered, but the thought of wandering spirits in itself being blasphemy, he quickly pushed them to the back of his mind.
What was wrong, then? The appearance of this person? As unlikely as it was for someone to willingly live somewhere quite as far-removed as this place, it was by no means impossible. They were back on the field-path now, the muted thumps of the hooves helping his mind's gears to turn. Unconsciously, Sherwin also started to swing his legs back and forth, threading the loose end of the reins between his fingers. A city-slicker, then. A troublemaker, was the only thing that he managed to deduce from that. The smell of cigarette smoke was proof enough.
But that still wasn't it. Sherwin was starting to get frustrated, attacking his hair with his right hand, leaving his dominant one to tear at the now apathetic horse's mane. It felt like a large piece of bread blocking his throat, not quite hurting him but making everything more uncomfortable and shortening his temper. What was it that he couldn't quite grasp about this new kid?
Once they got back home and he dismounted, Sherwin checked Shirley's feet, letting his temper boil over and manifest itself in the tapping of his foot as he carefully inspected his horse's hooves, groomed her, watered her and led her back to her field. He them walked over to the front door, still just as enraged; however, just before he pulled down the handle to the always-unlocked home, he stopped, composing himself as he was faced by the heavy slab of wood. All the tearing, nervous movements were repressed, a sheet pulled over his true feelings, a mask positioned on his face. After a few extra deep breaths to compose himself completely, he finally headed into the house.
As soon as he stepped into the chilly entranceway, he closed the door behind him and pulled off his shoes, eyes immediately going to the old cross-stitch embroidery made by his sister when she was a little younger than him, spelling out in elegant curls: In this house, in God we trust.
As he had taken to doing since her demise, the boy bowed his head and offered a quick, silent prayer to a person he could remember having loved deeply. A wave of sadness overcame him, but it didn't last long, and with a small sign of the cross he moved to the kitchen. The place was silent apart for the roaring of the stove, fire lit and filling the place with a warmth much unnecessary in these late spring days. His mother, as always, was stirring a pot of something, stare blank as she attempted to pierce the depths of the bean soup that would be their meal tonight. At the table, his father was looking through a large journal, newspaper clippings and other references scattered around him as well. Sherwin footsteps may have been light on the floorboards, but as anyone could attest, his father had the ears of a lynx.
"Son, that was mighty quick. You didn't cut back on your normal route I trust?"
The boy was quick to shake his head at this, denying before his father's perceptiveness could break through him and figure out the lie. He leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowing as his son was now staring at the floor, unable to keep eye contact.
"Alright. Is there anything to report, then? Any broken fences, crops that seem to have been tampered with?"
Sherwin shook his head again, denying everything and wanting nothing more than to sink into the ground. His hands were itching to flap, to twist something, his feet to tap, his legs to swing, his mouth to spout gibberish. He just wanted to be away from that piercing, accusatory stare.
"Alright, you can go and do your homework now. Be down in time for dinner," he said, turning back to his planning. Sherwin swallowed heavily, waiting for a second longer in case that was not the end of it, then scuttled off and up the rickety stairs as quickly as he could.
His brother was in the bedroom too, unsurprisingly. He was doing his homework, or at least pretending to; knowing him, he had sneaked a comic book between a couple pages of lined paper. Sherwin was too tired to be able to tell right now, the annoying uneasiness not having left him probably not inclined to allowing him to concentrate on his homework either. He tried anyway, pulling out the book they were assigned to read for their English class, but the words blurred in front of his eyes, thoughts interrupting him and getting in the way of understanding the book correctly. He sighed, set it aside and tried working on the maths instead, having marginally more success, but not enough to claim that he had finished his homework. Still, it was now time to head downstairs, the silence he usually observed with his younger sibling remaining forever present.
In the center of the table, there indeed was a large pot of white beans set, a loaf of plain bread sitting alongside it and looking just about as appetizing as the main course. Sherwin didn't say anything as he set the table, clockwork habits taking over long enough for him to complete his task. Soon, he was standing behind his chair as he was required to, his mother and brother doing the same, all of them waiting for the man of the house to lower himself into his own seat before following suit.
"For what we are about to receive..."
The words were lost on Sherwin, the formula too familiar and repeated so many times that it faded and fell into the same realm of background noises as the ticking of the clock on the wall, the constant creaking and settling of the old house, the crackle of the stove-fire. All had their eyes closed in that instant, he knew, so he allowed himself to break the contact of his clasped hands long enough to twist a curl of his hair between his fingers. It was but a small thing, but it was a great relief in the instant, and of course he was quick to put both his palms together as soon as they approached the end of the prayer.
The silence while they ate was heavy, no words nor eye contact being exchanged, only the clatter of spoons against the old ceramic bowls allowed to cut through the kitchen in such moments. They were quick to finish their meal, but they were yet again required to wait for their father to finish his own meal. There was another quick prayer, another thanks for the providing of their nourishment, before everyone left the table to retreat to their rooms.
Much to Sherwin's dismay, there had been no respite from the feeling of wrongness that had been torturing him since earlier on. The same inexplicable ball of something was blocking his throat and stopped him from thinking about other, more important things. Just before going to bed, along with his usual prayer for the well being of his family, acquaintances and sister's soul, he added a small plea to resolve this nagging thought.
It may have been unorthodox and maybe a little selfish to pray for something so personal, but, he reasoned, it would distract him even more from his tasks than he already was, and that was something that his father most certainly would not appreciate. His father was one of His envoys, so in the end, everything should turn out ok, right?
He climbed into bed, making sure that his brother had finished his own prayer and was under the covers before shutting off the light. The night enveloped them, yet Sherwin didn't drop off as quickly as he thought he would, what with the day having been as tiring as it had been. This boy was of his own age, and unless he was home-schooled or went to the institution located in the next town over, he would undoubtedly bump into him in their tiny high-and-middle school which all the kids for miles around attended. He would come across him again, and maybe then he would manage to decipher the whys and hows this person seemed so inherently intriguing to him.
With that reassuring thought in mind, Sherwin rolled over onto his side and promptly fell asleep, unaware of just how much the next few days had in stock for him.