His Ways
It is his sixteenth summer since he wanders on god's blessed earth. He is still thin and frail, but at least his health has improved.
There are dreams, dreams to wake up screaming from and curl up in the darkest corner to hide. Hide from the low whispers that sing embarrassing wishes into his ear, hide from the ghostly hands reaching for him. He is sure his mind must have gone weak. He used to be such a good boy.
He looks towards the vineyard, feeling a knot in his stomach. There lie dark secrets, unmentionable and ashaming to recall. Still, he can't tear his eyes away.
He kneels in the house of god, feeling the rich robe around his shoulders. He is so close to the light he feels he should close his eyes lest it blind him. The words that bless him come as from far away. When he is to stand up, he feels dizzy. He is a man of god now, and is so overwhelmed he can barely hold the goblet. It is filled with sweet, white wine.
Carrying the load of apples he was given by the family of the deceased, he makes his way towards his little house by the church. He sways and tries not to cry.
Sitting in the kitchen, all he has to do is close his eyes to hear Ottos piano, to hear him fantasize about his piano teacher.
He cries. He never knew he'd have to bury a friend one day.
When he reads from the evangelion, he thinks of the times he will face. If he is honest with himself, he is afraid of the war.
Few people visit his sermon on Sundays. Too many have to stay at home, tend to their wounded and mourn for their fallen. He promises to make a round, bless the houses and children.
He has seen thirty summers now. He still feels like an helpless child in the face of war.
There is a no need to feel nervous, yet when he hears of the news, his heart starts pounding painfully. He dreams again.
When he wakes up, he is furious at himself, crying. But the day draws nearer. On a chilly afternoon in spring, Hans is welcomed back by his parents.
He drains the glass in one quick gulp. Thin hands grasp the bottle of white wine, a cheap one, but it's all there is. His hands are so pale. He wonders if he'll be able to lift the fine old leatherbound bible for easter.
He looks towards the cross upon his door. It reminds him of charity and love. Folding his hands, he begins to pray.
Carefully taking hold of the baby, he smiles at the little girl. Her face shines, and it's all he needs to feel hopeful. A few drops land upon her forehad, and he speaks the holy words sofly. In his arms he holds another of god's blessed children.
War is spreading. He watches as the young men wander off, one by one. He isn't sure wether to feel upset or defeated.
The graveyard has become too small. When he hears of the place where the new one is going to be build, he becomes pale.
He stands by as the men tear down the bushes of wine. Looking back, the yard was incredibly beautiful.
Shaking, he murmurs his blessings. Clinging to his cross, he can barely keep steady as the coffin is lowerd into the rocky earth.
Martha left behind three children. He brings them a basket full of apples.
On Sunday sermons, Hans often falls asleep. After the mass, he walks up to the blond man, wondering wether he worked too much.
There is a angry glint in Hans' eyes. He is glaring down at the cross. Then, turning away, he walks off towards the cemetary.
He has lost count. Maybe it has been thirtyfive, maybe forty summers. Kneeling in front of the altar, he cries.
He dreams again, of sweet white wine and the feelings that threaten to overflow. There is no question, he does wrong. When he sits in his dark bedroom, he feels as if the war is raging inside him.
The winter is unforgiving. He used up almost all the potatoes he's stored, and there is only enough wheat to get him through another month.
He pulls the scarf around his neck tighter. Folding his hands, he tries to think back to the day he was given his first wine.
The men are coming home, he notices. They are missing arms and legs, and their eyes are hollow. He listens to their stories through the confessional, not able to keep one from the other.
Reading the first lines of Genesis on Sunday sermon, he tries to smile. Hunger is turning his stomach around. When he starts to sway and his head hits the ground, he is still smiling.
He can see the veins in his arms, blue. The skin is white. Maybe, he wonders, his body is already being carried to his grave.
Hans sits next to his bed, his blond hair dull. He holds an apple in his hands. Wordless, he hands the fruit over.
He hears of it during dinner. A young boy screams his lungs out, and he listens. The war is over.
When he walks back to the church, he sees his people crying with joy. Opening the doors to the house of god, he looks at the cross. He feels loved.
Loud shouting awakens him. He races to the marketplace, and his heart stops. When he leaps on front of Hans, the men don't cease the fight. A hayfork crashes into his side. Only when he lies on the ground in his blood, silence spreads over the place.
He can make out Hans, grasping for him. He smiles.
He knows that fifthy summers are a long time. When he sees the new graveyard, he still wants to cry. His hands are mere bones, white as the linen. He feels his cheeks have hollowed in.
When he looks at Hans, his tears start to roll. Even if it was wrong, it was beautiful.
The wound has reopened. He sways in front of the altar, the only white robe he owns becoming red. The communion bread and the holy wine he was holding crash onto the floor. The house of god is empty this windy morning in spring. He lies among the bread and wine, gazing at the clear liquid. It smells good.
Holding the cross close to his heart, he waits for the light.
thank you for reading. just a few notes:
the war i'm referring to is WW I. it fits the timeline well.
the two leading symbols, apples and wine, represent what's bad and what's good in Ernst's life. i thougth since they are also biblical metaphors, and allude to the vineyard, they fit him well.
sometimes i made comments about ersnt being thin and ill. i suppose he's the kind of person who'd rather give his food to the poor of his church that keep it for himself. since they live in a rural area where winters are supposedly harsh, food is sacre. war isn't helping too.
again, thank you very much!