The rolling hills were straw-yellow and arid as a desert. Wilted plants and crops mournfully looked down at the cracked earth. Rain scarcely fell, and when it did the ground drank it up so greedily that it ran out before sufficiently hydrating it. Money ran low in the people's pockets. Hardly anyone had a dime to spare on candy or toys for their children. Women strayed from their husbands who grew cantankerous and violent in the dry spell. Children were rowdy as ever and their mothers were strict as ever too.
A farmer with his hat tilted down to protect his face dolefully walked through his field, pushing the toe of his boot under his crops and raising them. They were gray and unresponsive. He huffed and continued with his hands behind his back. He paced like a man who awaited death. He may as well have been. His family was starving by the minute, their stomachs getting smaller in disappointment.
Dust clouded the upper atmosphere; gray as the earth. The sun stained the thin layer of clouds like blood on cloth. Some days it got so bad that no one dared venture out into the open. Children were forbidden from playing strenuous games that would make them lose their breath. Parents feared that they would inhale a cupful of dust and die on the spot.
On a hill, watching the wind sift through the crops was a mournful looking man. A red kerchief was tied around his mouth, sticking out where his slim nose was. His face was long and dusty, sunburned along the cheeks and freckled along the bridge of the nose. His eyes were azure and piercing, now low set and hidden by his stiff black eyelashes. Blonde hair rippled along the breeze, reaching the nape of his neck. He wore a checkered-shirt and stained, ripped jeans. He sat pensively, breathing out a sigh of dismay. The world was drying up right before him, right along his breast. He called himself Alfred.
He stood up, scratching his chest, and coughing weakly. Leaving the hill the grass cracked under him. He pulled his hat, which hung to his chest by a thin string, and set it on his head, tilting it just as the farmer had done earlier. He hitched his thumbs in the loops of his jeans and walked on. He did this all slowly, lazily. He had no real rush. The world wasn't going to spin any faster if he ran.
A dirt path unfolded before him and he followed it, disregarding the snake that slithered right alongside him. Grasshoppers leaped up liking green shooting stars. Dust bellowed up behind Alfred's leather boots, following him like mist. The sun cast his shadow long behind him, already starting to set after a heavy day's worth of burning up the earth.
After some walking he came across a small town. Children wearing bandanas around the mouths chased each other around under the watchful eyes of their parents. A hospitable man with a piece of straw sticking out from his red lips gazed at Alfred. Alfred nodded at him in greeting and their acquaintance ended there.
Another little while later, Alfred opened the door to diner. Men in hats and suites crowded around the table, talking business with cigarettes sticking out of their mouths, emitting waves of smoke into the air. Alfred chose his seat at the bar, to the left of a mild-looking man reading the newspaper.
The waitress looked over at him, sliding a glass of liquor to the newspaper-reader. She smiled politely at Alfred, raising her upper lip and exposing big horse-teeth.
"What will you be having, sir?" She asked.
Alfred pulled off his red kerchief, exposing pale, thin lips. "I'll have a glass of water and somethin' from the special menu." He drawled in a sweet, dry tone.
"That'll be a slice of pork and mashed potatoes, all topped with gravy," she said and went to deliver the order to the chef.
Alfred leaned forward on the table, his exposed forearms resting on it. He placed his fingertips together and bowed his head.
The man next to him lowered his newspaper, casting a glance at Alfred. "You look mighty young to be havin' that sorta expression on your face, son."
Alfred turned his attention the man. The stranger had dark, sad looking eyes and a whiskered face, browned from his days in the sun. He set away the newspaper and stuck it in his back-pocket.
"And I'd say you're mighty old to be inquirin' about that," Alfred retorted without malice.
"Guess so," the man laughed and held out a calloused hand. "Name's Herb."
"Pleasure," Alfred said, introducing himself and briefly shaking hands with the man. It was nice talking to another person, he thought, and allowed the conversation to continue. "And I ain't that young," he said at length, taking his time to pronounce the words but drifting off at the last letter.
"With your looks you can't be more 'en nineteen, twenty at most." Herb observed.
The waitress swung by and set a steaming plate of steak in front of him. "Another moment, sir." She told Alfred and went to serve the table of muttering men.
"Well, I guess you could say I'm nineteen," Alfred said, shrugging. "Got an uncle who calls himself thirry-five and 'e can't be no younger than forty."
"Let 'em be, I say. He wantsa look young so be it!" Herb laughed and lifted his knife, cutting into the steak. Red juice seeped from the cut. The fibers inside parted all pink and pointed. He popped a chunk in his mouth and chewed thoughtfully, his strong jaw working. When he swallowed, he continued; "What brings you to this part of town, Al?"
Alfred leaned back so the waitress could put the cup of crackling ice water and the plate of meat before him. She left, leaving behind a scent of perfume that barely overpowered the food. "Well, I came a'walkin'. I couldn't stay home much longer. I really had to go out so I jus' walked all the way down to this part. I got real sick of the city." He dug into the pork, eating like a horse.
Herb regarded him curiously, wiping at his mouth with a dirty handkerchief. He tucked it away in the strap of his jeans. "You're a real lonesome soul, aren't you?"
Alfred was still chewing and shrugged, as if to say "well, I guess so."
"Don't tell me you're way from California! Why would you wanta come here when you could stay home and pick those fresh fruits and eat them. Here we ain't got nothin' to spare."
"No," Alfred said thickly and swallowed the last bit of potatoes in his mouth, setting his fork and knife on the plate. He pushed it away and brought his water closer. "I'm not from anywhere. I'm not from Virginia or Alabama or California."
"You musta been born somewhere," Herb exasperated, downing the liquor in a single gulp.
"I was born in Virginia. At least, I think. That's where I remember growin' up, at least." Alfred paused, taking a sip of cool water. It felt cool and delicious running down his throat. "But I coulda been born in the mountains. I think my ma's Injun or somethin'."
Herb raided his eyebrows, trying to find a trace of such lineage on Alfred's features. "Don't you remember your ma? Or your old man?"
Alfred shook his head, dislodging a strand of hair he had tucked behind his ear. "Naw. I was brought up by a brother. Or somethin', it ain't real clear in my mind."
"What's your brother like?"
"He's an Englishman."
"No you aren't makin' any sense, son."
Alfred pulled his lower lip in and bit it softly. It tasted like dirty. The waitress picked up his plate and offered dessert. He raised his hand in negation. "What'd'ya want with me anyway?" Alfred said, not meaning to sound cross but evidently coming off so.
Looking insulted, Herb turned away. "I mind my own yard but I'm mighty curious."
"You're stickin' your nose in other people's business." Alfred stood up, pushing the stool back under the table. He picked up several coins and paid the waitress, giving her a tip extra. She smiled charmingly at him, her blonde curls bouncing around her clear face as she scampered off to set it in her cash box. "But it happens to everybody I come by, so I ain't mad."
He pulled the kerchief back over his nose and went off, sticking his hands back in his jeans and hunching his shoulders forwards against the wind that bellowed in when he opened the glass doors. A fly zipped in, landing swiftly on Herb's hand. He batted it away in irritation and ordered another drink of brandy.
Truth of the matter was, he felt a strange attraction to the man—a sense of overwhelming curiosity. Alfred had a strange, simmering attitude about him. It stirred the entire room. Even the business men felt it. When Alfred left he swallowed that aura back and carried it away with him. It remained around him, wrapping around like a shawl. The waitress had questions for him on the verge of her tongue. But still, she declined from asking him out of rudeness. Her heels clattered against the wooden floor as she continued serving and collecting money.
She pondered the strange occurrence as she did so. Alfred walked in with a subtle country air, as though the entire prairie soaked in high noon sunlight had walked into the diner. And somehow it brought hope to her. She felt suddenly sure that the dust would lift one day.
Alfred walked through the town, his head still bowed. He pulled spectacles from his pocket and wiped them on his shirt, sliding them on his nose. The world sharpened acutely. He could see nearly every detail now, many of which he didn't want to see.
He saw the women sweeping their porches, seeing their knuckles white against the wood. Their dresses stopped at their ankles, exposing dirty bare feet and yellowed toenails. Hair was tied back in buns, gray and brown and red and yellow hair taut at the temples. Women of broad faces, women of thin faces, of round faces, of clean ones, of mean ones, and of patient ones all flocked around him. Children with chubby cheeks and round noses surrounded him, upsetting dust at their bare heals. Boys tugged at girls' pig tails, hollering and howling to one another.
An elderly woman sat on a rocking chair outside her house, a bandana around her mouth and a book in her lap. She rocked slowly. The chair creaked. She flipped the page. Alfred felt intensely aware of every detail, of every sound. Being the United States, it was only one of his "abilities". Without his glasses it was only the atmosphere that was in the highest definition.
Men dragged their feet, figuring and debating whether or not to drop thirty dollars and haul their families to California. The wood that made up the houses splintered at the ends. Towels were stuck under windows and under doors, trying to prevent any dust from entering.
Some women looked up at the sky and gestured for their children to come in. The day had been a blessing. The dust had risen a fragment, just enough to make going outdoors bearable. Otherwise the children would get cabin fever from being locked up indoors for too long. Now the dust was returning.
Way out in front of Alfred dark clouds bruised the sky, twisting into a circle; the start of a tornado. Alfred felt his heart plummet. He would have to find shelter for the night if he wanted to remain with his feet planted on the earth. He would not be able to travel fast enough to avoid the inevitable swirling wind.
He spent an hour seeking an inn. When all hope seemed to be lost, he discovered one hidden away between two other buildings. He pushed open the door.
The woman at the counter jumped up and covered her mouth. She had not been expecting a single soul to enter the inn. The sunlight had come up behind Alfred, shadowing him so she could only see a faceless, tall figure at the door.
He stepped in and shut the door, making his amiable eyes visible. She calmed down and, scrambling for an apology, stood up. She was hefty. Her arms were muscles and exposed below rolled up sleeves of her faded dress. She wore her thick hair back, so that her green, wide eyes were visible. "Hello," she said, smiling. One of her molars was missing.
Alfred approached her and set a few dollars on the counter. "There's a storm brewing out there where I'm going. Do you think you could spare a room for the night?"
"Most certainly sir!" She said cheerfully, though her voice still held several notes of anxiety from her earlier scare. "Will that include dinner?"
"Nome, I already had some. I just need a place to sleep."
So she sent him down the hall to one of the nicest rooms she knew. She owned the inn with her parents, who were both sleeping upstairs in their room. Since they hadn't had any visitors in several months they entrusted the care of the inn to their daughter, who was unfocused and unlearned. She knew how to write her name and do basic sums, but that's where it ended. Her spoken vocabulary she learned from the various visitors that came in when business used to flourish.
Alfred pushed open the door with the brass key and set it down, shutting the door behind him with his heel. He tugged off his boots and fell on the covers, staring up at the ceiling.
Exhaustion pressed down heavily on his legs and chest. He had been walking since the first bits of daylight. He folded his arms behind his head and pursed his lips. He tried to think up plans for the next few days but his mind was dry of ideas. He shifted and scratched his nose, watching a mouth flutter its wings in the corner of the room. A spider regarded it from the opposite side, glued to the ceiling.
Alfred decided that he would wake at the first sight of daylight and hopefully the storm would have passed by then. As far as he knew it was open country where the ominous clouds had gathered. By the time he reached that area, wrecked by the turbulent winds, he would possibly have a better plan. He could go and visit some rural folk out in the country, call himself the lone ranger and mysteriously vanish.
It suited his fancy, of course. Being a strange fellow who barely lingered anywhere and known by all. Alfred allowed himself a faint smile and rolled to his opposite side. He tucked a hand under his head and shut his eyes, feeling sleep trickle through his bones and muscles.
But it was all a game of tag. He was running away from his responsibilities, hoping they wouldn't touch him. Eventually he would be called in to discuss the issues, and he knew that. Another part of him had reasons to fortify his meanderings. He wanted to know the people. He wanted to know what was going on between the lines, beneath the industrial cities. Then he would know for sure what to do. At least, he hoped he would.
He rightly called himself nineteen. He hardly knew what to do. He was only a kid…
Sleep pulled him below and he dozed dreamlessly.
I do not own Hetalia.