The Moondrop Saga
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Hiya! Here's Chapter One. Hope you like it! *Crosses fingers*
Oh, and thanks to everyone who reviewed!
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Chapter One: Gone
Bark! Bark!
I pushed open the gate to the farm and was immediately greeted by Bark, Grandpa's old dog. With what felt like a great deal strength, he knocked me to the ground and started licking my face. Gross, I know.
"Augh! Stop that, Bark!" I cried, pushing him off my chest. The dog whimpered and sat down in front of me, his tail between his legs and his head bowed, as if something was bothering him. Knowing what it probably was, I reached out and stroked its coarse, chocolate-brown fur.
"I know...you're worried Grandpa, aren't you?" I asked. Bark barked loudly, as if in agreement, and I smiled and got to my feet. "Well, I'm worried about him too, so you're not alone, ol' fella!" There was a small twig nearby; I picked it up and threw it across the field. Bark bolted after it, winding his way through the maze of boulders and stumps that littered the farmland. Soon though, he started chasing after a butterfly instead, jumping up and down and trying to catch it somehow. I watched him play for a while before making my way towards the rickety wooden cabin where Grandpa lived.
***
Dad was inside, putting a cold compress on Grandpa's forehead. "He's getting worse," he said grimly as I walked in. "Ryan, you're your ass over here and help me, dammit! Soak some rags in that basin over there!" He pointed to a small wooden basin standing beside him.
Without hesitation, I did as I was told. It was no use talking back to Dad, and it wasn't worth it, either. He's one of those people who, if you fight them, will just end up tiring you out, both mentally and physically.
"Here," I muttered, handing him the rags. "Anything else, Dad?"
"Yes...don't talk to me in that tone. It's chockfull of sarcasm, you know. What, do you think I'm stupid?" He took the rags from me and wiped the blood off a deep cut on Grandpa's arm. I stared at it curiously.
"Wha--how did he get that cut?" I asked. "He hasn't done any farm work for months now."
"That may be true, but that doesn't mean he didn't try," Dad replied, throwing the rags, now red and bloody, back to me. "When I woke up this morning, I saw him out of bed, trying to work with his sickle. Tried to pry it out of his arms, but he wouldn't let me. It wasn't until after he cut his arm with the damn tool that he made me take him back to bed." He shrugged and shook his head. "Stupid old git...If he wasn't your mother's father, I wouldn't even bother taking care of him."
"That's not a nice thing to say about your father-in-law," I said, soaking the rags in the basin. "Especially when he's lying right next to you."
Dad snorted. "Yeah, so? He's asleep."
I glanced over at the bed, and indeed, Grandpa was sleeping. Lying still and tranquil, the only noise that came from him was the raspy hum of his rhythmic breathing.
"Still...it's called respect, you know," I muttered, dropping the rags on the floor and looking around for something to dry my hands with. There was a small towel on a stand next to me--a dirty towel, but a towel nonetheless. I grabbed the cloth and pulled it out from underneath an old ceramic bowl, which, to my shock, teetered... tottered...and then came crashing down onto the floor, shattering into a thousand pieces.
"Oops...." I smiled sheepishly at Dad, who looked as if he were about to murder me. Luckily enough, at that moment, Grandpa stirred in his sleep. His eyes fluttered open, and his tired, ashen face lit up the minute he caught sight of me.
"R-Ryan," he mumbled weakly. "I'm glad to see you, ol' boy." Without even acknowledging my father's presence (nor the shattered remains of the bowl), he motioned for me to come over. "Come here. I have something to talk to you about." I dropped the towel into the basin and went over, sitting down next to him on his bed.
"Yeah, Grandpa? What is it?" I asked, reminiscent of how he used to tell me bedtime stories during my visits to his farm. Every evening, he would tuck me into bed, then sit down next to me on the mattress and tell me a fairy tale, or, more often, an anecdote about farm life. I remember there was this one story I really liked, about how he and Grandma met and got married. It was mushy and all, but I liked it anyway. Maybe it was because there was so much action it, as well as romance, like the part where some knife-wielding suitor of Grandma was chasing him...
Anyway, that was what I was thinking about: Grandpa's bedtime stories. I mean, it was almost the same situation, except now Grandpa was in bed and I was the one sitting next to him.
Grandpa lifted one thin, wrinkled hand and ruffled my hair. "Hm...You look s-strong," he said, amid strident coughs. "Strong enough to handle my tools, that is." Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Dad roll his eyes.
"You're also quite handsome, just like I was when I was your age," Grandpa continued, chuckling. "There are quite a few pretty girls around here, you know, Ryan." I stared at him, puzzled. What was he getting to?
"Maybe...just maybe..." Grandpa turned to my father, who was leaning against the door, boredom etched on his face. "James, I request that you please leave the house. Just for a little while. I need to talk to your son about some important matters." But Dad only shook his head and gave him a nasty grin.
"What `matters' are so important to the boy that his own father can't hear them?" he said. "I have a right to listen to your conversation."
"James, just do what I tell you and just get out of my house!" Grandpa barked. Dad shrugged and stepped outside. "Whatever you say, old man," he muttered as he slammed the door behind him, rattling the walls. Sighing, I turned to Grandpa apologetically.
"I'm sorry. He's been like this ever since Mom died...that was five years ago," I said, shaking my head sadly. "I mean he wasn't so stubborn and mean-spirited before. Believe it or not, he was actually nice." I fingered the hem of one of the bed sheets. "You understand, don't you, Grandpa?"
Grandpa nodded, and a wry smile curved at his face. "It is all right, Ryan," he said. "I understand. And don't blame your father for his actions. The death of a loved one can change one's life...one's feelings...even one's personality. I think in the case of your father, it was all three." He sighed and, closing his eyes, he continued in a voice filled with experience and remorse: "I, too, was grief-stricken when your mother died. Julia was my daughter, after all, and her death came only a few months after your grandmother's. Thus, in one year, I had lost two of the people I loved most. For a very long time, I didn't have the will to do anything, not even my farm work. The crops wilted and expired, while the animals died off, one by one. The farm fell to shambles due to my negligence but I did not do anything to rejuvenate it." He paused to catch his breath, during which I reflected on the story, a tale that was all new to me. I felt horrible; why hadn't I known this before?
If I had, then I would've done something--anything--to help!
"Grandpa," I asked, "Why didn't you ever tell me this before?" Grandpa laughed.
"I don't know," he replied, "I guess I was ashamed of myself for being so lazy. I didn't want you or your father to know about all this. I was afraid that you would lose your respect for me, and as for your father, he would've just laughed and mocked me. But," he said, as I had my mouth opened, ready to ask another question, "I did restore the farm eventually. It was quite interesting. One day, I was wandering around the fields when I saw that the patch Moondrop flowers your grandmother had loved so dearly had all wilted. At first, I thought nothing of it. After all, they were only flowers, and all flowers die someday, right? But then I wondered how your grandmother would have felt if she saw all those dead flowers. She would've been sad...horrified, in fact. She would've cried, something I hate to see even in my memories. So, I decided to get the farm back in order and to quit being so depressed." Grandpa sighed, and shook his head sadly. "I have to say, I did do a good job
with restoring the farm, but ever since I fell ill...." He shakily raised one hand and pointed out the window. "...The farm has fallen apart. Again."
"Oh..." I couldn't think of anything else to say. There was a moment of silence as the two of us just sat there; I, lost in thought over this newfound family history, and Grandpa...well, I guess he was thinking about Mom and Grandma...you know, the "good old days," or whatever you want to call them. All those happy memories must've been too much for him to bear, for a few minutes later, he erupted in a string of raucous coughing and wheezing. It killed me to hear him suffer like that.
"Whoa, are you okay?" I asked. "Want me to get you a glass of water or something?" Grandpa shook his head, his body shaking violently, as if he was having some sort of seizure or something. Then a thought struck me: What if he was having a seizure?
"DAD!" I screeched, running to the window. "Dad! It's Grandpa...there's--there's something wrong with him!" No answer. Apparently, he wasn't there. Way to go, Dad.
"Aw...shit." I ran back to Grandpa, who was now trembling worse than ever. "Grandpa...hold on! I'm going to go into town and get Dad, okay? Just stay here and...hold on!" I had my hand on the door latch and was about to make my leave, but Grandpa caught me by the arm.
"No...Ryan...don't go. It's pointless...to. I...I think my...day of reck...reckoning has...arrived," he choked. "It--It's a good thing...I...I told y-you that...s-story, e-eh? I-I knew my time...would c-come soon. T-That's why...I...ur...urged you and...y-your f-f-father to c-come...visit me. I...I wanted you t-two to b-be here...Actually...I-I wanted...y-you to be h-h-here, R-Ryan." He gasped for breath, clutching his chest with one hand and holding my arm tightly with the other. It was sad, seeing him suffer like that; yet, for some reason, I didn't feel like screaming or begging for him to stay. I guess, deep down inside, I knew it was inevitable. Grandpa was going to die, just like the Moondrop flowers on his farm.
"Grandpa..." I murmured. "I--"
"No, R-Ryan," he cut in, pulling me closer to him. "I...can...hard...hardly...talk. For...get good...byes. J-Just pay attention to what I say...just...t-this one...last...t-time." I nodded, blinking back tears. What else could I have done? If someone you loved was dying right in front of you, wouldn't you stick around to hear his last words?
"Y-you are...my only...grand...grandson. T-This farm...is...your homeland. I have...lived here...all...m-my life. Y-your grand...grand...mother and...I...spent over fifty happy...years together here. I-In fact...y-your mother...Julia...was b-born and...raised...he...here. It-It is only r-right if...if..." He trailed off. I could just feel the life slipping away from him.
"What? What do you want me to do?" I asked frantically, holding on fast to his hand. But he never finished his sentence. Or rather, I never heard him finish. He mumbled something, an incoherent string of nonsense, before falling still and silent, his hand limp in mine. I laid it down on the bed and pulled the sheets over his lifeless body. It was then, standing there all alone in that chamber of death, that I let the tears flow.
Grandpa was gone.
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So, how was it? I was never too good at conveying emotions in writing...-_-. It's one of the many things I need to practice.
BTW, does anyone have an idea of who Ryan's grandmother was? I purposely left her nameless. ^_^
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Hiya! Here's Chapter One. Hope you like it! *Crosses fingers*
Oh, and thanks to everyone who reviewed!
===============================================================================================
Chapter One: Gone
Bark! Bark!
I pushed open the gate to the farm and was immediately greeted by Bark, Grandpa's old dog. With what felt like a great deal strength, he knocked me to the ground and started licking my face. Gross, I know.
"Augh! Stop that, Bark!" I cried, pushing him off my chest. The dog whimpered and sat down in front of me, his tail between his legs and his head bowed, as if something was bothering him. Knowing what it probably was, I reached out and stroked its coarse, chocolate-brown fur.
"I know...you're worried Grandpa, aren't you?" I asked. Bark barked loudly, as if in agreement, and I smiled and got to my feet. "Well, I'm worried about him too, so you're not alone, ol' fella!" There was a small twig nearby; I picked it up and threw it across the field. Bark bolted after it, winding his way through the maze of boulders and stumps that littered the farmland. Soon though, he started chasing after a butterfly instead, jumping up and down and trying to catch it somehow. I watched him play for a while before making my way towards the rickety wooden cabin where Grandpa lived.
***
Dad was inside, putting a cold compress on Grandpa's forehead. "He's getting worse," he said grimly as I walked in. "Ryan, you're your ass over here and help me, dammit! Soak some rags in that basin over there!" He pointed to a small wooden basin standing beside him.
Without hesitation, I did as I was told. It was no use talking back to Dad, and it wasn't worth it, either. He's one of those people who, if you fight them, will just end up tiring you out, both mentally and physically.
"Here," I muttered, handing him the rags. "Anything else, Dad?"
"Yes...don't talk to me in that tone. It's chockfull of sarcasm, you know. What, do you think I'm stupid?" He took the rags from me and wiped the blood off a deep cut on Grandpa's arm. I stared at it curiously.
"Wha--how did he get that cut?" I asked. "He hasn't done any farm work for months now."
"That may be true, but that doesn't mean he didn't try," Dad replied, throwing the rags, now red and bloody, back to me. "When I woke up this morning, I saw him out of bed, trying to work with his sickle. Tried to pry it out of his arms, but he wouldn't let me. It wasn't until after he cut his arm with the damn tool that he made me take him back to bed." He shrugged and shook his head. "Stupid old git...If he wasn't your mother's father, I wouldn't even bother taking care of him."
"That's not a nice thing to say about your father-in-law," I said, soaking the rags in the basin. "Especially when he's lying right next to you."
Dad snorted. "Yeah, so? He's asleep."
I glanced over at the bed, and indeed, Grandpa was sleeping. Lying still and tranquil, the only noise that came from him was the raspy hum of his rhythmic breathing.
"Still...it's called respect, you know," I muttered, dropping the rags on the floor and looking around for something to dry my hands with. There was a small towel on a stand next to me--a dirty towel, but a towel nonetheless. I grabbed the cloth and pulled it out from underneath an old ceramic bowl, which, to my shock, teetered... tottered...and then came crashing down onto the floor, shattering into a thousand pieces.
"Oops...." I smiled sheepishly at Dad, who looked as if he were about to murder me. Luckily enough, at that moment, Grandpa stirred in his sleep. His eyes fluttered open, and his tired, ashen face lit up the minute he caught sight of me.
"R-Ryan," he mumbled weakly. "I'm glad to see you, ol' boy." Without even acknowledging my father's presence (nor the shattered remains of the bowl), he motioned for me to come over. "Come here. I have something to talk to you about." I dropped the towel into the basin and went over, sitting down next to him on his bed.
"Yeah, Grandpa? What is it?" I asked, reminiscent of how he used to tell me bedtime stories during my visits to his farm. Every evening, he would tuck me into bed, then sit down next to me on the mattress and tell me a fairy tale, or, more often, an anecdote about farm life. I remember there was this one story I really liked, about how he and Grandma met and got married. It was mushy and all, but I liked it anyway. Maybe it was because there was so much action it, as well as romance, like the part where some knife-wielding suitor of Grandma was chasing him...
Anyway, that was what I was thinking about: Grandpa's bedtime stories. I mean, it was almost the same situation, except now Grandpa was in bed and I was the one sitting next to him.
Grandpa lifted one thin, wrinkled hand and ruffled my hair. "Hm...You look s-strong," he said, amid strident coughs. "Strong enough to handle my tools, that is." Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Dad roll his eyes.
"You're also quite handsome, just like I was when I was your age," Grandpa continued, chuckling. "There are quite a few pretty girls around here, you know, Ryan." I stared at him, puzzled. What was he getting to?
"Maybe...just maybe..." Grandpa turned to my father, who was leaning against the door, boredom etched on his face. "James, I request that you please leave the house. Just for a little while. I need to talk to your son about some important matters." But Dad only shook his head and gave him a nasty grin.
"What `matters' are so important to the boy that his own father can't hear them?" he said. "I have a right to listen to your conversation."
"James, just do what I tell you and just get out of my house!" Grandpa barked. Dad shrugged and stepped outside. "Whatever you say, old man," he muttered as he slammed the door behind him, rattling the walls. Sighing, I turned to Grandpa apologetically.
"I'm sorry. He's been like this ever since Mom died...that was five years ago," I said, shaking my head sadly. "I mean he wasn't so stubborn and mean-spirited before. Believe it or not, he was actually nice." I fingered the hem of one of the bed sheets. "You understand, don't you, Grandpa?"
Grandpa nodded, and a wry smile curved at his face. "It is all right, Ryan," he said. "I understand. And don't blame your father for his actions. The death of a loved one can change one's life...one's feelings...even one's personality. I think in the case of your father, it was all three." He sighed and, closing his eyes, he continued in a voice filled with experience and remorse: "I, too, was grief-stricken when your mother died. Julia was my daughter, after all, and her death came only a few months after your grandmother's. Thus, in one year, I had lost two of the people I loved most. For a very long time, I didn't have the will to do anything, not even my farm work. The crops wilted and expired, while the animals died off, one by one. The farm fell to shambles due to my negligence but I did not do anything to rejuvenate it." He paused to catch his breath, during which I reflected on the story, a tale that was all new to me. I felt horrible; why hadn't I known this before?
If I had, then I would've done something--anything--to help!
"Grandpa," I asked, "Why didn't you ever tell me this before?" Grandpa laughed.
"I don't know," he replied, "I guess I was ashamed of myself for being so lazy. I didn't want you or your father to know about all this. I was afraid that you would lose your respect for me, and as for your father, he would've just laughed and mocked me. But," he said, as I had my mouth opened, ready to ask another question, "I did restore the farm eventually. It was quite interesting. One day, I was wandering around the fields when I saw that the patch Moondrop flowers your grandmother had loved so dearly had all wilted. At first, I thought nothing of it. After all, they were only flowers, and all flowers die someday, right? But then I wondered how your grandmother would have felt if she saw all those dead flowers. She would've been sad...horrified, in fact. She would've cried, something I hate to see even in my memories. So, I decided to get the farm back in order and to quit being so depressed." Grandpa sighed, and shook his head sadly. "I have to say, I did do a good job
with restoring the farm, but ever since I fell ill...." He shakily raised one hand and pointed out the window. "...The farm has fallen apart. Again."
"Oh..." I couldn't think of anything else to say. There was a moment of silence as the two of us just sat there; I, lost in thought over this newfound family history, and Grandpa...well, I guess he was thinking about Mom and Grandma...you know, the "good old days," or whatever you want to call them. All those happy memories must've been too much for him to bear, for a few minutes later, he erupted in a string of raucous coughing and wheezing. It killed me to hear him suffer like that.
"Whoa, are you okay?" I asked. "Want me to get you a glass of water or something?" Grandpa shook his head, his body shaking violently, as if he was having some sort of seizure or something. Then a thought struck me: What if he was having a seizure?
"DAD!" I screeched, running to the window. "Dad! It's Grandpa...there's--there's something wrong with him!" No answer. Apparently, he wasn't there. Way to go, Dad.
"Aw...shit." I ran back to Grandpa, who was now trembling worse than ever. "Grandpa...hold on! I'm going to go into town and get Dad, okay? Just stay here and...hold on!" I had my hand on the door latch and was about to make my leave, but Grandpa caught me by the arm.
"No...Ryan...don't go. It's pointless...to. I...I think my...day of reck...reckoning has...arrived," he choked. "It--It's a good thing...I...I told y-you that...s-story, e-eh? I-I knew my time...would c-come soon. T-That's why...I...ur...urged you and...y-your f-f-father to c-come...visit me. I...I wanted you t-two to b-be here...Actually...I-I wanted...y-you to be h-h-here, R-Ryan." He gasped for breath, clutching his chest with one hand and holding my arm tightly with the other. It was sad, seeing him suffer like that; yet, for some reason, I didn't feel like screaming or begging for him to stay. I guess, deep down inside, I knew it was inevitable. Grandpa was going to die, just like the Moondrop flowers on his farm.
"Grandpa..." I murmured. "I--"
"No, R-Ryan," he cut in, pulling me closer to him. "I...can...hard...hardly...talk. For...get good...byes. J-Just pay attention to what I say...just...t-this one...last...t-time." I nodded, blinking back tears. What else could I have done? If someone you loved was dying right in front of you, wouldn't you stick around to hear his last words?
"Y-you are...my only...grand...grandson. T-This farm...is...your homeland. I have...lived here...all...m-my life. Y-your grand...grand...mother and...I...spent over fifty happy...years together here. I-In fact...y-your mother...Julia...was b-born and...raised...he...here. It-It is only r-right if...if..." He trailed off. I could just feel the life slipping away from him.
"What? What do you want me to do?" I asked frantically, holding on fast to his hand. But he never finished his sentence. Or rather, I never heard him finish. He mumbled something, an incoherent string of nonsense, before falling still and silent, his hand limp in mine. I laid it down on the bed and pulled the sheets over his lifeless body. It was then, standing there all alone in that chamber of death, that I let the tears flow.
Grandpa was gone.
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So, how was it? I was never too good at conveying emotions in writing...-_-. It's one of the many things I need to practice.
BTW, does anyone have an idea of who Ryan's grandmother was? I purposely left her nameless. ^_^
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