Purple Silk
The year was 1742. The port was small, compared to standards, and the folk were the quaintest you would ever come across. They went about their businesses, their hustle and bustle, their trivial toils, seemingly oblivious to the world around them. They were simple folk and nothing more.
In this charming, English trade-port, there were few children. People became so obsessed with their profitable trades they forgot about the obsession and the passion of the flesh. Whether that was a sin or a blessing resides with you, all's well and done so what can be done about it? Now, these seven or eight-odd children attended a small schoolhouse near the center of the village. No one took it into much consideration; they simply sent their children off with best wishes and a lunch and went about their own doings. Though the childrens' ages had a wide range they were taught at the same level in the same room. The class consisted of all boys, for little girls simply stayed home and were educated in the ways of house with perhaps a dose of tutoring.
One of these boys was never fond of the schoolmaster, Master Creevy. Creevy, in turn, was never fond of the lad though he pursued educating him at the thought of a challenge. The boy couldn't have been more than eight and was intelligent enough, if not brighter, and that was exactly what irked him. The boy always made the others feel like fools, including the schoolmaster himself, and he tended to gaze off out the single window in the schoolhouse. The problem with that was the window was clear across the room from the boy, though it was said to be one of the most beautiful, yet confining, ways to view the ocean. When he wasn't daydreaming at lessons, he would be in the schoolyard. The boy had a code of strict honor and discipline that the other, older boys sought to break. He, however, never resisted picked a fight or defending himself. The arrogance earned him many bruises, enemies and a few rough edges, but his honor remained stagnant.
All these thoughts were drifting through Hector's mind now as he stared at the mount of damp dirt before him. This was the aftermath of the last discussion he had had with the schoolmaster, the old man's last words to him. Beneath the matted, wet tangle of auburn trestles, which had escaped their leather-bound snare, a pair of misty eyes, rimmed with a deep and passionate blue, blazed.
Creevy was dead.
As the rain began to fall once more in hazy, misty sheets, Hector continued to stare at the mound before him. He was oblivious to the folk passing him by, muttering their woeful remarks and lamenting as if there were no tomorrow. That couldn't possibly be Creevy under that mound, his own schoolmaster. Sure, he never cared for the man, but it was only a step away from someone he knew well, such as his family. Death couldn't strike someone he knew and saw not but a few days ago. Sure, Aidan Lark's father had been laid to rest a few months ago, but Hector's mother had assured him it was because the man was a damn sinner. "Time to go, M'love," came a soft voice from behind the young boy. A milky, slender hand rested itself upon his small shoulders.
"Yes'm." Hector replied softly, turning towards the woman that stood behind him. Her eyes were a dazzling hazel, soft and powdery and her skin held a similar, powdery complexion. Her lips were full, pink as the petals of a rose, and her hair fell in the same auburn locks as her son's, though they curled around the bony features of her face.
The woman offered her child a soft grin as the back of her hand caressed his small cheeks. "You're bound to catch a chill," she whispered softly.
Hector's cheeks flushed a light shade of pink at his mother's warm touch. She always seemed to have a warm glow about her. Immediately, he launched himself into his mother's arms and held her around the waist tightly. As Hector felt her arms wrap around him, a certain comfort overtook him, allowing him to untense.
"What do we say to guide a soul to Heaven, Hector?" She questioned, brow slowly arching as she began to busy herself by attempting to bring the boy's unruly locks back into their neat ponytail. She frowned as Hector let out an annoyed sigh, giving him a stern look. "What did we say at your uncle's funeral? You know, I know you do."
Hector looked somewhat embarrassed, stealing a quick glance around to make sure no one was around to listen. "Bless thy soul to kingdom come, Guide thy soul to where the stars are hung. Lord be with you is what I pray, to Heaven is where you will be whisked away."
"Amen," said the woman with a satisfied smile. She bent down and kissed her child upon the brow, holding him close to her heart. "Now, we must make our way away."
As she rose, Hector took a glance back to the mound of dirt. Creevy was dead indeed.
"Mum...?"
He turned back to question her, though the woman had already begun to wander off, already a good distance away from him. Her common, cloth dress seemed to adapt a look of wealth whenever she wore it. Everyone else made the dresses look so plain and worn. Its tatterered folds turned to purple silk as it billowed in the wind. She looked so serene and calm walking amongst those graves...
The year was 1742. The port was small, compared to standards, and the folk were the quaintest you would ever come across. They went about their businesses, their hustle and bustle, their trivial toils, seemingly oblivious to the world around them. They were simple folk and nothing more.
In this charming, English trade-port, there were few children. People became so obsessed with their profitable trades they forgot about the obsession and the passion of the flesh. Whether that was a sin or a blessing resides with you, all's well and done so what can be done about it? Now, these seven or eight-odd children attended a small schoolhouse near the center of the village. No one took it into much consideration; they simply sent their children off with best wishes and a lunch and went about their own doings. Though the childrens' ages had a wide range they were taught at the same level in the same room. The class consisted of all boys, for little girls simply stayed home and were educated in the ways of house with perhaps a dose of tutoring.
One of these boys was never fond of the schoolmaster, Master Creevy. Creevy, in turn, was never fond of the lad though he pursued educating him at the thought of a challenge. The boy couldn't have been more than eight and was intelligent enough, if not brighter, and that was exactly what irked him. The boy always made the others feel like fools, including the schoolmaster himself, and he tended to gaze off out the single window in the schoolhouse. The problem with that was the window was clear across the room from the boy, though it was said to be one of the most beautiful, yet confining, ways to view the ocean. When he wasn't daydreaming at lessons, he would be in the schoolyard. The boy had a code of strict honor and discipline that the other, older boys sought to break. He, however, never resisted picked a fight or defending himself. The arrogance earned him many bruises, enemies and a few rough edges, but his honor remained stagnant.
All these thoughts were drifting through Hector's mind now as he stared at the mount of damp dirt before him. This was the aftermath of the last discussion he had had with the schoolmaster, the old man's last words to him. Beneath the matted, wet tangle of auburn trestles, which had escaped their leather-bound snare, a pair of misty eyes, rimmed with a deep and passionate blue, blazed.
Creevy was dead.
As the rain began to fall once more in hazy, misty sheets, Hector continued to stare at the mound before him. He was oblivious to the folk passing him by, muttering their woeful remarks and lamenting as if there were no tomorrow. That couldn't possibly be Creevy under that mound, his own schoolmaster. Sure, he never cared for the man, but it was only a step away from someone he knew well, such as his family. Death couldn't strike someone he knew and saw not but a few days ago. Sure, Aidan Lark's father had been laid to rest a few months ago, but Hector's mother had assured him it was because the man was a damn sinner. "Time to go, M'love," came a soft voice from behind the young boy. A milky, slender hand rested itself upon his small shoulders.
"Yes'm." Hector replied softly, turning towards the woman that stood behind him. Her eyes were a dazzling hazel, soft and powdery and her skin held a similar, powdery complexion. Her lips were full, pink as the petals of a rose, and her hair fell in the same auburn locks as her son's, though they curled around the bony features of her face.
The woman offered her child a soft grin as the back of her hand caressed his small cheeks. "You're bound to catch a chill," she whispered softly.
Hector's cheeks flushed a light shade of pink at his mother's warm touch. She always seemed to have a warm glow about her. Immediately, he launched himself into his mother's arms and held her around the waist tightly. As Hector felt her arms wrap around him, a certain comfort overtook him, allowing him to untense.
"What do we say to guide a soul to Heaven, Hector?" She questioned, brow slowly arching as she began to busy herself by attempting to bring the boy's unruly locks back into their neat ponytail. She frowned as Hector let out an annoyed sigh, giving him a stern look. "What did we say at your uncle's funeral? You know, I know you do."
Hector looked somewhat embarrassed, stealing a quick glance around to make sure no one was around to listen. "Bless thy soul to kingdom come, Guide thy soul to where the stars are hung. Lord be with you is what I pray, to Heaven is where you will be whisked away."
"Amen," said the woman with a satisfied smile. She bent down and kissed her child upon the brow, holding him close to her heart. "Now, we must make our way away."
As she rose, Hector took a glance back to the mound of dirt. Creevy was dead indeed.
"Mum...?"
He turned back to question her, though the woman had already begun to wander off, already a good distance away from him. Her common, cloth dress seemed to adapt a look of wealth whenever she wore it. Everyone else made the dresses look so plain and worn. Its tatterered folds turned to purple silk as it billowed in the wind. She looked so serene and calm walking amongst those graves...