Title:
… and sit a while with me …
Author:
Mrs. Trabi
Timeframe:
1944 and 29 A.C.
Summary:
AU/Realization can be a hard thing and when it hits Hereweald Hrothgar, he's not too happy about it. Through an accident, he and his student, Jamie Novak, fall back to the year 29 A.C. to meet Jesus of Nazareth and His disciples – what will he, the dark and tough man from a different time learn from a man that knows him better than he knows himself? And what will the child learn from a man his parents have always said won't care about him because he has no worth?
Disclaimer:
Well … I do not own anything written in the Bible, neither the words nor the persons, places, or happenings – the words are God's words and any other things are the attests of witness from people who lived about two thousands of years ago, or rather the translations of their testimonies … I'm just borrowing things from that book, and even though I promise that I won't misuse anything written in the Bible, that I won't dishonour God, His name, His words or our belief in Him – I nevertheless do apologize for the chaos I might create in this story … I promise, I will bring it in as much order as is possible for a chaotically inclined writer … thanks for your understanding …
Rating:
M – Not suitable for children or teens below the age of 16
Author's Notes:
Here, I'd like to say that this story isn't meant to discredit the Bible, God, His word, Jesus, or anything we believe in. God is and remains our first and most important priority – or at least that it is what should be. I am writing this in the hope that I'll live up to the responsibility every author has even though I am aware that this here will be very difficult.
I will be trying to handle the subject as delicately and as seriously as possible, I promise, and I do hope that not only I won't be flamed for this, but that also I'll find one or another of my readers who'll gain a new view and understanding … and that you'll like this one as much as you do my other stories, even though this concerns a different – and in my opinion much more important – book … thanks …
Warning:
Story will contain bad language and swearing.
Don't ever use such, it's neither good manners nor proper use of language and never mind how 'cool' it might sound, it surely isn't a sign of intelligence. It won't get you anywhere and people will think less of you if you are unable articulating properly.
Story will contain references to child abuse.
Child abuse is a really, really serious and evil thing, and whenever you meet someone, child or adult, who shows any signs – whichever - of once having been abused, then try to help … there are too many people in our world who are or have been mistreated.
This does however not mean I am not as evil as I pretend to be …^.~ … believe me - I am …
Breåk· … ·~†~*~*~*~*~*~†~· … ·Łine
Previously in … and sit a while with me …
Taking a deep breath he wondered what kind of disciple Hrothgar would make.
And taking another deep breath he wondered why Jesus was so sure about these two. Of course, he knew that Jesus' Father, that God himself had sent the two – but why?
Because the people in their time would need a disciple too? What would these times be like? What was this time, the two came from, like? Their clothes did look very strange, after all and they seemed unfamiliar with everything else, with their living environment, with their food, with simply everything.
Hrothgar had wrinkled his nose at the donkey that lived in the neighbouring house together with the family from the potter. So, where did they keep their animal, two-thousand years later? Did they even have animals in two thousand years? Maybe they would drive with vehicles which weren't pulled by donkeys or oxen anymore.
And why would their feet freeze while they were laughing anyway? How could things change like that within two-thousand years? Two-thousand of years wasn't that much of a time, was it? That was just – nonsense. He was laughing a lot, together with John and James, but his feet weren't freezing when he laughed. That man hadn't meant it seriously, had he? But why otherwise would they wear sacks on their feet then, if not for keeping them warm? Would it be cold in two thousand of years? Or maybe it was cold where they came from?
"Why don't you take a nap, little one?" James asked, getting him out of his thoughts and he looked over at the man and the child, the boy nearly having fallen asleep on James and he blinked, only now realizing that the boy had sat there for all forenoon, reading in the book that teacher of his had given to him.
… and sit a while with me …
Part two – of learning and doing
Chapter twelve – realization can be a hard thing …
Near winter 29 A.C. about November – Jerusalem
"Hmpf." Had been the only thing he had been able to answer, again being unable to get the upper hand in a discussion with Jesus and he had given away a huff of annoyance, just to save his pride, if nothing else. He hadn't accompanied the man back to the house – not that he had liked the place with the wallet, he just had needed a moment for himself. He was a man of solitude, and living together with twelve other grown men – alright, with six other grown men at the moment, as half of the … well … bunch of disciples … or whatever they were, were away on a journey only God knew whereto, it was horror anyway.
He had – well, gotten used to living together with a horde of teens, for the lack of a better term and if anyone could get used to a bunch of idiot students to begin with, but he had always avoided the other teachers. He had of course partaken in meals in the canteen, necessarily, but he had never partaken in their meetings other than monthly teacher meetings and surely he had never partaken in any of their other societies or even parties! He'd die before he'd do such a thing.
It was enough that he had to deal with Garcia once a week for handing in his report, but even then he refused to take a seat and surely he would refuse taking the cup of tea the man always offered – only God knew what would be in that tea! He was a chemist and he had learned to be careful with what was offered to him, after all, especially if it came from Garcia.
That man could act the sweet, nice headmaster – as long as people did what was his will – while in truth he was a bastard the moment he noticed that people were not on the exact same side as was he and he could become really dangerous, not shying back from cheating, corruption or even murder – and Garcia had long ago learned that he, Hereweald Hrothgar, was far from his side indeed.
Well – all in all, he could deal with a bunch of children, but not with a bunch of adult people, and so he had been glad for a few minutes for himself. The few minutes had stretched to a few hours, and – seeing that he was a grown man, after all – he had wandered Jerusalem's bystreets, taking in the buildings and construction works, as simple as they were, realizing the simple way streets, walls and stairs were built. He'd ignored the people he'd met on his way and he'd scowled down on the little snots running in his way, screaming and laughing, chasing after each other.
When he'd come back, it had been after noon, at least as far as he could tell, considering the position of the sun – and the brat had been asleep, instead of learning. But well, even though he'd told him that he had to learn, he hadn't been here to teach the brat, and he was the teacher, after all. So he could hardly blame the brat for sleeping instead of learning.
Scowling he looked over at the brat when there was movement on the mat.
That bloody brat had proven him wrong on more than one thing, even though he was no man who easily admitted being wrong. The boy had done nothing wrong, and indeed, had he, Hereweald, listened to Elliot, had he used his common sense he was so proud of, then not only would Elliot be alive still, but also – well … never mind.
He knew very well what those guys, the disciples, thought of him, but he didn't mind though. The other teachers at Hathaway thought the same, after all, and he was alright with that. As long as they thought bad of him, as long he had his peace.
Garcia used him as a head of house for all those the other teachers were unwilling to teach – other than that, Garcia hated and feared him at the same time. But Garcia was a dastard anyway, so what? He hated and feared everyone, or nearly everyone.
Then there was Kermit Frogman. Kermit Frogman, really! Who, by their right mind would call their child Kermit? Especially if their family name was Frogman? That was a joke! But well, Frogman was – even though being the deputy headmaster and head of a small house, too – a joke anyway, and a pantywaist, unable to keep his students under any kind of control. He simply didn't have the strong hand the students needed.
Eckbrecht Oswald, teacher for history and geography – geography, and the only teacher no one knew where he came from, even though it was clear that he came from somewhere in Germany, or from Norsk maybe, considering his name. Well, Oswald clearly distrusted him, clearly thinking that no child should be entrusted into his care, clearly not understanding how anyone could give him, of all people, a position as a teacher, and on a boarding school, no less. Oswald would never spare more than a blanc glance for him – and he was definitely correct in his way of thinking.
And then there was Castilla. Pedro Lorenco Estevan De la Castilla, teacher for Spanish. Castilla, another head of house, would absolutely never omit a chance of complaining about him because he'd given one of his students detention, an extra essay to write, other extra work, or bad marks even though the little snots clearly deserved it. Would Castilla lead his students with a firmer hand, then there wouldn't be need for detentions or extra essays to write.
Soft whimper pulled Hereweald from his thoughts and blinking a few times his eyes focused on Novak. With a frown, he pushed his tiredness away and ran his hand over his face – Novak needed his full attention at the moment, and it would not do to be half asleep. He studied the boy's face in his sleep. His features seemed a bit more twisted than they had been moments ago. Hereweald leaned back on his mat, against the wall, unwilling to risk startling the boy should he wake suddenly.
Another teacher at Hathaway was the teacher for physical education, or rather "the coach", Mr. Lloyd McDew alias Mr. McEvil and never mind what, that man had his nickname rightly.
He, Hereweald Hrothgar, was an evil man, and he knew that very well, but compared to McDew, he was, indeed, a harmless teddy bear, an angel, even. McDew was a real bastard, not only terrorizing the students – not that he didn't do that, but at least he would not use physical punishment like McDew did – but also getting them into trouble whenever he could, and into real trouble, mind you.
He, Hereweald Hrothgar, he was a strict teacher, harsh even, but he was not cruel and he was teaching his students that they couldn't fool him, he got no pleasure out of his strictness. McDew did. McDew enjoyed terrorizing students and the more terror they felt, the happier the man was. But well, at least McDew was no head of house and at least the man was teaching a handful of students only, or maybe two handful of students, those who played on the team. McDew surely didn't search his company, on the contrary, but as it was a moote feeling anyway, he didn't really mind about that.
He couldn't help smiling for a moment at the thought of Hendric VanHarkins, the arithmetic and physics teacher. VanHarkins surely was the only teacher who actually – liked – him. It was strange, but VanHarkins seemed to like everyone, he guessed. Alright, he liked nearly everyone. He knew that he didn't like McDew and Frogman too much, and that he didn't like Garcia too much either, but other than that he was the most good natured and well tempered man he'd ever seen. But considering that he came from a place called Grape-Apple Cove, Maine – that name alone spoke of soft, green and gentle landscapes, spoke of appletrees and fields of grapes, of teddy bears and girls with blue skirts and ribbons in their fair hair – a place that made him shudder because of the sweetness – VanHarkins was like that place, surely not sweet, but soft and gentle, even though as a teacher he was strict enough to have his students under control.
He himself came from Tonopah, Nevada – a place that held no sweetness, not even the name holding something similar to sweetness, but was a place that was harsh and rough, in the middle of desert lands Tonopah was anything but comparable to Grape-Apple Cove, Main. Tonopah was like him, as much different to Grape-Apple Cove, Main as was he, Hereweald Hrothgar, to Hendric VanHarkins.
A low sound from the bed made him looking up again and then his left eyebrow rose in a curious manner at the soft, barely audible whisper.
"Please … please not … I am sorry … please …"
Taking a deep breath Hrothgar narrowed his eyes at the boy, watching him curiously. So Novak was able to speak when sleeping as well as when he was not conscious of his actions, like he hadn't been a few days before, and he wondered when exactly he had stopped speaking and what had occurred that he now claimed he could not. Was it really a matter of not being able to? Or was it rather a matter of not wishing to?
No, he had seen the desperation in Novak's eyes when they had been in his office, he'd seen the desperation in his entire features, and he was sure it had not been a matter of Novak's wish. Never mind how much he would wish to not speaking, with the fear he had been feeling a few days before, back then at Hathaway, he surely would have spoken, had he been able to.
The single 'please' he had uttered yesterday morning. Well, Hrothgar was sure that Novak even then had not really been aware of what he had been doing, that he had spoken, not even realizing what exactly had been happening around him in this moment. He had not really been conscious of the situation.
And now – here Novak lay, speaking in his sleep, and he spoke quite good enough so Hrothgar was sure he had been able to speak for a few years before stopping. He had not said 'I sorry' but 'I am sorry', that was a difference.
Sighing when the brat slept on, he allowed his thoughts to drift back towards Hathaway and the teachers there, again, remembering Timothy Porter, the caretaker, and he huffed, shaking his head. That man couldn't bang a nail into the wall and surely he couldn't paint a wall without getting more paint on himself than on the wall, either. Not to mention his inability when it came to changing a lightbulb or opening the door to the storeroom in the third floor which was barely in use and therefore had a jammed door. Porter always eyed him carefully whenever he was near. He'd never harmed the man in any way imaginable, but well, his reputation was well-built, after all. Sometimes Porter reminded him of a rabbit, always aware of the dangers around him, afraid of a ladder even, a working equipment that should be normal to a caretaker, after all.
And then there was Adam Goodwin – the medic. Somehow Goodwin, as little as he liked him, was one of the few who didn't think bad of him, even though he would never trust that man with his health. Not that Goodwin was an inapt medic, surely not, but he wouldn't go to Goodwin with anything anyway. He bothered no one with his troubles, he had learned helping himself, after all, even though Goodwin didn't like that one bit – he didn't care about that.
And last, but not least, Mellard Martin – not Martin Mellard, but Mellard Martin – English teacher, and he was very much an idiot in his opinion, even though he'd had only one encounter with the man as he was new at the school. That man was …
But was that really what he should be thinking of Martin? Even though he was right – that didn't change the little fact that he knew, Jesus wouldn't be too happy about his thoughts.
Frowning he wondered since when he was considering other people's opinion and a moment later he scowled at himself for doing just that.
"No … no more … please … no more …" Again Novak spoke in his sleep, louder this time, while tears ran down the pale face that was tense with fear and Hrothgar laid his hand over the boy's bony shoulder to calm him. But the only thing he achieved, was the opposite reaction. Novak's irregular breathing quickened, the trembling of the small and restless moving body worsened and two bony arms came up to cover his face. He still murmured in his sleep, yet so quickly and hastily that Hrothgar couldn't understand anything anymore.
"Easy, Novak." Hrothgar said, trying to get the boy awake. "You are dreaming, wake up, Novak." Carefully he gripped the boy's shoulder and shook him softly. He didn't wish causing him any pain, he just wanted to get him out of his nightmare because no one should be left alone in his nightmares. "Come on, Novak, it is only a dream, wake up!"
And well, for once the idiot boy obeyed his words and with a startled cry of fear Novak really woke. Quickly sitting up on his mat the boy tried to catch his breath when his eyes fell at Hrothgar who had backed away when the boy woke, and with a second startled cry of fear he crept backwards, pressing his body against the wall behind him, wrapping his arms around his midsection as he had done a few days before in Hrothgar's office, drawing his knees up to his chest as if to gain as much protection as possible, or as if keeping himself from falling apart, he didn't know which, while eying the Chemistry Professor with fearful eyes.
"Novak." Hereweald sighed, rolling his eyes, and when he saw the boy wincing, he took this as a sign that he had heard him. "Easy, Novak, relax. I won't harm you." Hrothgar said, leaning back against the wall beside the mat to give the boy some space. He didn't know in what kind of mental state Novak was, yet – he didn't wish to frighten him with his much too close presence. "It was only a dream, Novak, calm down. You are still safe here, wherever this here is, I'm still not sure about that. But at least you're not at your home in Davenport." And well – slowly the boy seemed to understand that he was awake now and that he only had been dreaming and he relaxed – a bit at least. Hereweald saw the boy's face becoming calmer as reality took hold over him once more and he sighed in relief. Until now they had successfully avoided a full blown panic attack.
Breåk· … ·~†~*~*~*~*~*~†~· … ·Łine
He was from Davenport? Well, he'd try to remember that and then he only would need to find out where Davenport was. Not that he wanted going back there – it was rather the other way 'round and he wanted to know where he wouldn't go back ever. He'd do that another time though. He still was tired, more than tired. But well, he always was and so it was nothing new. He had forgotten how it felt when he wasn't, he wasn't even sure if he'd ever felt different to begin with, so what!
For a split second Hrothgar could see the boy opening his mouth before quickly looking away, yet, he had the feeling that he knew exactly what the boy had wanted to say and he took a deep breath while shaking his head.
"Do not apologize, boy, neither for such a thing as dreaming nor for a humanly reaction as flinching away when being in fear. I'm sorry for touching you, but I needed to get you awake as you were captured in a nightmare." Hereweald growled in a low voice as he studied the boy. Novak seemed at least a bit healthier than he'd been the previous days. A few good nights' sleep had its own priceless effects on the boy and he examined the thin and still pale face. There were still lines of exhaustion and tiredness on his features, lines of discomfort and fear, and still the brat was clearly too – delicate – for his liking. But well, several years of terror couldn't be healed with just a few peaceful nights, after all, even he knew that.
Trying to look as darkly as possible without scaring the little snot more, he watched every single reaction Novak gave away. It was entirely different from what he had seen during the first evening at Hathaway and during the following day. Novak had been hiding his fears and his condition quite well back then, alarmingly well and Hrothgar had to admit, would he not have had several other students in a similar position over the years, then he would not have been able to recognize the first signs at all. But now the boy was unable to hide anything anymore. Every single emotion, every wave of fear, and every single wave of pain was clearly written in his face and in his entire appearance.
The mask had fallen – and he knew it was a start.
It was better than hiding behind the mask behind which no one would have been able to reach him.
A few minutes Hrothgar sat silently on the floor, just watching the boy, watching if he would calm down by himself and apparently he did, a bit at least. His breathing was still much too quick, and the fear still was written in the pale face. But even though Novak still trembled he seemed to be calmer now, his eyes stopped darting through the room on their way of searching for an escape route.
"Eye contact, Novak!" Hrothgar ordered, his voice tinged with calm softness and strictness at the same time, even though he didn't really know how he'd managed that, but it seemed to work and the boy lifted his eyes up at him.
"Are you still tired? Do you need anything?" Hrothgar asked, nearly cursing as soon as the second question was out. Two questions at the same time. He shouldn't ask two questions at the same time to someone who was only able to answer with a shake or a nod of his head. He would have to remember that and he ran his hand over his forehead, once again noticing the flinch from Novak when he lifted his hand, noticing the brat keeping his eyes at this hand until it was again resting at Hrothgar's thigh, and he took a deep breath which he exhaled slowly, just to remind himself – be patient.
For a few seconds nothing happened, but then Jamie slowly shook his head and lowered his gaze at his drawn knees and hands.
Noticing the first time that there were five fingers on his right hand while before there had been four only, the boy's forefinger having been missed, he lifted his head and his black eyes locked themselves into the black ones of Hrothgar, silently questioning how this could be and for the first time since he knew the dark professor, Hrothgar's face softened.
"As it seems, Novak, Jesus had some mercy on you." He simply answered the unspoken question and he had to force the expression of his face to remain his emotionless mask when the boy lowered his eyes back to his hands, his shoulders beginning to shake and a silent sob breaking from the child's throat the moment he noticed that his hands were as normal as every other child's hands were. That he no longer had to hide them beneath the sleeves of his shirt.
Novak's shoulders quivered and Hrothgar saw him clench his jaw while he tried to suppress his tears, something that made him just angrier as he had already been, as no child should suppress his tears upon a miracle such as this – and without success anyway as they rolled down the boy's cheeks. The brat bowed his head, hiding his face against his knees, most likely believing that this way he wouldn't notice him crying.
Flashback
There were several eyes on him the moment he entered the common room, the boys actually gaping at him as if he were a ghost or something other similar supernatural appearance, and with the darkest face he could muster, he crossed the room, ignoring the little snots gaping at him with their mouths hanging open.
As if they had never before seen a teacher entering the students' common room – but then, it was Garcia's house he had taken over this school year, which had started just today, and he knew that Garcia, who had just recently become headmaster of Hathaway, had never visited the common room because he'd been a student of this very house himself.
"Is there a problem, Mr. Palmer?" He asked one of the fifth grades who was sitting at one of the sofas, his knees drawn close to his chest and his face being hid between said knees – and this way clearly trying to hide his crying. As if he hadn't made his rules clear, just an hour ago – namely that no student in his house was to hide his troubles!
"N-no, sir." Came the hitched answer from between the knees.
"Then why exactly are you crying, Mr. Palmer?" He asked, trying to keep his usual sarcasm out of his voice.
"'m-'m not." Came the – again – hitched answer from between the knees.
"If I remember correctly, and I am sure I do, Mr. Palmer, then I have made it clear just an hour ago that neither hiding your troubles, nor lying to me is an option here in my house." He growled. "And now I expect a true answer from you. Is there a problem, Mr. Palmer?"
"Uhm …" Came the answer, two bright and watery blue eyes looking up at him startled. "I – I've … *sniff* … I've just forgot my … *sniff* … my pillow at home." The brat hiccupped. "It's … *sniff* … it's the pillow I've … *sniff* … I've gotten from Aunty Cathy, sir, when I've been really … *sniff* … really small, and I've … *sniff* … I've been so sure that I've packed … *sniff* … that I've packed it, but I haven't … *sniff* … and now I won't be able to get it before Christmas now." The brat ended his speech with wiping his nose on the sleeve of his shirt and he grimaced at the goo he knew would now glue at the piece of cloth.
"You are able to write, are you not, Mr. Palmer?" He asked, suppressing a sigh.
"Sure, sir." The brat answered.
"Then I am sure that you will be able writing your parents first thing tomorrow morning, asking them to send your pillow." He calmly answered, waiting for the big eyed nod the brat gave him together with a nearly happy "yes, sir" and he gave him a curt nod in reply before he turned and sat into one of the armchairs in the common room, taking out a book and starting to read while watching them for a while.
Some of the students watched him curiously for a moment or two, casting questioning and unsure gazes at him from time to time before they cast questioning gazes at each other, but he continued reading and casting his eyes over them every now and then.
They would learn.
He would sit here for an hour every evening and they would learn that they could approach him, that they could address him whenever he sat here. And they would learn that they could address him with whatever caused them trouble or problems. This way he would give them the chance to address him without the need to gather their courage and search for him.
Because he was there, because he was there for them, as no one else was.
End flashback
And they had learned.
Soon they had started sitting in an armchair beside him, asking him one or another question – testily at first, judging his reaction and learning out of it, and later approaching him with their troubles and worries, asking for his help or – in case of the older students, just having one or another short conversation with him.
But well, Palmer hadn't been the first students he'd seen sitting there like this, trying to hide his crying, and surely he hadn't remained his last student either. There had been enough of sniffing boys for the past about twenty-five years, Elliot Novak – and now Jamie Novak – included.
After what felt like hours, he softly cleared his throat and the brat gave a few more hitched sobs but tried to regain his self-control, howbeit he flinched away when Hereweald slowly reached out to wipe away the tears glistening on the boy's face, even though he didn't even know why he had done that! He was no man doing such a thing – neither touching his students nor coddling them, and wiping away their tears was the last thing he'd normally do! That was Jesus' fault alone! That was clearly his doing! That man was making a soft fool out of him! And that damn, bloody boy too! These two were ganging up on him!
"Do not fear me." The Chemistry Professor said gently, sighing, knowing that he had lost anyway.
Somehow these hands stirred Hrothgar's wish to kill the ones who did this more than all the other things he had learned over the past days and nights. Sure, it could have been a simple accident, the boy losing his finger, but considering the boy's record, he very much doubted that. Most likely had this idiot of a man called Novak Senior ordered the boy to do one or another dangerous thing which shouldn't be done by any child to begin with and that had ended in an accident!
The simple fact that the boy in front of him did not seem to mind the tiredness and the exhaustion, the fear he still felt, but was grateful for having as normal and as complete hands and fingers as every other child, was grateful for not needing to hide them anymore, Hrothgar could not avoid the tightness he felt in his own chest. It seemed to be as if the last ingredient was added to a chemical and his anger was being held in place by only the correct swirling of the vial.
His face must have shown it because the look on Novak's face showed his raw fear.
Fear of him, and he didn't like it one bit.
"I am not angry with you." He growled, softly. "And I will not hurt you, child. You are not in trouble."
Breåk· … ·~†~*~*~*~*~*~†~· … ·Łine
Jamie swallowed and nodded his head in a single and short nod. It was all he felt capable of at that moment.
"Do you trust me?" Hrothgar finally asked, his voice slightly rough, leaning forwards a bit and eying the boy, watching him gnawing at his lower lip, casting unsure glances at him from time to time, and he forced himself to be patient, to wait. This question, he knew, had not been fair. And he knew what would be the answer. Yet – he had to force himself not to feeling disappointed when the boy finally shook his head, a look of clear despair and panic in his eyes, fear of how Hrothgar would react to that.
The boy was shaking all over when he looked towards the man.
But Hrothgar just nodded at him without anger in his face.
"I would be surprised if you did, child." He said, his voice as gentle as before. "And I am glad you gave me an honest answer. Thank you for doing so. Nevertheless, I ask you to do and at least try to trust me."
Again he paused, waited for the boy to give him an unsure nod and he could not suppress the smallest of a smile – a barely noticeable upwards movement of the corner of his lip. He could not deny that Novak was at least brave.
The boy at the same time didn't feel one bit brave.
He couldn't handle this!
He could handle beatings, he could handle harsh words, and he could handle being locked away, but the kindness that Professor Hrothgar was showing towards him, as well as the kindness that Jesus was showing towards him, was rapidly breaking the walls that he had so carefully and so securely created around himself – and he couldn't stop his emotions from showing. How was he supposed to keep control over himself like this? How was he supposed to …
Seeing a movement out of the corner of his eyes he threw his arms upwards to hide his face, to protect his face from the blow that would follow the movement. He knew his father would kill him for this and he knew that this blow towards his face would soon be accompanied by a real beating – or rather by several beatings over the next few days.
His father hated weakness, and trying to block a slap in his face with his arm was weakness. He didn't really understand the difference though. He knew that his father expected his students to block any kind of punch, he even taught them how they had to block them, how they could block more than one punch at the same time, and the more punches they blocked, the prouder was his father at them – but no one was to block a slap in their face, not even his students. But what was the difference between a punch and a slap in the face?
Sure, a punch was done with a fist and a slap in the face was done with the palm of the hand. And sure, a punch was done in a fight and a slap in the face was a sign of his father's displeasure. But if his father was angry at him, then he didn't just hand out a slap in the face, but punches at him too, so where was the difference? He didn't really understand it.
And he didn't really understand it why the man, Professor Hrothgar, had started being so nice to him either! He'd liked the bad man more, back then, when they'd been at the school still, because with the bad man he'd at least known what was to come while he couldn't judge this nice man. Especially as never before had his father been as nice as this man was now, not even during the holidays when he'd been – loved. He'd liked it very much had his father loved him like this. How did one handle it being handled so nice? How did one …
Doing the only thing he knew would ease the pain that ripped through his heart, he pressed his arms at his stomach and started to rock back and forth on the mat, concentrating on not listening to the man's nice words, trying to block them out because they just hurt him, trying to think of anything but the nice words.
"Stop!" Hrothgar commanded – without success.
The boy in front of him began to just rock his upper body even quicker forwards and backwards, his breathing speeding up again and his shaking increasing too, and Hrothgar somehow knew he would not reach through this time.
"Easy now, child!" He whispered while moving over to sit at the mat and easily he lifted the boy's small body into his arms until the slight back leaned against his chest, thus effectively stopping the rocking movements. "It's all right. Your father cannot harm you here. You are safe here. Calm down."
Alright, this had been unexpected. But he was used to the unexpected when dealing with abused children and even if he had known that this would be no easy task, that this boy really would be a challenge, well – he knew how to improvise, even though the idiot child seemed to fight him for a moment before there were silent sobs breaking through the brat's throat, desperate sobs because he couldn't vent his emotional pain anymore – and then suddenly he saw …
Vision
There was a small boy laying in a dank and dark cellar on the ground, sleeping, wincing and shuddering in his sleep … a small boy sitting in the same cellar and playing with the rats down there, cuddling them to his small chest … he could see a man, most likely Novak Senior, coming down the stairs leading into the cellar, seeing his son playing with the rats and killing them … he could see a small boy desperately trying to keep the remaining rats hidden in a corner of the cellar, most likely in hopes that his father wouldn't find and kill them too … he could see a small boy, pulling food out of the trash bin under the sink in the middle of the night when no one looked … and then the same boy being caught by his father in the act of 'stealing' food out of the trash and getting beaten because of it, the father screaming at the boy: "you are stealing food from us? I will teach you! You'll be in the cellar forever!" … he could see Jamie Novak kneeling beside the prone form of Elliot who lay in a puddle of blood, trying to wake him …
End vision
A piercing scream echoed through the room and finally the pictures that ripped through Hereweald's mind, stopped.
Hrothgar himself nearly jumped. Not only startled by the piercing scream but horrified by what he had seen too. That … that was just … and what had happened so that he could have seen those pictures to begin with …
Casting a gaze at the door while keeping a steely hold on the struggling boy in his arms he noticed Jesus standing in the doorway, leaning with his shoulder against the stone wall of the house, looking at them, watching them with a sad expression on his calm face and he knew – the short scenes he had seen had been Jesus' doing. He had made him seeing some of the horrors in that boy's life, and he scowled at the man, because he had enough horror himself, he didn't need the horror of others too.
Taking a deep breath he cast a look down at the still struggling child in his arms and even as the dark and cold man he was, the harsh man that had committed enough crimes by himself, he gritted his teeth at the shivering bundle he held in his arms, that tried to curl into a small ball, that tried to get away from him and even though he didn't really like it how the boy was thrashing around him, he tolerated it, knowing that sooner or later the boy's strength would leave him. He, Hereweald, he would be fine, what was not the same he could say for the boy. He didn't know if the boy would be alright once his strength left him.
"Calm down, child." He said in a voice so gentle no one ever would have believed to be his, still holding the boy's shaking shoulders close to his chest. "Calm down. You are safe child. No harm will befall you here and I promise, we will find a way to avoid sending you back there." He was not sure if the boy heard him at all for he gave no reaction to his words but continued his struggle. Yet he did not let go of the boy's form but held him carefully, over and over whispering to the child that he was safe until he finally calmed down – or rather, until he had a sniffing and crying boy in his arms, again.
Damn! Why him! Why did such always happen to him!
Knowing that the boy had remembered enough, that he had the answers he had wanted a few days ago anyway, that he had seen enough – even though he also knew that he had seen just the very tip of the iceberg, that he just had scratched at the surface of all that had happened, knew that there was much more – he leaned back against the wall and tried to relax – a moment later, and Hrothgar couldn't believe he was doing this, didn't even attempt to understand why, he simply sat there and rubbed circles on the back of the child he still held in his arms until he'd fallen asleep again, while the last thing Jamie Novak could feel were careful hands tucking the blanket around him.
Breåk· … ·~†~*~*~*~*~*~†~· … ·Łine
Hereweald took a deep breath before slowly releasing it, his elbows propped on his knees and his forehead resting in his hands. He didn't know the last time he had been as exhausted as he felt right now, and the mental and emotional fatigue was as bad as the physical tiredness.
Damn! He had misjudged the boy about his upbringing and the way his parents had treated him. He could not deny that. He had also been wrong about Novak being a spoiled brat that would be arrogant and egoistic. The boy seemed kind and respectful.
For a moment Hrothgar had to suppress a laugh.
That boy was not respectful – he was submissive. He was fearful. What, however, did not mean that he – Hrothgar – had not been wrong, because he'd clearly been just that. But if he had been wrong, and he knew that he had been, then – was it possible, just possible, that he might have misjudged the boy in other things as well? That it had never been Jamie Novak's fault, that Carmichael Novak had stepped up the abuse of his older son? Of Elliot? That it had never been Jamie who had been loved more than Elliot? That – but how could they play a game as cruel as this with their own children? How could they use their own children against each other the way they had done?
And how deep had the distrust they had implanted in their children, to be after years of such? Had Elliot really ever trusted him, or had he just pretended that he trusted him? How deep does a mistreatment have to run, and how long had such a mistreatment to take place that a child reacted in such a way as Jamie did?
And his anger against the parents of Novak rose again.
He had no idea if the youth ever would be returning into a completely different boy, into a normal boy like all the other annoying little snots out there, but he knew that he had to try. Scowling at himself and his sentimentally Hereweald tucked the blanket around Jamie's small shoulders and slowly ran his fingers through the child's dark hair before he left the house, casting a serious gaze at Jesus when he passed him on his way outside, knowing that the man would watch over the boy while he was gone.
"Your anger at Jamie's parents won't change anything." Jesus softly said when he passed and for a moment he wanted nothing else than wringing the man's neck for his constant calmness, even in the face of such horror.
"No, it won't." He then answered, knowing that he was right though, never mind if he liked it or not. "But it makes me feeling better."
He just needed to bottle his anger before he exploded – and he needed some fresh air – and he needed to calm himself down. He wanted to be ready to give the boy whatever he might need, but he needed to be calm for that.
Knowing that he couldn't count on Garcia helping him, he huffed and concentrated on how to get Hendrik into the boat for support without getting the other man into too much trouble – and trouble would come, he knew, because he knew that Garcia would never help him, on the contrary. The man would lay as many stones into his way as possible, like always, while at the same time he knew that he couldn't send the boy back home to his parents. Never.
Flashback
Vigorously he opened the door, even a split second before there came the "come in" from inside the headmaster's office, but he didn't really care about that and there was no struggling and there was no hesitation the moment Hereweald Hrothgar entered the large office of the headmaster. He entered and stood tall and proud before Garcia, something not every teacher at this school managed.
"Why did you kick my student out of school?" He coldly asked.
"What student are you speaking of, Hereweald?" Garcia asked back, leaning back in his armchair and looking at him challengingly.
"Seeing that there is only one student you have kicked out of school, you know exactly which one I am speaking of." He answered, just as coldly as he had started the – conversation.
"Mr. Foley has been absent of classes – again – only leaving a note for Professor Castilla." Garcia said, just as coldly.
"After all, he is well raised – he has excused himself." He growled, stretching out his hand, demanding to see the note and with a cold smile Garcia reached the note over to him. "And without spelling mistakes even." Hereweald added after he had read the note. "I expect Mr. Foley being back at school before curfew."
"And why would I agree to that, Hereweald?" Garcia asked.
"Because otherwise Mr. Foley Senior surely won't provide you with another donation like the ones he has done for the past eight years since his junior is visiting Hathaway."
Flashback
Well, back then he'd been lucky and he had known that Garcia needed the money, and desperately so – Foley Senior being one of those who donated more than others and he didn't speak of a few thousands of dollars each year but half a million. Garcia couldn't afford kicking Foley Junior out of school before his time as without that money Garcia could close his school – but the man had laid other stones into his way, never mind if it was a student that needed leaving home, if it was a student that had troubles learning, or if it was a student that had gotten himself into any other mess and couldn't get out by himself.
The moment he started acting officially, then the action had to be permitted by Garcia, the headmaster of the school, and Garcia would in ninety-nine percent of all cases say – no, just to annoy him, Hereweald. In other words, mostly his actions went by Garcia's desktop in the hopes that the man didn't notice. Considering however that there were a lot of idiot teachers who didn't trust him, they sooner or later ran to the headmaster the moment they noticed one thing or another, idiot bunch of cowardice ass-kissers!
They were the cause for more than one student having been kicked off school and back to uncaring parents – or worse.
He would make sure that the same wouldn't happen again – he just needed a way to keep Jamie out of Novak's hands, a way that was as sure as death, because Novak had killed one child, and he knew that he easily could kill another child too.
Breåk· … ·~†~*~*~*~*~*~†~· … ·Łine
September 15th 1944, Tuesday – Jersey Ridge Road, McClellan Heights, East Davenport, Iowa
There was a knock at the dark brown, wooden door that was the entrance to one of the more expensive villas around Davenport's outskirts, situated near a lake and between soft hillocks, and it was clear that the people living here were anything than pour.
Alone the driveway from the gates to the house had surely been more than the quarter of a mile, leading through a well cared for garden and he knew that there was need of more than one gardener to keep the area as well cared for as it was. But well, he hadn't expected anything less, seeing that Carmichael Novak, the owner of a combatant school, was one of the richest people in Iowa and his wife had surely not married him because of his money as she owned one of the most expensive beauty salons, and therefore more money than she would be able to spend, herself – whatever reason for, except of money, any woman would marry a bastard as Novak was, he didn't understand that.
He'd met him, shortly, at the scene of crime when they had marched the man off, before he had come here to question Michelle Novak, and what he had seen of the man had been enough.
Flashback
September 15th 1944, Tuesday – Wilson National Bank, 5th Avenue, Davenport, Iowa
He leaned forwards in his patrol car to stub out his cigarette in the ashtray of the car.
He hadn't smoked as much during the past ten years as he had during the past three months, even though Austin kept Amber calm and reasonable since the two had married and were living together. Honestly, he didn't have to worry about his daughter so much anymore since Austin was here and he was glad for that. But damn, he would be glad when he'd be at home tonight, finally. The day had started so damn shitty, had dragged on so damn shitty and he feared that it would end just as shitty as it had started.
At first he'd gotten a call from Mrs. Adams, just at nine this morning.
Mrs. Adams was a, well, an older lady, if you could say so concerning a 91 year old lady, and she was the widow of General Adams. THE General Adams, the General Adams whose father in life had fought on Mead's side in the American Civil War, the union troops acting upon his plans of action. THE General Adams that had stepped into his father's shoes and had fought in the Spanish-American war, the General Adams, whose grandson had fought in the World War I – and just as successful as General Adams Senior had, mind you, and the General Adams whose great-grandson was now fighting in World War II – a family of great and loyal servants.
However, the widow Adams, she saw – or heard – everywhere one or another treachery, cheating or manslaughter. And today there had been assassination on the school building.
He'd been driving to the widow Adams, had taken her evidence, and he had promised her to take care of the matter, had praised her for her alertness and her sense of duty.
Of course he had visited the school. He had gotten a hint about an assassination on the school and never mind if he believed the hint or not – he had to take care of it.
But of course it had been wasted time. A few kids had played with fire during their break and accidentally set the trash can alight. The teachers had been able to put the fire out and not even the fire department had to be called.
After that he had picked up Edgar at Norman's garage, totally drunk, trying – and in vain – to get something to drink. Of course Norman had a gas station beside his garage, and of course he sold drinks there, too, but he was no one who sold the alcohol to everyone just to make his money and he had told Edgar that he'd had enough already, that he wouldn't get more alcohol from him.
Well, Edgar hadn't been so confirm with that, not really.
He wasn't the type of man who got drunk senselessly, but today he'd done so, just like yesterday and just like the day before yesterday, just like two weeks actually.
Damn! He'd picked Edgar up and had put him into the drying-out cell but he felt like shit while doing so. He knew the red haired young mechanic for so long now, since he'd been a child and he knew that he wasn't alcohol addicted. He also knew that Edgar wasn't really violent or a rowdy nor was he in any way dangerous. But he … damn, since Lissy had died he just didn't know Edgar anymore and he didn't know what to do with him.
He could understand him, really, but that didn't change the fact that he stood helpless in the face of his friend's troubles and that really grated on his balls. Damn! It just made him angry, angry at himself, angry at Edgar, angry at the situation, angry at Lissy even, angry at anything and anyone.
And then Charley's cat! The boy's bloody animal had gone lost at a tree in the garden. Damn! On a tree of all things! Why not in a hole in the cellar? Or beneath anything the damn brute didn't come forth from anymore, for all he cared. But no, it had to be on a tree, fucking hell!
He was not the climbing type who climbed trees!
He had no heads for heights! And he was no hero when it came to climbing trees!
But one way or another he had fought his way up there – very much to the amusement of the audience most likely, even if no one had laughed. Most likely his performance had been anything but funny, had been rather a sad thing, but well, the outcome had been the same, he'd been sitting on the tree, getting scratched by the damn fucking cat when he tried to grab her and in the end the blasted filthy beast just jumped down the tree, just like this, into Charley's arms and he had been sitting up there, trying to get down one way or another without breaking his neck by falling down. But well, the boy had his cat back, so what!
And just now – yes, he had managed climbing down that tree or he wouldn't sit here in his car on his way back to the police station while doubting the justice of this day – he in all seriousness, and believe it or not, had taken little Christine from Rodger's car – from the driver's seat, no less.
How the little girl had even managed reaching the gas pedal, that was a riddle to him, not to mention turning the ignition and he better didn't ask how the child had gotten hold of the car key in the first place. Christine was just four after all, but nevertheless she actually had managed driving from the front yard, she even had managed the turn onto the Main Road and just about two hundred meters down the road she had ran into a tree with her father's Ford.
Well, how that blasted child had gotten the keys into her hands and why for heaven's sake people were unable using the parking break while parking the car – AND how the child could get into that shit-heap without supervision from any adult to begin with, was another riddle to him! A child that age should be under supervision and a car was not playground for a child but a …
What the fuck …
That was impossible …
For a moment he didn't believe his eyes, thought that his mind was playing a bad trick on him and Mark leaned forwards to see better, but even before he had passed the scene and then looked into the rear view mirror he realized that he had indeed seen correctly, that what he had seen actually was reality.
He jammed the break and hastily turned the car, driving back quickly and with squealing tyres he stopped the patrol car beside the scene, hastily left the car, not even spending time to close the door but just left it open and hurried over to the people.
"Benson!" He called out, loudly, but it was already too late and the bullet had already hit the young police officer.
End flashback
It had been Novak who had fired off the weapon that had killed his younger colleague, not one of his henchmen, but the man himself and he had laughed at them, had screamed that surely the – 'idiot boy' – wouldn't have died hadn't he been so weak. What a damn bastard! If you got a bullet in your head, then your death had nothing to do with weakness!
He'd visited Annie, Annie Benson, after that, informing her of …
Damn, he'd been there, when Andrew and Annie Benson had married, only two months ago. Andrew had invited him, his boss, and he'd been so happy with the now Mrs. Andrew Benson. But he had to admit that she'd really looked nice in her white wedding dress and the long blond hair, sparkling in the bright July sun.
She had cried with happiness when he'd hugged her, wishing her the best life ever with her new husband, but she hadn't cried when he'd visited her now to tell her that her husband was dead, had been shot by a guy who'd tried to rob the bank – and one of the richest banks in the states no less. Had he managed, then he'd be a billionaire – but he hadn't. He hadn't, and now he had to deal with his wife, as if he had nothing else to do than visiting the wife of a guy that had just shot his colleague.
But well, at least Novak hadn't been able fleeing across the nearby boarder to Illinois, what would have complicated things the moment Novak would have left the state, especially as the border to Indiana was barely a hundred miles away too, within a few hours only Novak could have been out of their grasp.
"Mrs. Novak?" He asked, forcing himself to keep his voice free of the anger and pain he felt – after all, it was not the woman's fault, at least most likely it wasn't, he couldn't completely exclude that, but in most cases the women didn't know about the dealings of their husbands.
He would hold the conversation with Mrs. Novak, and then he would go home, happy to end this day. He would drink a glass of his best whiskey, and then he would go to bed. He would visit Amber tomorrow. He'd call her tonight and wish her a happy birthday, but he wouldn't visit her tonight, he'd do that tomorrow.
Breåk· … ·~†~*~*~*~*~*~†~· … ·Łine
To be continued
Next time in … and sit a while with me …
Writing letters and reading signs – in both cases Hereweald will need more patience than he normally shows …
Added author's note
thank you for reading - and yes, I would appreciate it if you took the time to review this chapter too, thank you …