The Pain of Home

A Fantasy One Shot

A Cottage in a Cornfield by John Constable

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Thank you to

Scoot

for the Flash Fiction Friday prompt - “Write about returning home.”

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Toska trod a well worn path through the farmland that rolled toward his childhood home. He'd left as soon as he could, twelve summers and old enough to sign up with a mercenary band. He scrubbed boots for a year before they gave him a wooden sword to practice with. It had been worth it, a decade later and as many campaigns in far flung lands he had earned more riches than he could possibly have dreamt of as a child and more, he liked to think, than the local baron could imagine too. But a few months of pleasure at the end of his ten year contract, though the Golden Spears wanted him to sign for another ten with promise of high rank and even more riches, had worn thin. A life of drinking and merrymaking was, he regretted to admit, dull. He hadn't said no to the Golden Spears, not yet, first he had to do right by his parents and the town of Lansdale generally. Ten years ago he'd left without much ceremony, even without speaking to a lot of people he didn't want to know, back then. Things had changed, after a decade fighting the length breadth of sea and land he wanted the familiar and the homely, he'd been away too long, too long to be healthy. He feared what had changed, and what hadn't. He suspected – hoped – nothing much had changed but perhaps some of the players had.

The familiar cottages appeared on the horizon, the same style of thatch on their rooves, the same dry stone walls separated the fields, and the same barley grew in them, swishing in the breeze, and likely being used to make the same beer and whisky as before. Not that he'd had much of either before he'd left for good. Well, not quite good, he supposed.

A woman stood in the doorway of one of the cottages, hands on her hips and scowl across her brow. She wore a pinny spotted with flour and grease. A farmer had halted his horse and cart on his track to stare. A boy stared at him from the window of another cottage. Everywhere he looked another pair of eyes greeted him with wonder or hostility. Do I look so different? He became conscious of his cloak, a fine woven tweed with silk lining. His boots were sturdy and thick soled, nothing like a village cobbler could muster up, and he wore an arming sword with a golden spear inlaid in the hilt to remind him of time well spent. Even his shirt had buttons made of polished pearl rather than simple wood.

A thousand times he had faced fierce men, chariots, wardogs, even elephants and worse, and felt courage but now he felt fear, a fear that made him sweat and stink. His sword would do no good here, nor, he suspected, the fine tailoring. Here words carried weight, words and relationships. He nodded politely to the farmer, the wall separating them, and then to the woman. The man tipped his cap but the woman stood firm in her distrust. The boy hid when he knew he'd been seen. Bravely he carried onto Lansdale, the place of his birth.

The streets were much the same, six curving meanders all leading to a central well and grove. Children playing in the shade while the elders sipped water from the well and gossiped. He nodded and smiled and received icy glares in response. He stood at the well and tried to recall which spoke of the Lansdale wheel his home was on. The rose bushes on the corner had grown gnarled in the missing decade but he knew they were one and the same. He trotted up past the gardens of rosemary and garlic and chives and pear trees counting the red stone cottages until he came to the fourth on the right. Naught had changed. The thatch had been replaced, but not recent as it had begun to grey again, the door had grown darker, the planks beginning to shrink, split, and come apart at the seams. The apple tree he'd planted as a boy had grown to be taller than him with budding green apples beginning to bulge for the autumn.

With clammy hands he knocked on the door, a firm triple knock he remembered his grandfather doing. There was shuffle inside and then a latch moving and finally the door swung inward.

'Hello?' a woman said. A girl really. She was at least a head shorter than Toska. She frowned, 'Who are you?'

'Your brother,' he said, with a smile to hide a pang of sadness of missing her growing up.

She squinted, 'Nah, you're having me on.'

An older woman appeared from the shadows, wider and shorter than Toska remembered but still her, still his mum. 'Toska?' she stared agog. 'Is that you under those scars and fine cloak?'

'It's me, mum.'

She grinned and ran to throw her arms around him. When he had left she was still taller than him, now his chin rested on her head. She began to sob, 'I knew you'd come back. I knew it. I told them he'd find his way,' she stepped back, holding his arms, and looked him up and down. 'And you've definitely found your way,' she felt the cloak, the buttons, the hilt of his sword, and then the scar down his left cheek, the stubble on his chin to hide a gouge that never healed right. 'You did it, didn't you? What you always said you wanted to. Signed up,' her words were laced with venom, but only for a moment. 'But you're back, hearty and hale,' she turned to the girl. 'Well, go on, give your brother a hug.'

The girl hesitated, stared at him with a child-like weariness.

'Go on!' their mum waved her to him.

She went and wrapped her arms round his waist. It was short and stiff but it was a start. 'I'm Toska, you won't remember me but I remember when you were but a bairn, Isi.'

'I've heard about you. I suppose you'll want to meet my brother too.'

Toska frowned at that. 'Brother?'

'After you left,' his mum said, as if it explained everything. 'Run back and fetch him, it's nearly dinner time anyway.' Isi ran off to the back.

'She must be the age I was when I left,' Toska said, mindlessly.

'Aye, right left us in the lurch with that one you did. Your father had to work hard to keep the farm going, had to hire help. First year was rough, but by the third we got the hang of it. Now... well, you should go see your father, he's round the back.'

He's round the back, that phrase meant only one thing. Toska's heart sank, how'd that happen? He took himself out the front door and down the lane between the two cottages. He trod to the back and saw the fresh grave stone beside his grandparents and great grandparents. Here lies Toska son of Toska who died in his thirty-seventh year, the stone read. He read it again to make sure. Young for a Toska, thirty-seven, he thought as he swallowed his sorrow. He stood there for a while, staring at the stone, imagining all the things he wanted to say but now couldn't. He gripped the top of the stone but it was real and now he had to say goodbye. He choked on the words and sat down on the grass, mindlessly picking blades out the ground. Once he figured he'd wallowed enough he found his feet, the sun had moved a little but not a full hour but it was time to see the living again.

Toska returned to the front of the cottage, knowing the backdoor would be bolted, to find his mum warming plates for dinner. 'How'd it happen?'

'Some pox got him. Worked too hard instead of resting like he should've, you know how he was. Anyway, that was five years ago,' she focussed on the serving dinner, too delicate to look at her son.

'Is that a real sword?' a little boy asked.

Toska turned to see his younger brother, 'It is.'

'Woah! Can I hold it?'

'No you cannot!' their mother snapped. 'Swords are not for boys.'

'How old are you... err.'

'Adon, and I'm seven.'

'Seven... I didn't hold a sword at seven,' Toska lied, though his mother thought it true. 'I was thirteen before I was given a wooden sword to practice with.'

'Thirteen. That's aaaaaagggeeessssss away,' he moped to the dining table in a familiar manner.

'Afraid so,' Toska forced a laugh to distract from thoughts of his – their dead father. 'Though if you pester mum enough when you're ten she might relent.'

'Ten's ages away too!' he dropped onto the bench and a steaming plate of vegetables and potatoes was set before him.

'Yeah, well, it will be longer if you pester me about it,' their mum spooned out some stew onto his plate. 'Come on, Isi, sit down.'

She did so and received the same meal.

'You sitting or what?'

Toska removed his cloak and hung it on the door, then he found his old spot next to dad's spot at the head of the table. His old chair, which had been his father's and his father's before that, empty.

'That ain't your seat. You're a Toska,' his mum nodded to the old chair, his dad's chair. She held his dinner hostage till he moved.

Toska sat in his father's chair, something he hadn't dared to do as a boy, and felt on edge. He held his arms above the armrests as if they might bite and sat bolt up right, scared his weight would turn the old wood to dust. His mum set his plate and scooped out a large portion of stew for him, the gravy racing round the edge of the plate to the vegetables and potatoes.

'There,' she said with a smile and sat down with her own dinner. There was a silence briefly interrupted by scraping cutlery and muffled chewing.

Adon finished first and sat on his hands, his feet banging against the underside of the bench as he kicked. Isi finished next and gathered Adon's plate underneath hers. Toska finished and his plate was shuffled in with his siblings. Isi rose and took the plates to the sink, before their mum had finished. 'Come on, Adon, let's play tick outside,' she took him by the hand.

'TICK!' he slapped Isi on the arm and darted out the door. Isi chased, catching him outside just as the door slammed. Other children joined soon after hearing the ruckus.

'Why are you here?' his mum asked.

'My contract was up and...' that wasn't right. 'I realised I missed home.'

'Took you ten years?'

'I was always busy on campaign, there's no time to think. Barely time to remember friends who died in the battles, let alone what happened years ago.'

'That so. You didn't even try. You didn't send anything, a trinket, a bit of loot, nothing. Did they teach you your letters?'

'A bit, I wasn't very good so I gave up.'

'Fancy clothing and no letters,' his mum folded her arms under a grimace, 'what good is that. Why are you here?'

'I... wanted to say that I was sorry I left how I did and I want to make it up to you.'

'How? With fancy cloaks and gold swords?'

'I have plenty, can go on another ten year campaign and be as rich as a king after.'

'If you live.'

'If I live. You won't have to worry about the farm, or winters, or anything.'

'But I like worrying about the farmland, the winters, and whether Adon has thick enough jumper. Keeps me busy, keeps them busy too,' she gestured outside to Isi and Adon.

Home was different, yet the same. Toska sat at dinner being chastised by his mother, but this time he was in his father's chair. The barley grew, the children played, even the stew tasted the same, and yet it didn't matter what he said, he no longer fit. 'What do you want?'

'I want my son back!' she slammed the table with both hands. 'Ten years, Toska! Ten. Years. We all thought you were dead!' she covered her face with her hands and sobbed, great racking sobs that shook her shoulders.

Toska rose and wrapped his arms round his mother, awkwardly half-crouching down over her. 'I'm sorry,' he said. 'Sorry I left. Sorry I didn't see dad. Sorry.'

She sniffed, 'Yeah, well, if you had been here you'd've probably died of the pox like he did. Took a bunch of the men 'cause they had to work the fields, get them ready for planting. Ugh, it was a wicked year that.' She smiled up at him, eyes red and puffy, 'I'm just happy you're home.'

'As am I,' he said, choking back tears. He hugged her tighter, 'As am I.'

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Thanks for reading.