The man and the leather pouch

It was raining again, but he did not mind. There were very few people this time. He finished
his work just as carefully as any other day and started to walk back home, followed by that annoying
sound that he loved. He tried to separate the coins between the two pockets, but the sound just
doubled. Ching-ching, ching-ching, ching-ching, every two steps. He looked around at the houses he
was passing by, all of them dark and tragic, telling sad tales of glory and honour. He kept on, this time
with his hands in the pockets of the jacket, holding the coins. It was not better, not at all. The coins
felt ice cold, even through the thick gloves. Maybe it was all in his mind, though. He decided to think
about the more trivial things at home. Mrs Anna would be cooking chicken tonight. The boys should
be happy. A smile crept up on his face. It seemed out of place there but held for a while, powered by
the picture of the boys watching the cooked chicken greedily, almost drooling at the prospect of
tasting such good meat, a rare treat. He passed just a few more dimly lit houses and got to the end of
the street to his home. It seemed to be warm and inviting. He realised, as he looked around, that for
the first time, his house was the one which most improved the shaggy look of the street. He did feel
a bit proud about that, then instantly got hit by a wave of shame, and his head dropped. His eyes
focused on the puddles, and his feet easily followed the very well-known route to his little wood
porch.
He stepped through the front door and was greeted by his two favourite voices. “Father!”
they shouted and rushed to his side. “Can you smell the chicken?” He could, and it made his mouth
water. Ching-ching, he went to the kitchen. Mrs Anna smiled at him as he walked in. “Everything is
set, you just need to serve the little rascals.” The two boys went to sit at the table, trying to look
innocent. “I hope they were not too much trouble.” “Not at all. And how was your day?” she asked
casually. “It was good... very busy these days.” They both sat in silence for a moment, not looking at
each other. He then took the coins from his right pocket, chose a few and gave them to her. “Here,
thank you so much, I hope you have a lovely Christmas.” “Thanks, you too.” She said, smiling again.
Mrs Anna took her coat, kissed each of the squirming boys on their heads, and then left.
It felt a bit colder now, so he got another two logs and put them into the fire. As he took a
step towards the table, he was reminded: ching-ching. He stopped, went to the cupboard, took all of
the coins and left them there inside a small leather pouch. The cupboard was full of similar little
bags, all appearing quite full. He dared a proud smile at them, then instantly regretted it. Still, as he
came out carrying two full plates of wonderfully aromatic chicken, he was acting cheerful. The boys

would not be bothered by the weight on their shoulders. They would have a great Christmas and
maybe, just maybe, they would forget about her and their grief, at least for a few hours.
They ate and joked, enjoying the mighty fine food. They all had a sip of mead, and he
listened to their stories of adventures on the hills, running, jumping and fighting. He winced a bit at
this but kept his smile, and they never noticed. Such play had been a favourite of his as well long ago
when he was a child, and he could still remember how fun it had been.
After dinner, both boys made their traditional yearly promise to sit up and wait for Father
Christmas, then fell fast asleep shortly thereafter. He carried each to his bed, mesmerised by the
smiles they wore on their faces. He sat on one of the beds and listened to the gentle rapping of the
rain on the window and the slow breaths of life his sons took.
He then remembered his important work, went back downstairs and lifted three very specific
floorboards to reveal a big linen sack full of gifts. He knew they would remember this as the year
Santa brought them his whole bag of gifts, and smiled. He kept the feeling this time while carefully
placing his treasure under the fir tree.
That was when he heard noise outside. Many heavy footsteps walked slowly, dragging their
feet in the heavy rain. The thunder started again. A slow dread crept up his spine and chilled him. He
went to the window, pulled away the curtains and saw the soldiers passing by his house. Most of
them were wounded, many carrying others who had partly lost the use of their legs. Others would
just drag carts full of halberds, swords and other rusted weapons. He looked away to the darkness of
his living room. There was a knock on the door.
He wanted to stay rooted to the spot, forget about it, not answer, and, as he was thinking
about that, his feet took him to the door. He opened it reluctantly. A soldier stood there. The
uniformed man seemed to have a pretty high rank, but looked just as soaked and melancholic as any
of the others. The rain was falling hard with the fury of needless loss. Behind the soldier, he could see
the rest of the regiment continuing the march in a slow and steady procession that reminded him of
a funeral.
The soldier who stood in front of him slowly took out a small leather pouch and threw it
towards him. He caught it and heard a familiar ching-ching of coins. It would be another long night,
he thought as he felt the weight of the bag. The soldier then completed the transaction by muttering
the words “Your services are needed, gravedigger.”