Dirty Boots

Dirty Boots

The old man trundled in through the back door of the farmhouse and
collapsed deflated into the armchair by the fire beneath the picture of
the autumnal fields. Rusty brown leaves were captured by ink and
trapped forever on their passage to the earth, varnished and framed
cage-like in an eternal moment of hesitation between the passing of
summer and the season of decline. He stared at the painting and
reflected on his fatigue. On the other side of the cottage walls the
trees were shedding their clothing and bracing themselves for the icy
hibernation of the winter months. The fire roared and the crackle of
coals sounded like the rustle of heavy boots on the dried up
wood-splinters of a forest floor. A bird of prey swooped from the
heavens and lifted a field-mouse from the floor with a predatory squeal
and then the valley fell into silence as an ice-cold hand wrapped its
fingers around the earth and brought the first days of winter over the
horizon and into the earth.

'Clean your filthy boots before you trundle your stinking carcass into
my living room Sledge!'

Yelled the rotund behemoth of a woman from the recesses of the kitchen.
Her words echoed along narrow corridors and bounced of the bricks,
landing with a resonant thud on the eardrums of the weary man who sat
by the fire frowning. He lifted his left leg into the air and saw a
clod of mud so thick that his boot was unrecognisable in the tangle of
dirt and muck. The weight of it caused him pain and he dropped it back
onto the hard floor with a grimace of pain.

'I'm not wearing boots as far as I can tell.'

No response from the kitchen except for the clatter of pans and the
barely audible scutter of a fleeing rat. He ignored the noises and
continued to stare at the painting on the wall. When those leaves fall,
he said to himself, when those tired pixels of paint escape the
purgatory of mid-air and hit the earth where they belong, then and only
then will I know peace. And with this thought he fell into a dreamless
sleep. The mud on his invisible feet dried to a solid crust and
powdered into the floor by the blazing fire.

In the kitchen the old woman had given up on her pursuit of the rat and
collapsed deflated onto the wooden stool as the clatter of pans faded
in a stir of echoes around the stone walls. On the stove a simple broth
of onions and milk was going cold next to the staling bread and the
pallid slab of butter. She gazed around the room despondently, her mind
blank and her feelings dulled by the abrasive grind of pointless
routine. Every morning he left the farmhouse with clean boots and
promises and returned with filth and fatigue, but rarely with food.
Over the years he had become more and more disinterested and neglected
the very crops that enabled them to continue eking out their existence
in the dustbowl they called their home.

When they arrived in the valley it represented everything they had ever
dreamt of: freedom, space, solitude, land to cultivate and a simple
home to live in. He claimed to know the seasons. He claimed that the
land spoke to him and told him through a subtle language of changing
moods that it would support them both, that they would wont for nothing
in their heavenly paradise in the mountains. In the beginning they
lived in comfort. They ate well and were never in need of anything. The
land nourished their bellies, their companionship nourished their
hearts, nature nourished their souls and all was well. Then the seasons
began to change, or so her husband had told her.

It began in the spring, two years previous. He was concerned that the
days were passing too quickly and spring was too slow in arriving.
Fearing his ability to sense the moods of the earth, he hastily planted
his crop. A month or so later, spring arrived - in the middle of May -
and he despaired. The crops were stunted with a weakness that even the
summer sun struggled to invigorate. Matters were made worse by the
sudden onset of autumn in the middle of June. When winter arrived in
August all hope was lost. The land became barren and the farmers
starved. Since then the seasons had readjusted, but the weary farmer
never recovered. When the land died, his spirit went with it.

The rat scurried from its hole and darted through the kitchen before
her tired eyes. When I catch that rat, she said to herself, when I
finally bring the pan down upon it with a futile blow, then and only
then will I know peace. Gathering her limbs around her she rose from
the chair and staggered through the corridor to the living room where
her husband was sleeping a dreamless sleep in front of the fire.
Without disturbing his slumber she gathered up the dust from the floor
and returned to the kitchen muttering abuse beneath her whispered
breath. She poured the broth into two bowls, filling one and leaving
the other half empty. With a wooden spoon she mixed the mud into the
second bowl, made the sign of the cross, asked for forgiveness and went
back to the living room to kick her husband into wakefulness and give
him his food. He didn't wake with a start as he normally did. He didn't
move. He wasn't breathing. Behind her the brown paint began to run. She
dropped the bowl of dust and onions on the floor and heard a terrible
shriek rising from the floor. At her feet the rat lay screaming with
the pain of its broken back. She made the sign of the cross, asked for
forgiveness, gathered her meagre possessions, left the farmhouse and
began walking. Unexpectedly, winter suddenly turned to spring.