A rural tragedy (standard:drama, 1039 words)
Author: Art by Assiliym	Added: Oct 30 2006	Views/Reads: 3203/2077	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
A sad story for a young kind who lost his grandfather.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story


“That old hag Maria told him you were not his real father,” spoke the
woman, watching his face closely. 

“Sooner or later he would find out,” he replied coldly and frowned. 

The sad procession finally stopped. The gravedigger was waiting, rubbing
his freezing fingers. The grave was ready. The crow shook his wet body 
and gave another croak. 

“... and let the light of God illuminate your way. Rest in peace. Amen,”
said the old woman and crossed herself. 

“Amen,” echoed back the other old women and crossed themselves piously. 

The boy threw the bunch of flowers into the grave. His eyes were wet
with tears. His beloved grandfather who had been bringing him sweets 
and who had allowed him to ride on his back was dead. The boy did not 
understand what it meant to die. His mother had explained to him that 
this grandpa would go to a place called “heaven” where it was always 
spring, angels as white as snow wandered above, birds sang in the 
trees, there was no winter and there were no evil men in black limos. 

The boy touched his neck where the wound had not yet healed. “The bad
guys will go to another place called “hell” and hairy devils will boil 
them in huge cauldrons full of hot tar and will prick them with their 
tridents. The bad guys will moan in pain...” The child smiled. He would 
have liked to be the big bad devil... 

The gravedigger threw a few handfuls of earth on the coffin and said: 

“That's it, I'll come back to bury him tomorrow.” 

One of the old women tried to protest but he snapped at her: “He's dead,
right? He's not going anywhere. If I don't get home quickly, someone 
will have to dig me a grave.” 

He dropped the shovel and ran to his house. 

No one attempted to stop him. The rain was trickling into the grave. 

“Farewell, Dad.” The young woman wiped her tears. 

The dead man was not her real father but he had raised her as if she had
been his own daughter. She had been only 45 days old when her real 
father was run over by German tanks in Berlin. The woman only knew him 
from the photographs. A modest-looking man, his hair cut short, wide 
forehead, gentle brown eyes. Just like her eyes. 

The woman threw a last rose into the grave and turned round, sobbing.
She felt naked, lonely and abandoned... 

The boy saw his mother crying, walked up to her and took her hand. 

“Don't cry, Mom!” 

“Let's go home, honey.” She wiped her tears. “You'll catch a cold.” 

She put an arm around the child and walked through the mud behind the
grim tall man... 

© Kolio Karpela Âñè÷êè ïðàâà çàïàçåíè. Ïóáëèêóâàíî: 2003-05-12 


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