parents had been . . .
He dragged his mind back to his wife, away from the gnashing images of his younger life. It mattered little that Ellen had only managed to produce two healthy sons; the small family graveyard bore testament to the other three she had lost in attempting to perform her duty. He could ask for nothing more.
“Serve the meal, Ellen,” he said, ignoring her obvious worry and moving to his seat at the head of the table.
Isaac soon joined them, and Joseph saw him glance toward his brother’s plate.
“Adam’s late again. I wonder where he eats half of the time.”
Ellen bore the kettle of fragrant squirrel stew to the center of the table and stepped away to catch up the basket of biscuits from a tall wooden shelf. She took her place, then glanced wryly at Isaac. “Likely he does not eat at all.”
Joseph’s hand came down with a rap against the wood of the table. “Then he does not eat. Stop fussing, Ellen.”
He watched her delicate neck bend in submission before bowing his head for silent grace. The moment was broken by the opening of the front door.
Adam entered, looking chilled and disheveled.
“Forgive me, Fater, Mamm , for my lateness.” He moved to take his seat, his eyes sweeping the table.
Joseph lifted a single finger, and Adam gave him a wary look. “You have missed the blessing of the food your mother has worked to prepare. You need not participate in this meal, Adam.”
“But, Joseph,” Ellen spoke up. “The long walk . . . He must be hungry.”
He gave her a quelling glance, and Ellen dropped her head.
Adam rose to his full height. “I find that I am not hungry after all, Mamm . In truth, I do not think I can stomach another morsel.”
Joseph fingered the edge of his pewter messer at this unusually level and challenging response to his command. Something was wrong with Adam. The boy looked surprised himself at his own words. Jospeh felt a surge of fear in the recesses of his mind.
“Why do I think that you speak of more than mere food, my sohn ?” he asked, keeping his voice quiet. The candlelight played on the edge of his knife.
Adam swung an intense gaze in his direction, and Joseph had to force himself to remain calm.
“What do we talk of here, Fater ?” Isaac asked, breaking the tension of the moment.
Joseph lowered his messer and lifted a biscuit. He broke off a piece and crumbled it between his fingers. “Nothing to trouble you, Isaac. I’m sure Adam is simply tired.” He glanced back to the golden eyes of his son and saw the confusion there, the return of the boy’s usual vulnerability. He felt a surge of relief in his belly and cursed the weakness within him that feared his own son and the truth.
“ Ya, Fater . I am tired, ’tis all. Please forgive me. May I go to bed?”
Joseph gave a brief wave of dismissal but did not begin to eat again until Adam’s footsteps had faded up the oaken staircase. It was clear that the boy had experienced something to produce his unusual flare of restlessness and attempt at noncompliance. He needed to be watched more closely.
Adam looked up at the knock on his door. It was far into night and the candle burned low on his bedside table.
“ Kumme in,” he said, hoping it was not his father. But then, Fater never knocked.
To his surprise, it was Isaac, looking rumpled, with his white shirt untucked, his brown hair tousled, and a raccoon in his arms.
Adam leaned up on one elbow on the bed.
“New pet?”
“He has a bite on his hindquarters. I thought I would keep him awhile until the wound heals.”
Adam nodded. His brother’s love of animals was something that had existed for as long as he could remember. Along with his books, Isaac seemed to lose himself in the comfort of tending smaller creatures.
“Is that why you seek me out at this hour? To show me a raccoon?”
Isaac smiled. “Nee. I saw your light, and it disturbed me.” He reached beneath his shirt and produced two crusty rolls of bread.
He dragged his mind back to his wife, away from the gnashing images of his younger life. It mattered little that Ellen had only managed to produce two healthy sons; the small family graveyard bore testament to the other three she had lost in attempting to perform her duty. He could ask for nothing more.
“Serve the meal, Ellen,” he said, ignoring her obvious worry and moving to his seat at the head of the table.
Isaac soon joined them, and Joseph saw him glance toward his brother’s plate.
“Adam’s late again. I wonder where he eats half of the time.”
Ellen bore the kettle of fragrant squirrel stew to the center of the table and stepped away to catch up the basket of biscuits from a tall wooden shelf. She took her place, then glanced wryly at Isaac. “Likely he does not eat at all.”
Joseph’s hand came down with a rap against the wood of the table. “Then he does not eat. Stop fussing, Ellen.”
He watched her delicate neck bend in submission before bowing his head for silent grace. The moment was broken by the opening of the front door.
Adam entered, looking chilled and disheveled.
“Forgive me, Fater, Mamm , for my lateness.” He moved to take his seat, his eyes sweeping the table.
Joseph lifted a single finger, and Adam gave him a wary look. “You have missed the blessing of the food your mother has worked to prepare. You need not participate in this meal, Adam.”
“But, Joseph,” Ellen spoke up. “The long walk . . . He must be hungry.”
He gave her a quelling glance, and Ellen dropped her head.
Adam rose to his full height. “I find that I am not hungry after all, Mamm . In truth, I do not think I can stomach another morsel.”
Joseph fingered the edge of his pewter messer at this unusually level and challenging response to his command. Something was wrong with Adam. The boy looked surprised himself at his own words. Jospeh felt a surge of fear in the recesses of his mind.
“Why do I think that you speak of more than mere food, my sohn ?” he asked, keeping his voice quiet. The candlelight played on the edge of his knife.
Adam swung an intense gaze in his direction, and Joseph had to force himself to remain calm.
“What do we talk of here, Fater ?” Isaac asked, breaking the tension of the moment.
Joseph lowered his messer and lifted a biscuit. He broke off a piece and crumbled it between his fingers. “Nothing to trouble you, Isaac. I’m sure Adam is simply tired.” He glanced back to the golden eyes of his son and saw the confusion there, the return of the boy’s usual vulnerability. He felt a surge of relief in his belly and cursed the weakness within him that feared his own son and the truth.
“ Ya, Fater . I am tired, ’tis all. Please forgive me. May I go to bed?”
Joseph gave a brief wave of dismissal but did not begin to eat again until Adam’s footsteps had faded up the oaken staircase. It was clear that the boy had experienced something to produce his unusual flare of restlessness and attempt at noncompliance. He needed to be watched more closely.
Adam looked up at the knock on his door. It was far into night and the candle burned low on his bedside table.
“ Kumme in,” he said, hoping it was not his father. But then, Fater never knocked.
To his surprise, it was Isaac, looking rumpled, with his white shirt untucked, his brown hair tousled, and a raccoon in his arms.
Adam leaned up on one elbow on the bed.
“New pet?”
“He has a bite on his hindquarters. I thought I would keep him awhile until the wound heals.”
Adam nodded. His brother’s love of animals was something that had existed for as long as he could remember. Along with his books, Isaac seemed to lose himself in the comfort of tending smaller creatures.
“Is that why you seek me out at this hour? To show me a raccoon?”
Isaac smiled. “Nee. I saw your light, and it disturbed me.” He reached beneath his shirt and produced two crusty rolls of bread.
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