Read Online Herald of the Storm by Richard Ford - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Richard Ford
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good. Markus didn’t seem to pay heed to any chastisement; he just retreated further into himself.
Nobul lifted the lid of the stew pot, and picked up the wooden spoon that sat by the hearth. Then he stopped – the pot was filled to the brim. It looked like Markus had used their entire stock of meat and vegetables for the month.
‘What’s this?’ he demanded. Markus froze by the dinner table, transfixed. ‘When will you think, boy? Our food has to last. If you cook it all in one stew it’ll be bad in a few days.’
His son’s eyes began to well with tears, and Nobul suddenly found himself twisting the wooden spoon in his hands like a damp dishcloth. He must keep his temper, stay ahead, not let the daemons within rise up.
‘Never mind. We’ll just have to make do.’
They sat down to eat in silence, as always. No grace was said, no thanks to the gods. Why bother? It wasn’t them had paid for the food, it wasn’t them had cooked it.
Nobul was ravenous but he took his time, savouring the meat and the taste of the fresh bread. He had to give his son something – he could certainly cook a decent broth. Markus, however, gobbled his stew down faster than Nobul had ever seen him. Steam was coming from his mouth, and his cheeks were reddening with the heat; it was obviously burning as it went down, but the boy seemed heedless of the pain.
‘You in a rush?’ Nobul asked.
Markus looked up. It was a guilty look if ever Nobul had seen one, but his son shook his head nonetheless. He slowed his eating somewhat, but still finished well before Nobul, quickly getting up and taking his trencher and spoon to the bucket that stood in the corner. Nobul watched his son clean his plate, stack it by the windowsill to dry, then turn, anxiously.
‘Am I keeping you?’ Nobul asked.
Markus shook his head, but his leg was twitching, quivering like the hind end of a rutting stallion; it was obvious he wanted to be somewhere, anywhere, else.
‘It’s getting late. Sun’s gone down. You know I don’t like it when you—’
‘I’ll be careful,’ Markus said. ‘And I won’t be out later than last bell.’
Nobul nodded, then bent his head towards the door in a
go on then, get out
gesture.
Markus gave a half smile, and was rushing towards the door when Nobul suddenly reached out to stop him. He had only wanted to tell him to keep a lookout, and not stray too far, but when he grabbed his son’s arm he felt something hard beneath the sleeve.
Whatever he was going to say was forgotten as he pulled Markus towards him, dragging up the sleeve of his cotton shirt and seeing the tiny pouch tied to his forearm. He didn’t speak but pulled the pouch free and wrenched it open. He could already tell what was inside. Four tiny coins sat at the bottom: three coppers and one silver piece. Enough to feed them for a week.
Nobul stood up slowly as he poured the coins into his open hand.
‘Where did you get these?’ Rage was building, and it wasn’t helped by the fact that Markus looked so guilty, like someone caught red-handed. There was no answer, and his anger bubbled up like that thick broth, in the stew pot. Nobul towered over the slight form of his son. ‘Tell me!’ he shouted. ‘Did you steal it? Who did you—’
Then he froze. It wasn’t possible, it couldn’t be, but deep down he already knew it was.
‘Did you get this from under my bed? For what? To give to those urchins you’ve taken up with? What have I told you about that street scum?’
The tear that suddenly ran down Markus’ cheek spoke the confession his lips didn’t dare.
The slap was loud as Nobul’s meaty palm struck his son’s cheek. It was hard enough to knock Markus off his feet and send him sprawling, his gangly limbs flailing. It had been instinctive, a result of the rage, and as Nobul watched his son fall he instantly regretted it.
He took a step forward, reaching out to pick the boy up, his mouth open to speak a word of regret, perhaps even to
Nobul lifted the lid of the stew pot, and picked up the wooden spoon that sat by the hearth. Then he stopped – the pot was filled to the brim. It looked like Markus had used their entire stock of meat and vegetables for the month.
‘What’s this?’ he demanded. Markus froze by the dinner table, transfixed. ‘When will you think, boy? Our food has to last. If you cook it all in one stew it’ll be bad in a few days.’
His son’s eyes began to well with tears, and Nobul suddenly found himself twisting the wooden spoon in his hands like a damp dishcloth. He must keep his temper, stay ahead, not let the daemons within rise up.
‘Never mind. We’ll just have to make do.’
They sat down to eat in silence, as always. No grace was said, no thanks to the gods. Why bother? It wasn’t them had paid for the food, it wasn’t them had cooked it.
Nobul was ravenous but he took his time, savouring the meat and the taste of the fresh bread. He had to give his son something – he could certainly cook a decent broth. Markus, however, gobbled his stew down faster than Nobul had ever seen him. Steam was coming from his mouth, and his cheeks were reddening with the heat; it was obviously burning as it went down, but the boy seemed heedless of the pain.
‘You in a rush?’ Nobul asked.
Markus looked up. It was a guilty look if ever Nobul had seen one, but his son shook his head nonetheless. He slowed his eating somewhat, but still finished well before Nobul, quickly getting up and taking his trencher and spoon to the bucket that stood in the corner. Nobul watched his son clean his plate, stack it by the windowsill to dry, then turn, anxiously.
‘Am I keeping you?’ Nobul asked.
Markus shook his head, but his leg was twitching, quivering like the hind end of a rutting stallion; it was obvious he wanted to be somewhere, anywhere, else.
‘It’s getting late. Sun’s gone down. You know I don’t like it when you—’
‘I’ll be careful,’ Markus said. ‘And I won’t be out later than last bell.’
Nobul nodded, then bent his head towards the door in a
go on then, get out
gesture.
Markus gave a half smile, and was rushing towards the door when Nobul suddenly reached out to stop him. He had only wanted to tell him to keep a lookout, and not stray too far, but when he grabbed his son’s arm he felt something hard beneath the sleeve.
Whatever he was going to say was forgotten as he pulled Markus towards him, dragging up the sleeve of his cotton shirt and seeing the tiny pouch tied to his forearm. He didn’t speak but pulled the pouch free and wrenched it open. He could already tell what was inside. Four tiny coins sat at the bottom: three coppers and one silver piece. Enough to feed them for a week.
Nobul stood up slowly as he poured the coins into his open hand.
‘Where did you get these?’ Rage was building, and it wasn’t helped by the fact that Markus looked so guilty, like someone caught red-handed. There was no answer, and his anger bubbled up like that thick broth, in the stew pot. Nobul towered over the slight form of his son. ‘Tell me!’ he shouted. ‘Did you steal it? Who did you—’
Then he froze. It wasn’t possible, it couldn’t be, but deep down he already knew it was.
‘Did you get this from under my bed? For what? To give to those urchins you’ve taken up with? What have I told you about that street scum?’
The tear that suddenly ran down Markus’ cheek spoke the confession his lips didn’t dare.
The slap was loud as Nobul’s meaty palm struck his son’s cheek. It was hard enough to knock Markus off his feet and send him sprawling, his gangly limbs flailing. It had been instinctive, a result of the rage, and as Nobul watched his son fall he instantly regretted it.
He took a step forward, reaching out to pick the boy up, his mouth open to speak a word of regret, perhaps even to
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