Boys Grave

[Bruin Fisher]

Boys Grave

by Bruin Fisher

Utha worked steadily through the middle part of the day and by mid-afternoon he had two dozen big trout in his keep net. In other circumstances he would have been enjoying himself, ankle-deep in the ice-cold melt-water and with the hot sun beating down on his tanned back and shoulders as he worked to outwit the fish. But today was different. He worked mechanically, his limbs leaden, his mind elsewhere. He was a skilled angler and steadily increased his catch, but the usual joy of the chase was missing, as was his usual companion.

He and Ioan had been friends all their lives. It wasn't inevitable, but they were the only boys of their age who lived in the manor enclosure and so they were thrown together, and being gregarious and good-natured, both had found in the other a friend. As infants, they had played together in the dirt, and they had learned to walk together, learned to talk together, and what schooling they received they received together, by dint of the blunt refusal of Ioan to be separated from Utha for the duration of his lessons. When they reached the age of twelve, Ioan was expected to accompany his father managing the estate, while Utha was assigned tasks around the farm, but they still found plenty of time to be together and exchange notes on their experiences.

But Ioan was Ioan ap Gwlym and heir to the great estate, firstborn son of the lord, while Utha was just Utha, son of Flagga the cook, and who knows who his father might have been? The cook had been for a time employed as wet nurse for the little lordling, since his own mother had died giving birth to him, and he retained affection for her. So the boys' friendship was tolerated. Perhaps Ioan's father was grateful that his son need not be lonely during his long absences on business or military matters, or perhaps he recognised the bond that existed, unspoken, unnamed, between the two boys.

Now the boys were fifteen years old, and deemed to be adults and entitled to join the revelry that accompanied the solstice celebration at midsummer. By tradition the lord held a banquet in the great hall and all his tenants and servants were invited. Both Utha and Ioan took their places, Ioan by the side of his father and Utha below the salt, at the far end of the long table. It was the first time either had been allowed to attend the twice-yearly feast, and the first time Utha had tasted the sweet mead that was made available in quantity. Mutton was served on great wooden platters, and once the platters were empty they were replaced with more, until the stomachs of the guests filled and bulged and everyone felt kindly towards everyone else. The great lord, dressed to impress in his furs and gold chains, left his seat at the head of the table and, accompanied by his son, worked his way down the table exchanging a few condescending words with each of his guests as he went.

It might have been the unfamiliar sensation of a full stomach, or it might have been the flagons of mead with which he had washed the mutton down, but Utha's head was spinning a little, and he found he was not quite in control of his movements. Nevertheless he was delighted to see his friend approach in the wake of his father. And while the lord spoke to the farrier who was sitting across the table, Utha grabbed hold of Ioan's forearm and pulled him close. He stood, but the other occupants of the bench remained sitting so he was not able to straighten up, and lost his balance, ending up clutching at Ioan with both arms. Undaunted, he spoke to his friend, spoke in a way he had never spoken before. It was his intention to whisper a few words into Ioan's ear, but his voice was being rebellious and his few words were clearly audible above the general cacophony, at least to those nearby. Most were not paying attention, but the lord, Ioan's father, turned away from his conversation for a moment in time to see Utha with his arms wrapped around Ioan, and to hear the words, words that should never have been said, would never have been said if Utha had not drunk so much mead, or if he had been used to its effects.

The lord said nothing, turned back to his conversation, but for a minute or two, the clenching and unclenching of his fists indicated that he was struggling to bring his temper under control. Ioan extricated himself from Utha's clutch, red with embarrassment, spoke clearly but quietly through gritted teeth: “You're drunk. Pull yourself together. I'll come and find you tomorrow.” And he followed his father onwards to exchange platitudes with more of the guests.

Utha had been drunk, in the bright sunshine the next day he realised that, but not so drunk that he forgot what he'd said, or forgot that the lord had overheard. As he fished, he assumed that he would lose his life over it. He didn't know how, or when, but he was sure he would be killed. Hope, which his natural youthful optimism had squandered, was now almost at an end. For himself all he could hope for was that he might see Ioan one more time before he died. His great remaining hope was that Ioan would not be made to suffer over it. He could bear anything but that, he thought.

He caught a sound coming from the wood that sloped down to the river. A horse, ridden at a brisk trot. Ioan, come to find him? He turned in the water in time to see the rider emerge from the trees, but this was no slight youth but a big, thick-set man of advanced years, well over thirty, Utha thought. He waded out of the water and stood ready to meet the visitor. The man, in expensive black leather jerkin, swung himself down from the horse and Utha recognised the lord's steward. No words were exchanged – Utha knew better than to speak before he was spoken to, and the steward chose not to speak. He strode straight up to the boy and without breaking his stride drew a knife from a scabbard at his waist and plunged it deep into Utha's chest, twisting it viciously before withdrawing it and then dunking it in the water to wash it clean. He stood for a moment above the crumpled body of the boy, made the sign of the cross against his chest and returned to his horse.

The value of life, unless you were a nobleman, was not high in those times, and the death of one bastard farm hand did not arouse much comment. But Utha was mourned. He was mourned by his mother in public, and by Ioan in private. It was Ioan who buried the body, right there beside the river. As far as he knew nobody saw him do it, but the place became known as Boy's Grave. He never forgot his childhood friend, but he left no heir and the noble family line died with him. The local people quickly forgot the origin of the odd place name. The grave is no longer visible but you can find where it must have been if you look for Boys Grave on the Ordnance Survey map of the Forest of Dean.

Local historians tell the story behind the name. A thousand years have passed and the story has become altered with time. They tell of a legend about a gypsy boy who camped at the edge of the wood, went to a spring to drink and accidentally fell on his knife and died. But the less fanciful of them like to add that it seems much more likely that the name is derived from Norman French, Bois Greve, meaning Sloping Wood.

? Bruin Fisher July 2009

(Edited to restore space between the paragraphs, which had somehow got lost)

[Rubilacxe]

Bruin, well done! A sad, but all to common tale of unrequited everything...

[DesDownunder]

So sadly beautiful, so beautifully written.

'tis the stuff of myths and legends made.

I'd set this piece as a study for discussion in schools.

Did I say I liked it?

Very well done Bruin.

[Cole Parker]

Interesting that this piece, written with Bruin's always great style and grace and wisdom, should appear about the same time as the piece about boys of Liberian ancestry raping a girl, and the father of the girl throwing her away because of it.

It's the same problem, of course. Older generations clinging to their beliefs, thinking they are right and can and do act accordingly. The Lord of the Manner felt it his right, his duty even, to kill a 15-year-old innocent because he had violated something the Lord felt it his duty to uphold. The Liberian father acter from the same spur.

We'd like to think we're progressing as a society, that we learn from the past, both its successes and failures. Sadly, we don't learn fast enough to save our youth from the scourges of the so called honor of the tribe.

C

[DesDownunder]

Interesting that this piece, written with Bruin's always great style and grace and wisdom, should appear about the same time as the piece about boys of Liberian ancestry raping a girl, and the father of the girl throwing her away because of it.

It's the same problem, of course. Older generations clinging to their beliefs, thinking they are right and can and do act accordingly. The Lord of the Manner felt it his right, his duty even, to kill a 15-year-old innocent because he had violated something the Lord felt it his duty to uphold. The Liberian father acter from the same spur.

We'd like to think we're progressing as a society, that we learn from the past, both its successes and failures. Sadly, we don't learn fast enough to save our youth from the scourges of the so called honor of the tribe.

C

Indeed, it is interesting. I found myself wondering the value of aged conclusions recently in light of the quantity and speed of available knowledge to which we have so much access in this era. While the young seem able to absorb the conditions and variations in life very easily, I reach a conclusion of sorts, that it is the older generations who set the limits for the young who in turn, (most of the time,) rebel against them.

I'm not talking of the wisdom that comes with age, and which wisdom the young do rightly seek to guide their way in discovering themselves and their life, but of the adopted opinions, the irrational thoughts, that masquerade as wisdom,

the rules of the tribe

, so needed in one era for survival, and so needed to be discarded in another era, for freedom to survive and for freedom itself.

It is this ability to abandon the tribal taboos and rules which each generation must learn to do, safely, and with a spirit to enrich life rather than to imprison it in older conclusions, no longer relevant or needed. Sadly it is the older generations which feel threatened by abandoning the 'olde ways' when in fact we oldies should be continuing our own youthful rebellion in search of the freedoms to live fully and completely, peacefully and inquiringly into all the mysteries of living. I think we forget to question.

Yet each era must end for each of us, just as does life itself. It might be considered that our immortality is not in what we have trapped and caught in the thoughts of our minds, but is in ensuring that those who come after after us, have the same freedom to question without thinking

they

need to imprison others with

their

answers.

No matter how much knowledge we can access, if we cannot rationally, dissent, dispute or discuss our thoughts, we are nothing more than zombies, automatons, brainwashed, indoctrinated, and mindlessly enslaved to be used at the expense of our own life experience.

That enslavement has many forms for, as Cole puts it, "the scourges of the so called honor of the tribe," are amidst many other horrors which can entrap us all.

Bruin's story is a light that reveals one such instance of the intolerance of freedom, at the expense of two boy's affection for each other.

Upon reflection and consideration of these points, I think Bruin's story deserves my symbol of appreciation for a job well done in this very human story.

[Cole Parker]

Wise word, Des.

One area that insists on not changing is conservative religion. Society is putting great pressure on religion to do just that. The Catholic church, as one example, is being regaled to grow past its historic ways. Priests' celibacy is being seriously questioned. Strict adherence to birth control is routinely rejected my many practitioners. That sex is only for reproduction is being disregarded. Many of the age-old tenets are being questioned and defied.

Other churches are having dialogs regarding homosexuality. The old pejoratives are being questions and in many places rejected. A new way of thinking is being accepted, the movement seems to be picking up speed.

Islam seems bent on teaching their young that no diversions at all are possible. Is it possible that this very inflexibility is what will sink them? The young can see the problems, one being that the man is all-powerful and the woman only there to serve the man. What a hideous thought, to reduce half the population to a position of inferiority!

Change is inevitable, and as Des points out, needed with each generation for progress to be made.

And Bruin, I greatly apologize that this track has taken us away from plaudits for your wonderful story.

C

[Bruin Fisher]

And Bruin, I greatly apologize that this track has taken us away from plaudits for your wonderful story.

No need to apologize to me - I've followed the discussion with interest - and after all, it's been in the time-honoured tradition at AD of thread hijacking - and long may it continue.

Oh, and I'm very glad you all liked the story - thanks for saying so!

[Bruin Fisher]

Thank you, Des. I am very pleased and honoured (read: I'm nearly wetting myself with excitement) that you have seen fit to award me the coveted Symbol of Appreciation, the Booker Prize of internet fiction, for my new short story. I am deeply conscious of the honour this represents, and of my responsibility to continue the tradition of top quality writing set by previous recipients of this accolade, writers whose feet I am (thankfully) unfit to wash. Thank you thank you thank you. I accept in gratitude and in all humility.

(runs off shouting at the top of his voice: "Hurrah! I got a gong!")

[TracyMN]

Indeed, a very "Bruin Fisher" piece, and a welcome read for a girl who made a pig of herself,

reading all of this author she could get her hands on and thus sat...hungry.

Hello Bruin, and as always, thank you for your effort. I am relatively new to flash, but

appreciate the way it first challenged, and then offered an alternative to the expectation

of a complete picture, with answers to the questions raised within it's borders. Initially, it

felt like there was something impolite in leaving me to decide almost totally for myself

about significance and meaning, which I find amusing now, as there are few other instances

where my own opinion doesn't suit me just fine.

What a fine compliment from Des, richly deserved and understandably cherishable.

Tracy

p.s. a finer group of hijackers surely could not be found, one hardly minds at all...(Cole, that ellipsis is for you)

[Camy]

Bravo, Bruin!

Beautifully wrought, and ever so sad.

[Steven Keiths]

Great story Bruin. It pulled me in from the first sentence. Very skillfully written.