The Scribbler by Iain Maitland (life changing books txt) 📕

And now he could not hear her screaming.

She ran silently. And not in a straight line.

Left to right. Running for her life.

He stopped for a moment, listening now, the gun at his side, struggling for breath. He could not hear her footsteps crunching and crackling as he might expect on dry land, nor squelching in the muddier patches.

Wondered suddenly, whether she might have taken cover.

Dropped down. Hidden somewhere between the trees.

Lying low. Waiting for him to walk slowly by. Then up and away again in the opposite direction.

He sat on his haunches, listening for the slightest noise. He could hear voices, off in the distance, his brother maybe and someone else, a man, somebody who had come to the farm that morning.

Unexpectedly, for something or other. Two men talking, maybe one looking for work. Helping with the trees.

He rose to his feet. Walked steadily, step by step, towards the farmhouse.

Deliberately making a noise, much louder than he needed to be.

Then stopped again suddenly, unexpectedly, turning around quickly, looking back into the silent woods.

A noise. A movement now. Two children, a handsome boy, that pretty girl, rising from a dip in the ground as if by magic. Turning to look at him, horror on their faces. The boy, a touch faster, wriggling to get away as the slow brother’s hand reached for his arm. The girl, too timid, wincing in pain and fright as the slow brother grabbed her arm instead.

She went to scream again. The slow brother clamped his hand over her mouth, dropping his gun as he put his other hand to the back of her head so she could not pull away.

The boy stopped, looked back, too scared to run, too frightened to help his sister. He stared at the slow brother’s damaged face and then at his sister and went to speak. But no words came out. The slow brother spoke instead.

“Hello,” he said and then stopped, searching for words, suddenly realising that for all his dreams and imaginings and thoughts of super-heroes saving children, he had not spoken to a little boy and a little girl for years.

He could not remember when. If at all. So many years ago. He felt shy, unsure what to say.

“What is your name, little boy?” he asked.

There was silence.

“What is your name, little boy?” he asked again, louder this time, wondering if the boy had heard him clearly.

Again, the boy did not speak.

The girl, sensing the slow brother’s hands were loosening, started wriggling and pulling.

“You’re hurting my sister,” the boy shouted suddenly, “You’re hurting her. Get off!”

The boy dashed forward and pushed at the slow brother who, off-balance, stumbled backwards, letting go of the girl.

And the boy and girl were off and running towards the farmhouse.

The slow brother shouted after them. “Stop, little children, stop. Come back!”

He picked up his gun and, worried that he had frightened them, ran after them to tell them they had nothing to be scared of. That he was a good man and would do anything for them. That he loved children.

This time, the children ran in a straight line.

Towards the farmhouse.

Both of them screaming, both of them terrified.

As the slow brother broke through the trees and down along the path and on to the driveway, he saw his brother and the man with the bobble hat standing there. He slipped the gun into his jacket pocket as he approached them.

The two children ran straight into the man’s arms, now squealing and babbling over each other, as he crouched down and hugged them, telling him their story of fear and terror.

The slow brother stopped and looked at the smart brother, who glared at him and shook his head, say nothing, and then spoke to the man with the hat and his children.

“I’m so sorry, Adam, my brother was up at the fields, shooting vermin. He must have scared your children, with the gunshots. He wouldn’t have realised. He’s not … you know … we don’t have any children.”

The man with the bobble hat looked up from comforting his two children, their heads down tucked into either side of his shoulders.

“No harm done,” he said, getting to his feet and holding his children’s hands. The children looked at the slow brother, almost reproachfully, the girl still sobbing slightly to herself.

“I shouldn’t have let them run about … I forget this is a working farm. You’ve work to do … I’m sorry,” he added, turning to the slow brother. “My fault, I hope they didn’t bother you too much.”

Bewildered, the slow brother smiled back uncertainly. “I was shooting a rabbit for supper.”

The man with the hat pulled a slightly disgusted face, but then corrected himself as he spoke again. “I was telling Zoe and Luke that we were cutting Christmas trees … and I promised we’d have one of them for ourselves … I, we just came over so I could show them the trees and, I don’t know, pick one. Zoe, Luke, show the nice men what you’ve got.”

Slowly, shyly, the two children reached into the pockets.

The little girl pulled out a red ribbon, which she held up to the slow brother.

The little boy took out a green ribbon, but hung back, not wanting to hold it outwards.

The smart brother spoke, remembering how polite his father could be in company, “Well, come on then, Adam, Luke, Zoe … let’s go and pick you a Christmas tree. We’ll find you a nice one and you can put your ribbons round the branches and your father can chop it down himself on Monday.”

They smiled at each other, the smart brother, the man with the hat and the two children, and then turned and went towards the trees. Excited now, the children, with the thought of their own tree to choose. And Christmas too. Not so very far away.

The slow brother followed. A surge of something, he wasn’t sure what, he could not articulate it, inside of him. But he knew he did not