Destiny Secrets

In the Year of Our Lord, 1638

I don’t know how my mother knows danger is near. “You want some chicken, son?” she asks this morning, rising from her prayers, “Get your boots on.”

She is solemn, not her usual self. She senses something moving cautiously through the yard, looking over her broad shoulder, brushing back her auburn hair.

Near the woods, she holds our chicken down and takes its head tightly in her right hand.

“Get behind me,” she says, and I do.

The chicken squawks, struggling. I sneak a look as she whirls the hen around, wringing the neck. It cracks.

The feathered carcass flops wildly on the ground whileMum’s chestnut eyes scan the hills, her lip tight.

I want to ask what’s troubling her, but I don’t.

Resolutely she lays the head on a stone to chop it off, blood spurting across the grass.

Back inside, she scalds the carcass in boiling water, and I help pull the feathers out.

She doesn’t smile. There is no song in our house today. She busies herself without looking at me.

Something’s wrong.

Dried onion with an aroma of poultry steams in the kettle.

Mum forks the whole chicken onto a platter on the table.

I almost sit down, but her head jerks toward the noise close to the house.

“Hide!” Mum whispers harshly.

I scramble up in the loft while she whisks away my plate.

I watch her calm herself, eyes locked fearfully as the sinister clomping rises on the steps outside our door.

Silently she hammers the table with a clenched fist and seals that memory in my mind forever.

I settle deep in the hay with a view of the room.

He opens the door, clamoring metal against metal of armor, and wrenches his throat above the metal breastplate rim.

I can see him clearly, a vein near his temple throbbing, his earthy odor overtaking the room. He pants.

He takes one step and raises a brow. Slowly he saws a slab of juicy chicken breast with a field knife and slides it between his teeth.

Her eyes dart. The only noise is his chewing.

He steps toward her and blocks my view.

I hear her gasp, then moan.

Mum! Tears cloud my eyes.

He shoves her down on the bed and she faints away.

He grabs the whole chicken and clamors out.

Trembling, I peer through the crack. Soldiers clank loudly, rushing on horses toward those in the square, swinging spiked metal balls.

I cannot stand to look outside.

While the sun shines and the trouble continues, I crouch afraid under the musty straw.

At dusk, it’s quiet. I creep down and peek through the crack watching the ragman remove clothes, roll people over who are swarming with flies and throw rocks at vultures. He high steps

over piles, carefully choosing garments.

I kneel at Mum’s side and see dried blood. She moans while

I stare at droplets of sweat on her face. A single tear slides into her hair. She knows I’m here.

Her icy fingers search for my warm hand, while she whispers a desperate prayer, “Lord, take care of my boy.”

Her grip goes limp, her chest now still. The eyes glaze.

Is that all? I swallow, not daring to make noise.

Slowly, I return her hand and wipe my tears.

I lean close hoping to see her chest rise and fall, hoping her eyes will look at me. No, she doesn’t.

It seems my heart stops. I cannot cry. So afraid.

Panic. Now what? Should I run away?

I put my boots on and crack the door. Go where?

The cold breeze blows in, and I shudder. I have outgrown my coat. I reach to the peg and wrap myself in Mum’s clan shawl.

Her smell is on it.

I think of her snuggling me in her arms. I think of her smiling at me. I have a sour taste in my mouth. I can’t look at her.

I won’t!

Now the smell of smoke is in the air. I see it making a dark cloud over the hill. The king’s men are burning barns.

I’m caged. It’s getting dark outside.

I watch soldiers like hornets, landing here and there, robbing the households. They are drunken, unruly.

They will come here! My heart quickens.

Is this when I should run? Where?

I hold the door ajar and see a hulking figure looming

through the knee-high grass. He lumbers across the meadow, coming close.

I close the door crouching back in fear.

Near the opening, out of sight, I watch the man.

He’s bearded, tall, near our house. Oh no.

Heavy boots tromp up the steps. I hold my breath, every muscle tight with dread.

I don’t want to die.

The stranger shoves the heavy door open. I stay behind it, peeking a stare at him.

He goes to Mum softly, a whimper in his throat.

He hears me breathing and turns.

“Gerrit?”

He sobs, lifting my skinny frame in his arms.

“Don’t ye know ye own Father?” he whispers.

I didn’t.

I’m stiff from fear, but I put my arm around his neck, as he sees the light in my pupils from the fire blazing in our village.

Quickly, he hoists me up.

The ragman shouts. “Halt! You there! Halt in the name of the king! I’ll report you!”

My father turns an angry glare.

The beggar backsteps.

Near the gates, soldiers leave houses with food, tossing hay

in the doors. Another regiment on horseback rattles over the

bridge torching hay scattered through the village.

In the twilight, my father flops me over his shoulder like a

sack of potatoes and runs into the dark, scaling the rock wall

and hedges among the cornstalks. Cows are agitated and moo

in the pale moonlight, until I no longer hear any soldiers.

He crosses through the woods, and sets me down in the

grasses, glancing at the orange glow of fire in the night sky.