Simple

            by Milena Schaller

 

       He rose when it was dark and cold and he could no longer feel his toes. He had been awake for hours, in fact he was not sure he had ever fallen asleep, but did not dare to rise before he had heard the gentle stirring of his companion. With a limp caused more by the frost than old age, he started across the tiny room towards the table, but was stopped by a soft rumbling voice emanating from the long bundle of blankets on the floor.

       "Simple, is that you, Simple?"

       Simple stood frozen in the slowly growing blue dawn light, took control of himself and answered, wavering only slightly at the end of his sentence.

       "Yes. Yes, it is." Then Simple slowly turned back to the table to pick up a small wooden spoon and turn it in his hand. It was crudely whittled from a twig, unfinished and still splintery.

       "Simple, I've been thinking." The blankets stirred and the voice paused to give a half-cough that reverberated around the room. "I've been thinking hard. We've got to. I've thought it and thought it, but this time it's right. We've got to go."

       Simple did not listen to the steady growling of the words, but instead painstakingly picked a few shavings off the spoon, opened one of his voluminous pockets, and dropped it in. The spoon made a dull quiet noise as it hit the bottom. He brushed the table clean and finally allowed himself to turn around, knowing what was to come.

       The other man was standing up, dressed by now in coarse and threadbare clothes. He had curly black hair that was matted and straggled down his heavy shoulders, and his eyes were a dull brown, his face dirty but nonetheless memorable. It seemed that his mouth was slightly off center, ready to slip into a frightening leer and perhaps settle there permanently. He was a large man. The thought had never entered his head that he was anything but ruler of his immediate universe. And now the twisted mouth opens, and his booming roar fills the room as Simple grips the table and looks upwards. Simple doesn't question his servitude. He doesn't question at all.

       "It's time to pack up your things," says the voice. "We'll be leaving." He strides outside in his thudding brown boots and disappears into the mossy green woods. Dawn is here now, in yellow-grey rays coming in thin sheets through the trees. A sickly light filters down to the scruffy brown pine needles below and catches, fleetingly, the face of Simple as he peers out the door after his master.

* * * * * * * * *

       They left later than he wanted to, and do not arrive until it is almost too dark to see. He follows the path with his feet and leaves Simple to scamper along behind, tripping noisily over rocks. He drags his sack the last few feet towards the winter hut that now stands collapsing in the midst of a clearing overgrown with weeds. Looking around briefly, he sits down on the chair he left outside last spring, a rickety one made of old oak and bits of twine. It creaks and then falls silent, and he hears far away the sounds of Simple scuffing his feet on the forest floor. He waits until they get nearer, then coughs once, quietly, and leans back against the carved wood as the footsteps speed up and change direction. When Simple comes out of the gloom of the trees, his master is sitting with his sack on the ground, looking at him with no expression on his face. Simple, his arms aching and his small bundle of possessions slipping steadily down out of his grasp, stands as still as he can and looks back at the man sitting in front of him. There is a steady rustling of birds in the forest and the sound of wind through the trees.

       "Inside, inside," says his master, and Simple, his face pulled into a nervous frown, walks over to the shack, ducks inside, and deposits his belongings on the hard dirt floor. There is the table in the corner, the twin of the one in their summer hut. Simple paces towards it and, reaching into his pocket, pulls out the whittled spoon and places it carefully on the edge. He looks around for something to tidy, but as always, there is nothing. The hut is perfectly bare.

       His master comes into the room suddenly and with an air of ownership, so that Simple is compelled to move into the far corner and sit down at once, though his master is still at the door. His mouth has twisted again into his curious grin, and his dull brown eyes are wide as they take in the one stark room. He throws his sack down and, crouching, pulls out the pile of blankets. From years of practice, he makes a few deft movements and tugs them into a rough bed, then raises himself and stretches once before pulling a pine needle out of his hair. Simple, still huddled in his corner, watches him hold the smooth needle in his hand awhile before he tosses it out the door and sits down next to his bed. The familiar iron pot is pulled out, and the lid taken off. Out of it comes the carcass of some animal killed yesterday, a squirrel or perhaps a bird. Now, in the thick calloused hands of his master, it is quickly skinned and butchered, and Simple leaps up and begins to pull together bits of wood from outside to make a fire. Soon, the wooden walls glow red and the pot, balanced on sticks over the flames, bubbles with a soup of meat, salt, and two small knobbly potatoes that Simple dug up from his pockets. The two men watch and wait, each noticing more than ever the gaping holes in the walls where planks have been ripped out by animals and storms. They eat their dinner in silence and then go to their respective beds, the fire nothing but cold charcoal and the iron pot washed and hung outside to dry. Simple, gazing at the wall in the frigid darkness, pulls the shred of a blanket closer around him and waits for his master to stir.

* * * * * * * * *

       He wakes with a sense of excitement, though the hut is still and cold. Through the jagged holes in the walls Simple can see the beginnings of the day. He has slept later than usual; the light is bright, yellow, painful, and he catches glimpses of songbirds foraging in the grass. He does not turn his head, afraid of waking his master, but out of the corner of his eye he watches as the grass outside trembles under little birds' feet. He is so engrossed in the stabbing of beaks and the rustling of wings that he is shocked when his master rises before he does. Simple hurriedly springs up, ashamed not to have been ready. He did not notice his master waking up, and now he has not cleaned anything (there is nothing to clean), he did not greet his master as he rose. He tries to make up for it with a half-crouch of apology, and lowers his head, and stares at the floor. His master stretches and looks out through a hole in the wood. He turns, nods at Simple, and heads out the door. He is going on his morning walk, as Simple well knows. Sometimes he goes alone and other times Simple follows. Simple looks around for something to carry, but there is only the spoon. Gripping its rough wood with his thin hand, he slowly follows his master into the woods.

       Simple, for once, walks side by side on the right of his master rather than staying well behind. The path they are treading is wide and muddy, and Simple, glancing up, is scared for the first time in his life by the close sharp bristles of the trees. The light is bleak and thick, turning the pine needles a suffocating green. He is startled by his fear, and it is for this reason he has scurried forward to match his master's pace. His master does not notice the change in habit. His eyes, fixed slightly to the left, give the appearance that he wishes to be away, to lean suddenly sideways and run away through those dark shades of trees.

       "We'll hunt today," his master says, and fingers the edge of his sleeve. "You'll come with me, and we'll go north. There'll still be game north, this time of year."

       "Yes. Yes, I'll get everything when we get to the hut," says Simple, already unconsciously falling behind his master and looking down at the ground. He follows his master's broad footsteps in the rich soft earth, and when they reach the hut he races eagerly inside. He awkwardly picks up the huge bow and the sharp arrows, then grabs a sack and some provisions before tying all of it together with a piece of rough woven rope. Simple turns around, ready to leave, and finds his master standing in the doorway. He looks at the equipment Simple holds, checking that everything is there with his steady brown eyes. Then, without a further glance, he turns and leaves. Simple has to run to catch up.

       They reach the open fields soon enough, and his master takes up bow and arrow. They sight the first deer, calm, dun brown, and unaware. His master stretches the string back and quickly spreads his hand, releasing the arrow. The thin line of wood cuts through the air. It lands buried in the long neck of the deer, and there is a flailing of delicate hooves and a spray of jewelled blood before the animal collapses to the ground. Simple walks over and, testing to see if the deer is dead, rapidly ties the legs together, leaving a long line of rope hanging off. He grasps this rope and drags the kill behind him as they walk on through the long grass.

       They kill three deer before the day is out. His master has used five of his arrows. Two have broken against bone and sinew, one is lost. The others have survived their flight, and, cleaned of blood, they rest in the sack in Simple's hands. Simple and his master haul the three animals back to where the woods begin and, silent, begin to skin and gut the deer so as to carry them more easily. Simple works deftly and finishes his first deer with almost no effort. The meat and two bones for soup are wrapped neatly in the hide, the antlers cleaned and stowed in the sack. It is therefore a great surprise to him to look up and find his master sitting with a deer half-dissected on his lap. The brown eyes are not looking at the carcass draped in front of him, but off into the fields. His knife works itself slowly, too slowly, through the flesh, and Simple feels a flash of worry before he springs up to get the third deer done. His master, startled by the sudden movement, half-stands up, and his knife slashes violently through the skin and fur. He looks once at the ugly gash he has left in the deer's shoulder, then sits down again quietly, and soon the rest of the deer is bundled up like Simple's first. Simple finishes the third and, hefting it to his shoulder along with the other equipment, waits for his master to rise. His master takes up the two other deer, and they proceed into the forest, leaving behind them the scene of their preparation. The grass is matted with drying blood, and through the darkening night the white bones shine.

* * * * * * * * *

       The three hides have been stretched taut over the holes in the hut, keeping out the raging wind that is buffeting the walls and causing the trees all around to whisper and creak. Twigs snap and are hurled rattling against the wooden sides of the hut, but inside Simple and his master are silent. The remains of their meal of slightly burnt meat lie in neat piles in front of them. The fire is smoking damply with its last flames and the iron pot sits in the corner, holding some of the deer meat. The rest is stored in a watertight sack sewn tightly from another animal's hide, which nonetheless has leaked some droplets of blood onto the floor.

       Simple begins to clear up. He picks up the discarded gristle and meat and goes outside to throw it into the forest for scavengers. The door sticks fast and he must lean his whole weight against the wind to open it. Once he is past the threshold, the door slams shut again, and he notices how wide the clearing is. The trees are far away and unfamiliar, the sky above filled with sharp points of white starlight that shine brightly into his eyes. But still the clearing is dark, and as he throws the meat as far as he can and wipes the grease of melted fat off his fingers he feels that there is no one near him, that when he turns around the hut will be gone and the clearing will continue forever onwards into the dark trees.

       Trembling, he forces his head around until he can see the side of the hut looming out of the darkness. His eyes move slowly over the wood of its walls until he can make out the doorway and the dim firelight flickering from within, and then, his eyes fixed on the gleam of light shining through the planks and his heart pounding thickly in his chest, he quickly gathers himself up and yanks open the door. He is inside within seconds, and the door behind him slams with the wind. The sound echoes. His master sits in the same position as before, the fire outlining his twisting black hair and glittering eyes. Simple sits down, awkwardly, and stares at the drops of blood that have leaked from the sack in the corner. He will clean them up in the morning. His master is getting his bed ready now. Simple picks up his blanket and lies down. He can no longer hear the wind outside, but in his mind he sees dark trees and an empty field that has no end.

* * * * * * * * *

       He has woken too late. That is his first thought. But as he looks around the hut and sees that all is dark and still, he relaxes. He has woken too early, not too late, and the bundle of blankets by his side has not moved at all. He is in time. Today he will rise before his master, he will clean the blood in the corner, and perhaps he will stay behind when his master walks in the forest. After the successful hunt the hut needs cleaning. Simple shivers in the cold and turns over on his side. The floor is hard and the dawn seems far away. He draws the whittled spoon out from his pocket and runs his finger along the splintered sides. He waits in the blackness until the first thread of light comes through the gash in the shoulder of the deerskin stretched over the side of the hut. He turns over again and waits for his master's movement.

       Simple waits a long time, then, disappointed but driven by practicality, draws himself out of his blanket and starts across the room towards the corner. The blood has mingled with the dirt floor and is dry now. He sweeps the bloody dust up with his fingers and shoves it out a hole in the wall, then rearranges the sack, tucking in the corner so it no longer leaks.

       He turns around and looks at the bundle of blankets. The dawn light is stronger now, bright and forceful. It is getting late, and Simple wonders if the wind kept his master awake the night before.

       A ray of yellow sunlight falls across the blankets. Simple, staring blindly ahead of him, drops the crudely whittled spoon. It falls to the floor and lies in the sharp clear light of dawn, splintery and unfinished. The blankets are empty. Simple's master has gone.