Part 1:3

Seth woke to the sound of an axe splitting wood. He was in his room, but he didn’t remember going to bed. He got up slowly and dressed. His stomach grumbled and he couldn’t remember if he had eaten anything at supper time the night before. Slipping on his boots, he headed for the kitchen hoping to find some left-over breakfast.

Disappointed with the lack of any food that could be easily scoffed down, he headed to the back door and out into the yard. Why would father be chopping wood now? They had already gathered enough wood for the coming of winter, and it was only the day before yesterday he had helped his father fill the woodshed with newly split wood.

He headed towards the rear of the barn, preparing himself to greet his father cheerily. As he rounded the corner, he stopped. Where he had expected to see his father was Mr. Olmar, swinging the axe down and splintering a piece of wood clean in two. The events of the past day came surging back. Seth felt a weakness spread to his knees—his father was dead.

Mr. Olmar stopped and turned to Seth. “You feeling any better?”

Seth stood facing the man, the words he wanted escaped him.

“After you'd taken that fall, the doc'n me feared you’d fallen ill,” said the farmer, wiping his sleeve across his brow.

Seth continued to stare.

“Your brother was up early this morn’ and headed off ‘cross the field.”

A feeling of sadness washed over him as he thought about Lucas.

“I’m building the funeral pyre. Doctor says we must burn the body soon less we all fall ill.” He waited for a response. “This wood here needs splittin’ down, and I need you to cart it to the middle o’ the field. Can’t do it all m’self,” he said, taking up the axe.

Seth felt hollow and stared blankly. A few moments ago he had expected to see his father. But instead it was Mr. Olmar standing in the spot where his father had smiled at him only days before.

“The carts over there.” Mr. Olmar pointed to the small handcart. “I can’t be staying much longer; winter’s comin’ and my fields need tendin’.” He turned back to the pile of wood and continued his work.

Seth stood a moment longer, the hollow feeling gnawing deeper. Slowly he turned and headed for the cart. He bent to pick up a piece of wood; surprised by a single tear that splashed on its reddish color. He wiped the back of his hand across his eyes, and silently began to load the cart.

Long into the day they worked. Seth, ignoring the physical exhaustion in his muscles, loaded cart after cart taking it to the field while the old farmer split the wood and then built the funeral pyre.

“I'll get your father onto the pyre then I’ll go make us some supper,” Mr. Olmar said when they had finished.

Seth remained, staring blankly at the empty space where his father’s body would lay.

By the time they had all returned to the house the sun had sunk beneath the horizon, turning the sky from pale blue to the pinks and purples of twilight. An uncomfortable silence had fallen over the three of them as they sat at the kitchen table. Mr. Olmar had put together a modest supper of vegetable stew with a few slices of bread and cheese. Lucas, his head hanging low, eyes red and cheeks stained with tears, ignored the food in front of him, and Seth pushed at the vegetables in his bowl with a spoon, while Mr. Olmar shoveled mouthfuls of the stew into his mouth.

The old farmer burped around a mouthful of bread and put his spoon down. “Well, I guess it’s time,” he said standing and looking at Seth across the table.

Seth looked up and nodded, then rose from the table and followed, with Lucas close behind. The three of them filed into the yard and onto the field to stand before the funeral pyre.

It was a clear night and the two boys were shoulder to shoulder and Mr. Olmar, a few paces away, had a grim look on his face as he stared at the deceased man lying on the stack of wood, his body and clothes soaked in oil.

To Seth, his father looked peaceful, the pain that had contorted his face was gone and now it was just pale. His purplish-blue lips, and the stillness of his chest were the only indications that he was dead.

Mr. Olmar gave a nod signalling it was time to send their father to the halls of his ancestors, and Seth nodded in return.

The old farmer began singing in deep respectful tones, but the words were lost on Seth. In his mind he kept asking himself the same question, “Why?”

Once he had finished the song, Mr. Omlar lit the oil-soaked cloth that had been tightly wrapped around the end of a piece of wood, and tossed it onto the fire. As the flames took hold Seth let out a sob, his knees went weak and he fell to the ground, crying openly. He didn’t care what Mr. Olmar thought, his grief was too great.

With the help of the oil the pyre was ablaze and smoke began to billow up into the night sky. The acrid smell of burning flesh was overwhelming and the farmer led them silently back to the farmhouse.

“You boys had best get some sleep. I’ll be heading off in the morn’,” Mr. Olmar said as they entered the house. “I’ll sleep in the study.”

The next day Seth emerged from his room. He had had little sleep and what sleep he did get was fitful and full of nightmares. Lucas did not look any better. The old farmer was the only one who looked well-rested and had begun slicing some bread as the boys entered the kitchen.

“I’ll be headin’ back to my farm now,” he announced.

Seth and Lucas sat quietly at the kitchen table while the man spoke.

“I’ve a large farmstead up the road you both know and I’d be grateful to have you lads come'n work for me.” He watched them closely, his brow furrowed. “There isn’t much left for you lads here.”

Silence.

“The wife’ll be glad to have the extra company, and since our boys moved on I sure as could do with the help.” He looked from one boy to the next. “Well, I’ll leave it up to you then. I’ll be taking my leave now,” he said and walked to the door, his boots scuffing on the wooden floorboards. He paused, resting his hand on the handle. “The offer stands. If you change yer mind, you know where to find me,” he said, then gently closed the door behind him.

“Should we go?” Lucas asked after Mr. Olmar was gone.

“This is our home,” Seth said quietly.

“So what do we do?”

Seth looked at Lucas, his eyes fierce and determined. “We stay.”