There,
in the tavern, they might find the wanderer. He, who has spent the
whole day and the day before that and the one before that wandering,
looking for employment or simply looking at the world. If he's of the
first sort: a seeker of work, he might retrace his steps when the
light dims, turn back, homewards to whatever is there waiting for
him; whereas if he's seeking the world: all it contains and all that
he might see in it, it's more likely he will find a place to stay: an
inn which might give him a bed and a meal – although one of these
will suffice if the host can't offer both and be gratefully accepted
– or a ditch, a place by the side of road or further off the beaten
track where what's left of his dry bread and cheese can be eaten and
his feet rested. He would rather have the kindness (and sometime
company) of strangers, but on the road strangers or kindnesses don't
often conjoin. He takes what he can when he can get it, which
sometimes means bedding down in unsafe and unfamiliar places with his
knapsack as a pillow. One night, that is all, and then that sort of
wanderer passes through – he moves on.
There,
in the domestic home, which the householder is returning to, fires
are beginning to be lit, and preparations made for supper. There's a
fire to cook by, to warm by, to see and read by; its first lighting
says daylight is departing, and then later on, much later on, shows
daylight has gone. The day is over, night has come. Darkness has
banished light.
But
in present time, the sun has not yet set. It's still drawing the sky
down, like a curtain, and readying itself for an twilight chorus of
'More! More! Bravo!' with the dying of these notes as it fades from
sight. Night and the moon pushing him aside, as dawn will push night.
The
setting sun makes the boy hungry. The boy being idle, sitting on a
hill, sitting in a field, against a tree or in the branches of a
tree. The tree until the sun sets a place for birds and boys.
The
sun dips and dips until the earth seems to be consuming it; his
stomach growls. He spies his father trudging home and runs to meet
him. Both hear the mother call.
They
arrive, laughing and panting.
Inside,
hats and outer garments are discarded. Chairs are scraped back from
the table. Father and son take up their customary seats. The mother
ladles stew onto plates and slices bread. Her men will be fed and fed
well.
The
boy attacks his plate, as does the father. The mother's cheeks are
rosy from the heat of the kitchen; she has served herself less and
eats slowly, ever-watchful, primed to ladle or slice or pour tea.
The
father finishes and retires to his chair by the hearth, where he'll
smoke a pipe and rub and warm his weary feet, and where the son will
sit by his side on the rug, like a devoted dog, and take in the
flickering flames until his eyes are heavy with sleep and he has to
be carried to his cot.
The
mother sets about the kitchen, washing plates with a rag, and
straightens everything up for the morrow. Then she, too, takes her
chair by the glowing fire, and sets about other tasks: patching holes
in clothes or cleaning shoes, and observes her husband and assesses
his mood from his silence or chatter and the way in which he sucks on
his pipe as a child might suck his thumb.
Outside,
where there's only a glimmer of light from a few stars and the moon,
full or crescent in shape, uncovered or covered by cloud, every bird
and beast has gone to his nest or pen. The trees belong to birds now,
as does the dry land to beasts and water to those decreed to live in
water. Even in barns the beasts that work for and alongside man have
settled on their straw beds. Every creature has a proper place to
rest its head.
Night
has come. Its command to sleep is not disobeyed.
Until
dawn pushes night away and the wanderer in the field wakes soaked
with dew.
Picture credit: The Attack, 1834, William Henry Hunt (source: Fine Art America).
This post was written in 2019.
