Robert took up the fleece from its peg on the wall, the one from the big old ram, the one used to cover the seat of the sleigh in the wintertime, gently placed it over the horse’s back explaining in soothing tones, “It’s as much ta protect your back as my backside, I’m a lot more bones than the last time we rode up ta see Mary Eliza.”

The last time had been almost four years ago, ostensibly to look over the apple orchard with Mary Eliza’s father, to let them both know he’d be leaving with the Vermont 2nd  Infantry, and now, his satchel bristling with cuttings, he was again making the trip up the hill road on the pretense of checking on her father’s orchard. The old man’s orchard had seen great improvement in the time that Robert had begun to take an interest in Mary Eliza, before he had gone off with his regiment, but as he rounded the bend in the road, nearing the farmhouse of Mary Eliza’s family, Robert saw that the orchard was again going wild, appeared to have been unattended in the time that he was gone.

From the front of the unpainted farmhouse three figures watched Robert’s approach; it was the old man who spoke first, saying simply, “You’re a might late, young man”, and thinking he was referring to the apple scions, Robert replied that he thought they might still take, but that there was a lot of pruning work to be done as well.

The old man spat on the ground, told Robert that all he ever needed from that orchard was cider apples, that it was fine just the way it was.

By now Robert had dismounted, stood beside his horse confronting the sight of Mary Eliza standing with Elija Jones, a young man about his own age, from a farm further up the hill road than Mary Eliza’s, a farm that had always, even well before the war, been run down in all ways, and there stood Elija, grinning awkwardly, balanced on a crude wooden crutch, his left leg gone below the knee, and, though it ended below the elbow, his right arm around Mary Eliza.

As if to explain, Mary Eliza said, “Elija needs me.”

“But, I thought…” and Robert trailed off, for he hadn’t ever voiced his intentions and now his eyes slid over the ragged orchard and the scrawny horse in the paddock by the barn and he had to wonder what it was he had thought.

Robert fetched the grafting knife from his satchel. He used it to strip some pieces of rawhide from the edge of the fleece that blanketed his horse, then cut off a broader piece, one that had a generous amount of soft wool. Then Robert helped Elija to lean against Mary Eliza while he bound the thick piece of fleece to the top of Elija’s crutch.

“That’s much better, much obliged”, Elija finally spoke, but Robert was already back on his horse, already turned around and headed back down the hill road to his own family’s farm, his apple cuttings still bundled in his satchel.



This six sentence story  is a 12-pack, I doubled up. Written for  Unchartered Life under the Radar cue word “fleece”. 

This story follows “Seeing the Elephant”, last week’s Carrot Ranch flash.

20 thoughts on “Scion

  1. Complex story, spite your six(2x) sentence limitation. It’s good to have them what have skills to aim for… (too much of the patois?)… serially, it is a good Six Sentence story and it shows the power of well-choosen, well-arranged words.

    nice work, yo

    Liked by 1 person

    • Oh, sweet Norah. Empathy and compassion? Maybe not; I’m not that nice and Robert, well maybe he was just taking care of a brother in arms, using his common sense in the same way he would take care of his animals, before turning his back on people that he had no respect for as farmers. He got while the getting was good.
      Thanks for coming by.


  2. Nice 12-pack. I’m not sure why, but most post-Civil War stories take place in the South or out west. Have our New England brethren finally decided they need their sore stories told, too? Robert has lost much, but no missing limbs to show for his pain.

    Liked by 2 people

  3. Late… One word packs a punch.
    I might just use that word for my ‘daily’ tomorrow.
    Seems quite often we come up a day late and a dollar short.
    Emotions are a widgets and gears that don’t often work exactly like we want them to.
    And there is nothing that I can find civil about war, especially if it is waged internally.
    A jam packed 6 sentences.

    Liked by 1 person

  4. Pingback: (g) LIGHT; lagging (12.6) | julesgemstonepages

  5. Pingback: Reckoning | ShiftnShake

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s