Chapter 8

Chapter 8

A Chapter by The Creative Disaster

Chapter VIII

‘It’s a funny thing how people’s actions can change in a blink of an eye,’ thought Patrick, having sat down on the curb adjacent the farmyard with his legs criss-crossed. ‘More like an annoying thing,’ he thought back.  He tried to clear his mind and think of nothing, just nothing, for once, but every time he tried to push away his thoughts, another set worse than the first rushed to take their place.

Presently, he stood up, noting how his muscles now ached from the morning’s escapade, and paced across the road, wishing he had a lantern or even a candle. When he set off from the house, the sun was precariously balanced on the jagged horizon, but now it had long ago disappeared, leaving in its wake a bunch of light, pastel clouds which slowly drained their color from red to a bright yellow to deep azure to night blue. It was as if the clouds had absorbed energy from the sun’s travel and were slowly releasing it now that it was gone till nothing more remained.

He knew that many dangers faced him in the dark alone, so he began to trudge up a hill, using a narrow side path leading up to a farm house in the distance. The air was refreshingly clear and the smell of grapes ripening was pungent in every breath he took. If good fortune smiled upon Patrick tonight, he would find a kind farmer who would let him stay the night till the morning, and maybe even give him some crops to eat. His stomach rumbled as he remembered that in all of the past events, he had forgotten to eat, save for a quick breakfast of oatmeal in the morning.

The eleven-year-old boy kept on scaling the hill, and in no more than ten minutes he was at the entrance of the farmhouse. No lights illuminated its interior, and the house itself was not much bigger than a one room shack. ‘Whoever owns this house must be asleep,’ reasoned Patrick. ‘I’m sure they won’t mind me quietly entering and spending the night here. If they wake up before me, I’ll be happy to explain. I have nothing to be afraid of.’

He tried to repeat the last sentence in his head, but he knew deep down that he was afraid, afraid of stepping into the unknown, afraid of being thrust into a new environment, afraid of never stepping out from there again. Slowly but inexorably, Patrick eased open the door, wincing every time it creaked and hoping whoever or whatever was inside wouldn’t wake up. When the door was half open, he slipped in, letting the moonlight shine and reveal the inhabitants of the house.

It was empty.

Patrick breathed a sigh of relief, but whether for better or worse he couldn’t say. On one hand, he could spend the night without any disturbance or fear, but on the other hand he had lost any chance of outside help, including getting breakfast for tomorrow.

Before he fully let his guard down, he surveyed the room. It was even more decrepit than their own house, and he could see a tattered cobweb on one corner. The walls were barren and consisted of little more than cheap pine wood. The floor was unusually cluttered with an array of tools needed for a life of farming. Where the floor was exposed, it was riddled with holes and knots in the wood. On the far side of the room, a counter, also made of wood, but thicker oak wood, was placed with a small cupboard propped under it, and on another side a small bed similar to his own was pushed adjacent the wall. Candles, most of them used, but some still fresh, and a box of sulfur matches were on top of it. The candles were taller than most ones these days and had red markings at regular intervals along with a roman numeral from I till XII, or one to twelve, placed on it from the top till the bottom. Patrick identified them as candle clocks; he remembered studying about them in school at the beginning of the year. They worked by measuring the elapsed time from when they were lit and were seldom used today, even by the poorest families. Even the meanest of villagers used the sundials scattered throughout the city, and most people had their own pocket watch.

Wary for animals hidden inside the cupboard, he opened the cupboard to find several sacks containing dried fruit and potatoes. ‘My breakfast,’ shrugged Patrick. He then lay on the bed, checking it thoroughly for bed bugs. Oddly, he found none, so he lay on top of it and tried to sleep. After an hour of tossing and turning in the bed, his conscience came to a rest, though he entered an restless slumber.


© 2013 The Creative Disaster

Author's Note

The Creative Disaster
Long time since I've been here, but I'm out with 3 new chapters. Be sure to see and comment on them!

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Added on August 14, 2013
Last Updated on August 14, 2013
Tags: Patrick, escape, farmer, kidnap, thriller, adventure


The Creative Disaster
The Creative Disaster

Hi! My name is George and I'm a high schooler with a love of writing, but then again pretty much everyone here has that love so I guess I better tell you something you don't know. What you probably do.. more..