The Littlest Warrior

It was almost time for the evening meal and Henry Timmons and his two oldest children were just about finished plowing his southernmost field. Henry was a short, barrel-chested man, with a jolly inviting smile. His oldest boy, Gideon was almost half a head taller than he, and it never ceased to amaze him that after only fifteen short summers he now had to look up at the boy if he wanted any conversation to be eye-to-eye. Henry had allowed the field to lie dormant for the last season to give the earth the chance to rejuvenate itself, and his plan was to plant a crop of wheat. If the weather held this year as it had last, the crop would be good and that meant money in his purse, and food to feed his growing family for the winter.

A genial, hospitable man, Henry was the father of three, two strapping boys, Gideon and Marcus and an adorable seven-year-old daughter Greta. His wife of sixteen years, Miriam, was currently pregnant with their fourth child, and as difficult as it would be to feed another mouth, both Henry and Miriam were looking forward to the new baby. Miriam was the third of six children, and Henry the second of seven. Used to life in large families they’d promised each other when they wed that they would have as many children as they could feed, and joked that they would go as far as to borrow if it meant that they could have more.

Henry Timmons loved his wife, and she loved him; and in their time together many faces had passed their door, faces that should have turned his head, or hers; faces that faded into the background whenever they looked at each other. The Timmons’ loved each other dearly, their life together, their children…it was all they needed. Their day had started like any other, but fate was cruel, and determined to play a hand that would change their lives forever.

As the sun began its slow decent in the western sky Henry reined the huge plow horse to a halt and wiped his brow with his sleeve. He could see his youngest running towards him through the freshly turned field.

“Papa! Papa!” she called, “Mama says to tell you ‘that is enough for one day’, and if you do not hurry home, supper will be cold and there will be no dessert for you this eve.” The little one laughed giddily. Henry scooped his daughter up into his arms and placed a sweaty kiss on her cheek.

“You run tell your Ma that if there is no hasty puddin’ for me tonight she’ll be the next one o’re my knee,” he laughed. Setting her back on the ground he turned to his boys saying, “Hurry up now lads, let’s get this done or your Ma will have all of us beggin’ for our after supper treat.” As they turned back to their work the little girl said, “But Papa, Mama says she needs Marcus to draw the water for her and Gideon forgot to fill the wood bin before he left this morn,” she said sticking her tongue out at her older brother.

“Very well then,” he sighed, “you boys go along home and help your Ma, I’ll finish up ‘ere and be there in a bit.” “Tell your Ma I’ll be there as soon as I bed down ‘Ole Ned ‘ere. Go on now, hurry along, do not keep your Ma waitin’.”

As the three children ran off home, Henry took another look at the ever-darkening sky. There would be rain this night; he could tell that a storm was approaching. Detaching Ned from the plow the tired farmer led the old horse from the field and towards the barn that sat behind their meager dwelling. As they approached the back of the barn Ned began to snort and fidget, pulling slightly against his harness. The closer they got to the barn the more agitated the horse became.

“’Ere now,” Henry said wonderingly, “what’s got into you? Come on now Ned, your antics are keepin’ both of us from our feed.” Pulling more intently on the horse’s lead he drew the animal into the back door of the barn just as the thunder boomed and the rain began to fall. As he led the ever more agitated horse into his stall he noticed that Gideon had emptied the woodbin and sighed in relief that he would not have to haul wood to the house in his tired condition. As he closed the gate on the stall the old horse seemed to become even more grieved, pawing at the earth and prancing in his stall.

“What’s got into you tonight Ned? Don’t tell me you’re letting a little old thunderstorm rile ya?”

The lightning flashed just as he was turning to fetch Ned’s feedbag, and in the sharp bright light he was startled to a halt.

“Oh my,” he said frightened, clutching at his chest,”who be you Sir? And what are ye doin’ in my barn? Ya ‘bout scared the begeebers out of me comin’ up on me like that.”

Receiving no answer he asked again tentatively…“Are ya lost Sir? You be welcome to come in and sit a spell whilst ya get your bearings if ya are. The wife was just about to put supper on the table…have ya eaten?”

He was about to pose another question when the thing reached out and clasped a hand over Henry’s mouth. The pain was instantaneous and overpowering. The right hand was followed by the left, which grabbed him about the throat, immediately quelling any chance of a scream. Henry’s eyes stretched wide in terror as he felt his lips shrink back against his gums, his skin feeling like some dried shriveled prune. His throat constricted to a point where not so much as a single breath could pass the back of his tongue. Flailing about and gasping for air Henry looked all the more like a landed fish, eyes bulging from their sockets as he struggled, rolling to-and-fro on the floor of the barn.

At that moment Miriam Timmons had an unexpected and extremely strong contraction, so strong in fact that she almost dropped the bowl she was carrying to the table. Grasping at her side with one hand, she moved to steady herself against the table.

“Are you all right Ma?” Gideon asked, concern for his mother quickly covering his face as he caught the bowl before the contents spilled on the floor.

“I’m fine boy…don’t you worry ‘bout me, just finish settin’ the table for me,” she said with a weak smile.

“I wonder what could be keepin’ your Da? Tis not like him to be late to supper.”

“Do you want me to go fetch ‘em Ma? Marcus said as he started for the door.

“No!” she said a little too sternly, then calmed and repeated herself. “No son…you stay here an ‘elp your poor old Ma,” she said sweetly. For some reason, a hunch if you will, she felt she should keep the children inside…keep them close. Miriam believed in her hunches, they’d never steered her wrong, and this one was telling her to stay inside in the safety of her home.

“Just set me a chair over there by the door so I can sit, and wait for your Da. I tell ya now, she said smiling I’m gonna give ‘em a right good piece of my mind for lettin’ my roast get tough.” Then she sat…sat by the open door and waited.

Ned whinnied loudly and reared up on his hind legs, throwing himself against the gate of his stall over and over again, as the noise of the storm covered the sounds of his distress. Finally the old gate gave way, and the horse raced from the barn into the thundering downpour as his master’s body lay twitching on the ground. The thing with the gold-flecked eyes peered down at the dying man with a satisfied smirk on his face, then grabbed the man by his pant leg and dragged him from the barn through the rear door and into the ever-darkening night, he would finish this in the trees…away from the possibility of prying eyes.

Inside the house Miriam had just placed the hasty pudding on the table and spoke to the children as she looked out the window towards the barn.

“We will wait a bit more for your Da,” she said as she slowly caressed her belly, apprehension beginning to overtake her. “Not one for missin’ a meal, he is,” she declared worriedly, but something, she knew not what…something told her that she’d just spoken an untruth. Furtively glancing at her children’s sweet faces she opened the kitchen door again and looked out into the darkness that now engulfed the barn. “He’ll be along soon,” she said trying to convince herself…”I know ‘em…he’ll be along soon.