The Born and the Made by Robert Spande

Author:Robert Spande
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Indie Author Project

ChApTeR 8

There came a time, some weeks hence, when our parents told us they needed to scope jobs and houses in Hunstable, and other county seats, many miles to the north.

Work at the mill being foreclosed to them, their prospects in Copeland had dwindled to zero. They saw no alternative but to pull up stakes and make a go of it somewhere else.

It came to light, via episodes of espionage on Cot’s part, that the Mill had some stake in our house, and was coldly calling in its marks.

All of this lit a fire under Mom and Dad, after their initial weeks of luxuriant joblessness, as our cabinets emptied, with dwindling means to refill them.

Our parents would be gone on this adventure for a period of some days, possibly four.

The situation necessitated that someone look after Cot and me, Lucius being off on his rehabilitation.

I took a choice opportunity, while Dad was fretting at his workbench in our mouse-smelling basement, to put forward the concept of leaving Cot and myself alone while they were gone, with me nominally in charge.

Dad seemed rather grumpy at this prospect.

Yet, I sensed that our parents were reluctant to turn to people they knew in Copeland for help, almost as if they did not want to divulge their intentions to anyone.

This sentiment manifested in an air of uneasiness that settled on our dinners and chores, where our possible futures were furtively discussed, sorted and weighed. We huddled in our insular bundle and made plans in our blind.

To my surprise, Mom and Dad ultimately conceded to my suggestion, probably because it was the method that least called their actions into scrutiny.

It was clear to Cot, from her eavesdropping, that our parents’ plan was to disappear with us, some future night, leaving the husk of this house as a depreciated memory (as well as leaving debts and obligations to the very institutions that had brought us so low).

This scurrilous intent required planning and preparation, and necessarily, secrecy.

The word, “Burleymen” was heard by Cot, in her surveillance, on more than one occasion, though never in context, only as a floating word, only apprehended because of its presence on some pre-assembled hot list in Cot’s head, as it was in every head in Copeland, and certainly mine.

The morning Mom and Dad left for Hunstable was a Wednesday. Mom tearfully kissed us both and wiped off the damage with her handkerchief. Dad picked Cot bodily up into the sky, causing her to whoop. He caught her just in the nick, settling her to the ground, with a kiss to her forehead.

Dad turned to me.

I will never forget the sense of humility my Dad exuded that day. As if he could not imagine the circumstances that had brought him to this degraded juncture, sneaking away in the pre-dawn hours, leaving his children unprotected, while he and Mom searched for an uncertain future.

Thus it was with a dark solemnity that he transmitted, as though through his grip on my hand, an imperative to PROTECT and to be SAFE.

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