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| Subject: A Night in the Stable | |
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Author: Wilopent (awarded story) |
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Date Posted: 17:08:54 01/17/08 Thu A Night in the Stable He was wondering today what good it was having a name like Walter Rasmussen, as he shoveled out another load of goat manure from the pen. If his father were still alive he’d tell him it’s a damn waste of a good name. Night was coming on quick this autumn afternoon and the cows were still in the pasture. There was too much to do before he could chow down dinner and wash off the stink that was clinging to his clothes. Five years and he was still there. Some summer job this turned out to be! The Rasmussens were a tough bunch, most of the men ranking in the military, even one of his feisty female cousins, a lieutenant in the Navy. But no not this Rasmussen, not Walter the Manure Man, he was on the Peace Train. Four years at N.Y.U., Bachelors in Economics, an apartment on 19thStreet and sweet Jenny sometimes in his bed. She was the smart one, off to L.A. and then to the Rain Forest to study poisonous fern with her ludicrous professor. Good old Jenny tired of waiting for him to grow up. The stench was really getting to him now and he looked at the goats with venom in his eyes. “Dumb animals” he thought, “Can’t you do anything but eat and nag and mess up this pen?” Disgusted more with himself, Walter pitched the last shovel full of manure and slumped to the ground at the edge of the shabby pen. “This isn’t life” he thought, shaking his head. He sat there in the dried hay and finally wept. Goats are odd little creatures, eating paper off tin cans and anything else they can get their hungry tongues on. This was a different day though, one that Walter would remember for years to come. A lick and a nibble came tumbling through his drooping hair and caught his ear. It was Shilo, the small Nubian, whose mother used to give the sweetest milk a man could taste. Seems he’d come to whisper into Walter’s ear. “You know, you’re not half bad, Rasmussen. As a matter of fact, you’re really pretty good. I remember last winter, when the ice froze the lock on the barn and you were all alone yellin’ and screamin’ for help, the herd stuck in the frozen bramble. No one came, but you didn’t leave us. Hardly could see your own hands in that blizzard, but you kept workin’ that lock till it finally opened and let us in. That night you nursed my mother in the soft hay, her hooves almost frozen and kept her warm with your blanket till the morning came with help.” Walter looked into those wise Nubian eyes. “Am I losing my mind, Shilo? I didn’t hear a word but yet, you spoke to me. Strange little goat! Look at me, talking to Billy goats. What did you say?” “I said if it weren’t for you, we’d all be dead.” The goat trotted away to the corner of the barn and chewed on his cud, looking then turning away to nuzzle his mother. Walter stood there melting slowly. The warm kindness of a goat! The young man carried on his pasture pilgrimage to bring the cows back in and then returned to seek the wisdom of the barn. All was quiet now. Stars were peeking through the ship shod roof of the barn and the deep breathing of the small beasts floated through the still night air. He sat and looked up at the speckled darkness knowing now a new face would soon adorn him. This Rasmussen was a different sort, the kind who finds his heart amiss when creatures suffer and cannot look away. Some nights, when dreams are fleeting, you will hear the barn door creak. A young man with a new face enters soft, seeking wisdom of the humble beasts and with a whisper they oblige. Wilopent / ©Joanne Cucinello 2007  [ Next Thread | Previous Thread | Next Message | Previous Message ] |