Day 15

Write a story that includes a blind man, a tent and a train

When I was a child I would lay awake early in the cold frosty mornings listening to the squabbles of the jackdaws on the roof, and hearing the panting of the steam train starting its day in our local station.

Even though the station was a couple of miles across my father’s fields, I could still hear that extraordinary sound clearly through the still air. As I grew up it was usually the signal that it was time to emerge from the cocoon of blankets that were keeping me warm ; push back the covers and dash to the bathroom for a quick wash. It was too cold to do much more than jump into clothes that had been nestled in the bottom of the bed to keep them warm. Dancing on cold feet I made my way to stand on the rug in front of the window.

The frost made floral designs on the inside of the windows of my bedroom, and if I blew gently against the glass, they would slowly melt away into nothingness.

I slipped on my thick socks and slippers, huddled deep into my sweater, and made my way down stairs to the kitchen, where porridge was cooking gently on the range. My parents had already been hard at work in the darkness of the early day, and now returned to the farmhouse for their breakfast. Hot strong tea and thick porridge would keep them going till lunchtime, and I joined them at the well scrubbed kitchen table, which was drawn as close to the black leaded range as possible.

We sat there in silence , enjoying the warmth and knowing that soon each of us would have to brave the icy weather outside. The animals had to be cared for whatever the weather, and it was our job to keep them in good health. Calves had to be hand fed, the piglets needed their sty cleaning out, the milk had to be skimmed for the cream ; all these jobs and more were our daily tasks.

Finishing breakfast, each of us got to our feet and headed to the porch for our coats , scarves, gloves and heavy work boots. We knew that we needed to wrap up warmly – it was brutally cold out there. Water pipes had already frozen solid, needed to be thawed out for drinking water for the beasts, and we were well aware that no amount of foot stamping and hand wrapping was going to keep our extremities warm forever.

Taking one of the dogs who was very reluctant to leave the warmth of the haystack where they had been curled up sleeping, I picked my way gingerly across the farm yard and its icy concrete, to the gate to the first field. It was my job to check that the hedges and fences were still strong enough to keep our cattle in, and to keep out unwanted guests from other farmers lands.

The gate was icy to the touch, and the metal stuck to my hand briefly, as I unlatched it. Swinging it shut behind me, my boots crisped the grass as I moved down into the first field. Along the hedgerow I walked, looking for any indication that the hedge had been broken down by the frosts, and watching the warm breath from my body puff out into the chilly dry air. My dog pranced alongside me, sometimes running ahead, sometimes lagging behind as a particular scent caught her nose.

Suddenly she took off, running hard and barking ; I couldn’t see what it was, but ran , following her, stumbling in my heavy boots, and catching my feet on the frost hardened tussocks of grass.

As the dog and ! drew nearer to the end of the hedgerow, I saw what looked like a bundle of old rags on the ground beneath the overhanging branches. The dog circled warily, no longer barking, and I walked closer. If this was some old rags that someone had dumped, I’d have to clear it up; it could be dangerous to an animal who got tangled up in it. But why was the dog cautious. That bothered me, for some reason. Normally she would have nosed the rags for a scent, then finding none, would lose interest and search elsewhere for something more interesting.

The sound of the distant train whistle came clearly and with that the bundle of rags moved. Both the dog and I stopped in our tracks. Moving closer I put out my hand to move the fabric , and found it grabbed in an icy grip. With a gasp, I jumped backward so hard I slipped over. Hard…., onto very hard ground!. Not funny, especially since the dog danced around me, thinking this was a new game.

Shouting at the dog I got myself gingerly to my feet. By this time the bundle had changed from a bundle of rags into the shape of a person, although still muffled to the eyebrows in fabric. Taking off my now wet and icy gloves, I touched the one part of the shape I could see. It felt very very cold. I knew then that I had to help ; Catching hold of the bundle, I pulled the man, for that is what it was, upright. The rags , or what I thought were rags, now revealed themselves a s a tent, and the inhabitant of the tent slumped against me. Dog growled low, obviously concerned for my safety; it wasn’t often that a man would be that close to me, especially this far from the farm. Growling back at the dog to be quiet, I hoisted the man’s arm over my shoulder, and started walking. As we stumbled awkwardly forward I could tell that the person wasn’t fully conscious, and it was obvious that the biting cold had almost killed him. I sent the dog on ahead in the hope that someone from the farm would see her and realize that there was a problem. She raced off , leaving me to shoulder the burden as best I could.

Making our way gingerly across the field, weaving almost drunkenly from side to side, the effort was nearly too much for me. At one point I tripped and fell, bringing him down with me. I scrambled back to my feet, pulling and pushing him till he was standing again. We had no breath to spare for words; the cold was biting into my bones now, and I had no idea how ill he must have been feeling.

Almost at the end of my strength, I heard the dog barking, and heard rather than saw the tractor coming across the field. Galvanised by the sound into using the last bit of my strength, I stood , panting hard. We helped the man onto the trailer and I lay down beside him, covering him with my coat to try to warm him. It wasn’t until we brought him into the farm house and unwrapped all the cloth that jumbled around him that we realized he was unable to see us. Blindly he drew closer to the warmth as he thanked me for the rescue. We were going to hear his story but that would wait till he had thawed out.

***

The train was silent, it’s inhabitants under sleep’s firm grasp. Only one passenger had escaped it. He sat crooked in his seat, eyes straight ahead, showing only blackness. It had been many years since he had been subjected to any other colour, any other shape. There was only nothingness.

It was the sounds, the symphony unnoticed by all others that painted for him. He could tell the field from the park by the groans of protest they produced under his feet. Sight may have been snatched from him but he did not think of himself of blind. He saw what others couldn’t. While they overlooked a petal’s pattern, his touch revealed it; the way something felt can produce a much better image than people assumed.

He had long thought it ironic that those whose eyes still captured the many shades of life could be so blind.

The man hadn’t always thought this way. During those first fateful days when the darkness had been so consuming, he had screamed and cursed at whoever’s fault it was. He had been camping with friends when the black dots had begun to override his vision. He had called to them, desperation in his voice, as the walls of the tent vanished before him.

He had never tasted fear until that moment.

So sure that his dreams snatched from him, he drew into himself. Why should he be a part of a world he could not see?

His plans, his wonderful plans had taunted him. They had been taken from him unfairly of that he was sure. He could not face a world that treated him so cruelly and so the hospital bed became his prison.

Not even his art interested him anymore. Since childhood, he had dreamt of the day he became a ‘real‘artist, the day people understood that that was what he was meant to be. He had thought it was his destiny. His family did not know how to treat him. What could they say when they had what he most craved? Of course, they wished they could change it but they soon realized that life does not bend to the hopes of man.

This was his life now.

It was the nurse that slowly coaxed him back, accepting each relapse with patience. He had often wondered what she had seen in him, a young man slumped in defeat. He had certainly never been grateful for her help instead firing all his anger and hurt at her but it was still her hand he reluctantly held with his first steps, her arms that had pulled him back to his feet.

Most importantly, she had been the one to place the clay in front of him that fateful day. To say he took to it like a bird to the sky would be a lie. He remembered the frustration he had felt as he struggled to mould it without seeing it. It was only as he began to adapt, to learn just how inconsequential it is to see when you trust his body, that his talent was revealed. After all, it is in human nature, the instinct to change, the way it readjusts, survives.

He could still remember the pride in the nurse’s voice as he slowly reentered the world, no longer just a caterpillar but something better, something almost majestic.

For weeks, he moulded the clay, breathing life into it until he could feel that every tiny detail was ready.

On the day, he went home, he had pulled her aside, wrapping her fingers around the sculpture. It was the goodbye he couldn’t say.

“It’s so beautiful,” she breathed, her gaze upon the intricate butterfly the man had produced and she couldn’t help but be struck by the detail. He learnt much later that she had kept the token to her death, a prized possession. Since that first time, he had created many more sculptures but he had never felt as content with them. He had been told they were of a better quality, that he had only improved with practice but he wasn’t so sure.

In his heart, he knew a sculpture to rival the first would never come from his fingertips.

After all, that lump of clay had saved him.

It had been the first time the blind man had truly seen the glory in life