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Lineage II
By MBH
At long last the forest wall opened up to reveal a little plot of land with a single room cabin made from a variety of wooden planks with a haphazard sheet metal roof. We knew we were getting close when Chatters and I smelled the smoke which blew out from an elbow pipe jutting out the side of Grandpaw’s house. The fire pit was lit and his big cast iron pot hung suspended over it by a lashed tripod.
The crooked door swung open to show Grandpaw, shambling his way out to his chopping block. His suspenders hung down at the sides of his pants; and though it was cold, anyone could see through his undershirt that he was hairy enough not to mind. Since the first time I ever saw him I hoped that one day I would have such a lasting strength as my granduncle.
He dropped the axe and strode over to us, his moustache stretching as wide as his grin, “Luther,” he nodded to me. He looked to Chatters and his grin shrank, “err…”
“John.” Chatters nodded to Grandpaw
“We call him Chatters.”
“Oh, right. ‘Cause you don’t say a bloomin’ word. An ironic nickname is one to be proud of,” said Grandpaw.
“Actually,” I chimed in, “he’s named for when-“Chatters slugged me in the arm. Grandpaw laughed, coaxing a smile from Chatter’s face, and invited us inside.
The cabin air hung heavy with cedar; but what was most striking about the place, to the point of being an unshakable image locked away in my head, was the way the illuminated dust silently drifted in the lazy rays of that late afternoon sun, pouring through the singular window fixed above Grandpaw’s fur covered cot. I felt my lips part, “…so bright.” Grandpaw’s hand was suddenly on my shoulder; in the few moments before Chatters walked in, we both marveled at the scene.
“…all things in simplicity,” Grandpaw reminded himself. I looked up to him puzzled. “Anything we will see in the grand sights of our life, we can also see in what meets our eyes everyday.” His voice dropped a bit after he seemed to finally notice me, “Well, that’s what my dad used to say.”
Charles couldn’t think up anything wise to save his life. “Why can’t my dad say anything useful like that?”
“Your grandfather Sam was an honest and courageous man. He carried the Edenfield name very well and I was proud to have him as a brother in law. His boy though-“Grandpaw’s eyes sharpened as his face grimaced into a sneer, “he buried his spine on that plot of land that came with his dowry.” Grandpaw clenched his pipe in his teeth and slid his oak rocker over to the far corner of his shack, “but anyways...what did they try to teach you in school today?”
“I wouldn’t know.” Instead I told him about the two Russells and got Chatters to recite what we read on the bridge. Grandpaw’s smile faded. His eyebrows dropping low, his wrinkled forehead furrowed. He leaned back in his chair and rocked backwards out of the sunbeam, letting out a long, low, and loud creak. The shadow over his face scattered as he lit an old sulfur match for his pipe, “so they think they can breed out history? A lie put into a child is the worst of all lies.”
Grandpaw slowly began to rock his chair back and forth, seething in his silent rage. He mumbled something about the old days and suddenly stood, “I’ll give you boys a real history lesson.” He stooped and pulled out his trunk from underneath his cot and began rummaging through it. “A real-life relic from a time the ‘reconstructed new world’ obviously wants nothing to do with. If they are so ashamed of themselves enough to lie, then by god I’ll be the one to shove their faces back in their own shit.”
While Grandpaw dug deeper and deeper through his big trunk, tossing things this way and that, Chatters and I looked at one another wondering what Grandpaw was getting all worked up about. Just as I was about to ask him if he was all right, Grandpaw turned with a big grin on his face and a wooden case in his hands, “found it. They may weed out the truth, but they can’t deny this.” Grandpaw opened the case to reveal his testament to the history of the Central Territories. I could tell by the trigger that it was a pistol of some sort; but it wasn’t a revolver. Having no cylinder the gun took on a more sophisticated L-shape; when Grandpaw held it in the light I could see just how sophisticated it really was. Only in the musty light could I see the shape of a bird engraved along the square barrel, with its head near the front and each of its wings folding backwards over either side of the grip, as if it were in mid-dive.
Knowing that Chatters and I had only seen revolvers up until then, Grandpaw began to explain how the pistol, a “forty-five auto,” worked and the advantages it had over any six-shooter. “No cocking, more rounds, and lightning quick reloading,” Grandpaw told us. He produced something else from the box, “and look, preloaded cartridges. We used to call ‘em brass, pretty rare these days. You’ve probably seen how long it takes your daddy to load his rifle and that’s why.” He held one up to the light, “he doesn’t have any of these.”
He handed me the pistol, “it was my brother’s. I’ll bet that book of yours says something about Jackson Clutis being some kind of a hero, ushering out the lawless territorial days huh?” I looked to Chatters who nodded his head with a raised eyebrow. For a second I thought Grandpaw was about to start yelling; but instead he let out a little chuckle and grinned, “well, the bullet that killed him,” he tapped the end of the gun, “came right out of here.”
The reality of the situation came crashing down on me just like I used to think Grandpaw’s shanty would. In my hands was the same weapon my granduncle Konrad used to end the life of Jackson Clutis, whoever that was. All the daydreams I had about Grandpaw’s stories were no longer just flights of fancy; they were solid, having the same weight as the deadly steel fossil I held in my hands.
Chatters ruined the fun, “On top of Charr rigde?”
Grandpaw blinked, “isn’t that where you boys went up overnight a few weeks back? What were you doing, looking for his bones?” Grandpaw let out a laugh.
My mouth hung open; something about the sight of Jackson’s shrunken arm in some rock bed that night we weathered that furious storm up on Charr Ridge froze half of me with terror and lit up the other half with excitement. Wide-eyed Chatters slowly read my thoughts aloud, “Wh…Why? You don’t think he’s buried in Morganburg?”
Grandpaw cackled, “oh, I know he’s not buried in Morganburg.”