A house propped its legs on a beach
and was glad to be painted cool blue, because the house liked blue, and liked
the ocean. Its shingles were drooping but at the same time firm, and the paint
on the porch was peeling but somehow fresh and admirable.
It was an old house good enough to
suit an old man, and lenient enough to be burdened by a girl of twelve. The
village was snugly behind them, set in a pleasing arrangement of colors and
sizes, but the crags and cliffs above them were even more pleasing, though they
were arranged by nature and scoffed the ocean with black, stony hands.
Supposing that having few
possessions means happiness, the old man and his granddaughter were two of the
most well to do people around. The old man had a fiddle that he played to the
girl on frightening nights, and the girl had a small guitar, its six strings
still miraculously intact and its battered neck sleek from use. They played the
instruments and had nothing else to smile on. The table in the kitchen was a
scarred plank. The bowls were old and cracked, and the electricity flickered.
The music from the fiddle and guitar, however, overruled the ruts in the wood,
even the sad blinking the overhead light gave in the kitchen. The twangs and
high cries only reminded the old man that he belonged to the girl, and that the
girl belonged to him.
The night skies were more often lit
with flash bombs in the distance than ocean storms. War cut through the
southern villages but hadn’t the time to visit the small, rather unnoticeable
beach town. Even when rumors of air raids forced the people on their toes, no
planes except the mail deliveries ever circled overhead.
“Why is there war, Papa?” It was a
night when the bombs sporadically made the beach town tremble. Beads of white
like lightning sliced their way inside through the window in the kitchen. The
old man was drinking a lukewarm cup of coffee and polishing the fiddle with his
handkerchief. At the other end of the table, the girl was expectantly staring
at him, waiting for an answer.
“I don’t know, Micah,” he said
without looking up. “People make friends, but their friends always have
enemies.” Another soft boom and a dim flash of light.
“It scares me,” said Micah.
“Me too.” Micah continued to stare,
but acquired surprise. The old man had not changed the intent bleeding of his
eyes on the dark wood. The admittance that he was afraid hadn’t hindered the
motion of his hands.
“You’re afraid?” Micah said softly.
“That can’t be.” He looked up and caught Micah’s rich, brown eyes, which he
labeled as deep as any forgotten myth. He fingered his mustache and studied the
child for a couple of silent moments.
“Do you think fear is a childhood
pastime?” he asked her.
“I always thought it goes away when
you get old,” replied Micah.
“I hope you are not disappointed,
my dear. Fear is a parasite. It doesn’t go away unless you fight it away.”
Not a second subsequent to his
words the wailing of a siren slit the night’s throat. Micah’s heart jumped and
her pale cheeks became flushed. The old man put down the handkerchief, his eyes
fixed through the window.
“Heaven forbid,” he whispered.
The tremors from the bombs had turned into
vehement quakes. The beach town was no longer unacquainted with the war.
