La Familia

On the hilltop, Albert sat below a great old snag. Shielded by its shade, the blades of sun blasting the Spanish countryside cut a little less deep. The summer skies were even hotter that year, burning Alberts skin as if it were held atop hot coals. Beyond his small, shaded refuge was an endless field of golden brown and insipid green. The grasslands of southern Spain. What little else there was to admire, was peaceful. Much of the land could be viewed from that hilltop. In the distance were the many mountains that Albert had always been curious to search; a life made of many days staring at them in wonder. The land beyond the fields was still incredibly dry, a mixture of baked maroons that complemented the green of the few trees, each one spitting a speck of its own shade towards the ground. Long ago, Albert may have wondered if there were other boys under those trees, looking out onto those barren plains, searching intently for an excuse to wander. Those days were long gone.

   Albert found himself relaxed, a rare but reassuring feeling. That feeling of rest, arriving without context, or obligation or duty, and yet it was a feeling needed to carry on, however brief. Albert wondered why the rest of the country did what it could to impose times for its own rest, when people could go out of their way to do nothing. He wondered if that imposed rest was what pushed so many people to do more than they ever should have. The sun's slow creep towards the horizon gave it a peak at his skin. It scalded a bit and Albert shuffled a little further into the shade. He had been reading a journal his grandfather left behind just before the war. Tired of its rambling Albert closed the journal, getting a final and quick look at its first page. A single phrase was pressed deeply into its cotton; “¿A quien le importa?”. 

   Albert was a reasonably tall boy. He was slender, as food had been scarce after the war. He had a very approachable look to him, something about him gave an air of kindness, though he rarely smiled. With brown eyes, and medium length, dark brown hair, a mirror of his father. His fathers worn skin and cold eyes kept them easy to discern, however.    Breaking another unformed thought was his sister Isabel’s tiny strides along the grass. In hand, as always was Cerdito, her little stuffed piggy. Isabel was a cheeky little ten-year-old, always finding the best in the worst of situations. Much like her mother, she was not very tall, and bore the same untouched face adorned with freckles. 6 years old,  pale brown eyes, a button-like nose and a touthy, contagious smile,  Issa was constantly looking for excuses to spend time with Albert. Constantly at his side, Isabel was a stark contrast to a reserved Albert. Nevertheless he loved her, it was easy to.    It had been 2 years since the civil war had ended, but the instability still rippled through the country. The countryside was much less affected by the horrors that had taken place, but they were still suffering the after effects. They spread like the flu had before them. Though rare, leftover bits of German warwares were scattered like artefacts across the farmlands; a rusting reminder of the carnage that grazed Masquefa so recently.

   It was only a year prior that Alberts best friend, Jordi, and he had been playing a few yards away when they stumbled upon something. Bulky, blackened and covered in dirt, a small handle along its side, the thing looked alien and dead. It happened in an instant, sending Albert to the ground and Jordi was gone. Albert’s ears rang but he knew that valley was silent while dust and bent grass littered his feet. He called out to Jordi deaf in full. He knew there would be no answer but he called again anyway. And again. And again. And again.

    “Kids! Come here!” Albert’s father yelled in the distance snapping Albert back to his refuge under the tree. He glanced at Isa now sitting, wordlessly admiring the view beside him, she was smiling as usual.  

   The walk back to the house wasn’t long, but the heat made it feel so. As they approached their home, they saw their father, Vicente, waiting outside in his work clothes. 

    “Papá, why are you dressed to work?” asked Isa.  

    “Isabel, go inside to your mother. The men have to talk.”

   Isa did as she was told.

   As she ran into the house Vicente approached Albert. The man was taller than his son, with a slender but muscular build. He was always clean shaven, and had curly grey hair that was crudely cut by his wife, and skin like leather. Vicente had a stalking, unblinking stare, but it was somehow blank. Instead of meeting those unwavering eyes, however, Albert looked to his fathers boots. They were worn, old and toughened by use. “Look at me, son,” said Vicente. 

   Unusual, but he did as he was told.

   Staring through Albert, his father said, “Do you know what day it is today?” 

“Sunday, sir.”

   His father put his hand on his shoulder, “Today is not just any Sunday son, today is an important Sunday.”

   Albert looked at him, “I thought it wasn’t for another month?” 

   Vicentes gentle hold turned into an intense grip, “Do you have a problem with this?”