Black Gabriel
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O.G. Elder
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- Posted: Sat, 14 Jun 2014 20:19:21 +0000
Actually here's something nice from the archives, just to have an entry.
Chapter 2 of a historical suspense novella, this part dealing with the back story of the protagonist prior to his apprenticeship to the murderous botanist. Yeah, I said that.
My name is Bryon, no last name to speak of, and my master has never had any name to me other than master, though I suppose with-in the confines of my mind, a name must have been there once. I sincerely doubt such a name ever escaped my lips on any occasion.
I had not yet told you this, because I believe that it is of secondary importance to the story of my master, and my time studying beneath him. My identity was defined more by my relationship with him than it ever was by the name my parents gave me. He, however, did use this name for me, so it does mean much to me, I suppose, and it is important that I be able to identify myself.
My birth took place in a small house, practically derelict, in a small town, essentially deserted. The entire population of the village must have witnessed the event, but I would not remember a single one of these people's faces. I was through with that awful place before I was conscious enough to truly see it.
My parents took me to the nearest city, and there they raised me uneventfully until the age of six, when my father lost his job at the factory. I do not know exactly what he made at the factory, but I do know that me made merely modest pay, just enough for our family to get by. After this unfortunate event, I saw much less of my parents, especially my mother. Until the age of ten, they merely told me that they were "working" and it was true that we again had money. I never sought any specifics from them, and this I do not regret. To this day, I neither know nor care what they did for us to survive those times. What I do know is that it led to their eventual martyrdom.
My mother was the first to come down with the disease, but my father soon succumbed as well. I remember arguments between them, my father blaming my mother for the disease, as if she had brought it upon him. For some reason, there was never any fear that I would catch it from them, and even when the doctor came the first and only time he did not bother to check upon me for its symptoms.
With-in a year, they had both died. The disease was blamed, but I was told by the doctor at their death bed that it was actually the common cold that finally did them in. I never told a soul, but the disease was likely mine, as I had a child's case of the sniffles that very week.
I feel no remorse for the murder of my parents, though I may have at the time. As I've aged, I've learned they were a sacrifice I simply had to make to get where I was going.
After that, my mother's brother took me in out of some sense of familial obligation. I had only met him on a few occasions, and we were never close. From the beginning, he likely saw me as an opportunity, someone he could use while keeping up appearances as a good man, devoted to his family. He had never married, nor had he fathered any children, so taking me in improved his image greatly. He was much to old to play the bachelor, after all.
He had to himself more money than my parents ever earned, and my father had managed to leave a small amount of amount to me in his will, but I never saw it, and my uncle paid for only the barest essentials. I ate, but not well, and I had clothes, but not many.
Essentially, I was manual labor for his "business" and nothing more. I do not know what precisely his occupation was, but I became used to going out in the early dawn to haul back to our house large packages left in predetermined locations, which he would take somewhere else when the day began.
In his defense, he never specifically mistreated me. He never once raised a hand against me or belittled me verbally, he just demanded absolute obedience on the subject of labor that was initially much too harsh for me to perform at an adequate level. There were many nights that I cried for I knew that my lack of performance upset him so.
All of this, too, was necessary. The harsh days went on, and I grew to appreciate what value true learning might hold for me. In this time, my single comfort was painting. My subjects were plain, the buildings and people I saw from day to day. My materials were cheap, old scraps of cloth I collected were my canvas, and I bought pencils and pigments of the lowest calibers. My uncle, surprising to me, did not disapprove of my hobby, so long as it was carried out when he had no need of me. That was acceptable, due fully to the fact that he only needed me in the darkest hours of the morning.
When I approached him about the subject of schooling, he claimed that he simply could not pay for such a thing, something I did not believe to be true. I did not, however, press the issue.
Entering the service of my master was his suggestion. I was at first skeptical of this, both lacking knowledge of what he did and doubting my uncle's ability to enter me into the home of this supposed genius.
Within the week, a week I spent with nerves on the very tip of the edge, my uncle returned to me and told me that I would leave on the morrow for my new home. I think, but I am not sure, that he may have even felt pride at this, though if it was truly for me, or if it was for himself at the thought of the social boost to be gained from having his nephew as the sole student of a true genius.
And thus I departed, and arrived just as you have learned, leaving all of my few possessions behind.
Chapter 2 of a historical suspense novella, this part dealing with the back story of the protagonist prior to his apprenticeship to the murderous botanist. Yeah, I said that.
Quote:
My name is Bryon, no last name to speak of, and my master has never had any name to me other than master, though I suppose with-in the confines of my mind, a name must have been there once. I sincerely doubt such a name ever escaped my lips on any occasion.
I had not yet told you this, because I believe that it is of secondary importance to the story of my master, and my time studying beneath him. My identity was defined more by my relationship with him than it ever was by the name my parents gave me. He, however, did use this name for me, so it does mean much to me, I suppose, and it is important that I be able to identify myself.
My birth took place in a small house, practically derelict, in a small town, essentially deserted. The entire population of the village must have witnessed the event, but I would not remember a single one of these people's faces. I was through with that awful place before I was conscious enough to truly see it.
My parents took me to the nearest city, and there they raised me uneventfully until the age of six, when my father lost his job at the factory. I do not know exactly what he made at the factory, but I do know that me made merely modest pay, just enough for our family to get by. After this unfortunate event, I saw much less of my parents, especially my mother. Until the age of ten, they merely told me that they were "working" and it was true that we again had money. I never sought any specifics from them, and this I do not regret. To this day, I neither know nor care what they did for us to survive those times. What I do know is that it led to their eventual martyrdom.
My mother was the first to come down with the disease, but my father soon succumbed as well. I remember arguments between them, my father blaming my mother for the disease, as if she had brought it upon him. For some reason, there was never any fear that I would catch it from them, and even when the doctor came the first and only time he did not bother to check upon me for its symptoms.
With-in a year, they had both died. The disease was blamed, but I was told by the doctor at their death bed that it was actually the common cold that finally did them in. I never told a soul, but the disease was likely mine, as I had a child's case of the sniffles that very week.
I feel no remorse for the murder of my parents, though I may have at the time. As I've aged, I've learned they were a sacrifice I simply had to make to get where I was going.
After that, my mother's brother took me in out of some sense of familial obligation. I had only met him on a few occasions, and we were never close. From the beginning, he likely saw me as an opportunity, someone he could use while keeping up appearances as a good man, devoted to his family. He had never married, nor had he fathered any children, so taking me in improved his image greatly. He was much to old to play the bachelor, after all.
He had to himself more money than my parents ever earned, and my father had managed to leave a small amount of amount to me in his will, but I never saw it, and my uncle paid for only the barest essentials. I ate, but not well, and I had clothes, but not many.
Essentially, I was manual labor for his "business" and nothing more. I do not know what precisely his occupation was, but I became used to going out in the early dawn to haul back to our house large packages left in predetermined locations, which he would take somewhere else when the day began.
In his defense, he never specifically mistreated me. He never once raised a hand against me or belittled me verbally, he just demanded absolute obedience on the subject of labor that was initially much too harsh for me to perform at an adequate level. There were many nights that I cried for I knew that my lack of performance upset him so.
All of this, too, was necessary. The harsh days went on, and I grew to appreciate what value true learning might hold for me. In this time, my single comfort was painting. My subjects were plain, the buildings and people I saw from day to day. My materials were cheap, old scraps of cloth I collected were my canvas, and I bought pencils and pigments of the lowest calibers. My uncle, surprising to me, did not disapprove of my hobby, so long as it was carried out when he had no need of me. That was acceptable, due fully to the fact that he only needed me in the darkest hours of the morning.
When I approached him about the subject of schooling, he claimed that he simply could not pay for such a thing, something I did not believe to be true. I did not, however, press the issue.
Entering the service of my master was his suggestion. I was at first skeptical of this, both lacking knowledge of what he did and doubting my uncle's ability to enter me into the home of this supposed genius.
Within the week, a week I spent with nerves on the very tip of the edge, my uncle returned to me and told me that I would leave on the morrow for my new home. I think, but I am not sure, that he may have even felt pride at this, though if it was truly for me, or if it was for himself at the thought of the social boost to be gained from having his nephew as the sole student of a true genius.
And thus I departed, and arrived just as you have learned, leaving all of my few possessions behind.
