A Golden Trim Book
Hello-aww, thanks guys. hope you enjoy my story, any feedback or comments are welcome. If you're like me i prefer to read from a PDF on my kindle, rather than the screen, you can download it here:
A Golden Trim Book - Francis Leigh.pdf
otherwise here goes-
An elderly man standing on a quiet little street corner in a quiet little village.
A disheveled flat cap, jacket and pants keep him decent and warm in long winters. His shoes are kept together by string and rope. His face is dirty, and his hands black from sifting through others garbage. He's a mess, But for a perfectly kept gold ring around one of his fingers. Standing out from the dreary tragic vision of this lost soul, as a beacon, shining brightly as the day it was forged. A heavy chain hangs from his hand and he counts the links over and over sliding them through his fingers, glaring up at villagers who must have had their eyes on his chain again.
Amieé, the village hatter, skips down the street, her white bonnet flapping up and down as she merrily skipped her way to work. As she rounds the little corner in the little village the elderly man is blocking her path. She pulls up like horses coming to a halt. Thin unkempt face barely a few centimeters away from her smooth rosy cheeks stare deep into her with unblinking eyes. Startled Amieé takes a step back; politely she begs his pardon and starts on her way again.
But the elderly man steps in front of her again, he is not threatening in any way, more out of need, or desperation. Amieé, still courteous as always, lightly bows to the elderly man and once again begs his pardon and asks for passage.
The elderly man stares at her, desperate for something, to say something. Like a stranger in a foreign land he can't express himself easily and Amieé now looks at him with the same confused look of helplessness.
Then he remembers. The elderly man searches his hole ridden pockets, a flick book he finds and offers to her. Curiously Amieé takes the book from his bony wrinkled hands. The front cover is old and tattered; there are no words, only an image of a small village.
Although only a small rectangular book that fits in her palm, she begins to flick the pages using her thumb. Flawlessly the pages keep going beyond what seemed a short book. From one page to the next illustrations are wonderfully detailed and vibrant, making her smile.
The book tells a story of wives in a village, happy and in love. They're starting families with their husbands, attending markets, enjoying the sun. It seems, to Amieé, like a short history of this little village they live in. She even recognises the church, the baker and even the little corner in the little village. She recognises the mines that lay outside of town where the men go to work. She can almost smell the yeast from the brewery wafting over the village, it warms her heart.
After only a few pages things turn a dreary grey, a storm comes across the land. The shops shut, the streets empty and a heavy rain falls on the little village. A tall man stands in the town centre; a flag bearer behind him holds a long, thick wooden pole, atop waves a grand crimson blood colour flag that bears a black imperial crest.
The man and the flag bearer’s uniform reflect the flag design, black and crimson. The tall man, of importance and authority gestures to his flag bearer who obediently bangs the pole on the ground three times echoing his command through the streets. The tall mans shako cap silhouettes against the darkening storm clouds, shadows fall across his face, his eyes shine brightly silver like the giant cats in the east, as bright as guard tower lights. They search the town for what he claims in the name of the empire - men to fight his war.
The men of the village, one by one, form a line out of the town and over the horizon.
Their heads down, their hearts sunk. Wives sobbing as their husbands leave to fight in a nameless war for an empire they have no allegiance to.
The wives wait out the long winters. They shovel snow and meet in the markets, trying to keep their minds from their husbands. Slowly, they begin to drift apart from their husbands, and from each other, and from the village. They favour staying in doors alone as the winters get colder. They hopelessly wait.
Amieé looks up at the old man, whose face is melancholy, and his thoughts are else where. She begins to flick through the book again, the pages coming back to life like the starting of a film projector.
A man sits in a deep trench, taking shelter under a wrought iron roof, mud covered he struggles to see out from his gas mask, a dark green rain falls into the soaked earth. The sounds of far off deep thunder and explosions echo around the trenches, taunting the soldiers.
Across his lapel, embroidered in the crimson red, ‘Dante'. On his finger a bright golden ring stands out from the harsh backdrop of war. Outside the shelter the dead leaves burn under an acidic rain, dropped by the enemy countless times in a dirty war. He scrambles around in his sack and pulls out a leather bound book and a small, well used pencil. Dante opens at a page and begins to write. His friend next to him, a fellow soldier, huddles up to Dante’s shoulder for warmth. He too wears a gas mask to save him from the air. His friend has a similar ring that shines just as brightly, it catches Dante’s eye for a moment, he forgets it quickly though and continues to scribe away on his parchment.
A loud whistling noise snatches their attention; they look up together in unison. Dante has stopped writing. His friend turns slowly to face him, horror written in his wide eyes. There is no time for thought, or to cry out, the whistle is quickly sharper and louder. 'Tink' the sound of one of their dirty bombs lodging in the ground, and a split second later, kaboom! A massive explosion, a few hundred feet away, but enough that it sends them flying across into the rain. They both land heavily into the side of the trench, debris and mud flying everywhere, thick smoke quickly fills the air and visibility becomes so low Dante has trouble seeing his hands in front of him. He quickly checks his mask. He's fine, it’s on. He checks the rest of his body. He's shaken but no injuries apart from a ringing in his ears and probably for the best; he can’t hear the screams of the soldiers down the line. Finally a scream does catch his attention though, breaking his thoughts of self preservation.
Dante gets up and looks through the thick smoke, and finds his friend. One of his arms is missing and one of his legs bleeds profusely. But that's not why he's screaming. His mask has come off. He flails around screaming in agony as the acid rain pounds his face and he breathes in the toxic fumes. Dante runs to him, searching for the mask, it’s blown to pieces. His friend, convulsing now, screams at him, 'Take the ring back to her! Take it back!' Then silence. Only the pitter patters of rain and the ringing in his ears. Dante stands up, walks a few feet away. Slowly bending down he picks up his friend’s arm, slides the ring off a broken finger and throws the arm away like wood at a sawmill. Grabbing a small satchel from the ground he brushes of the dirt and puts the ring inside, folds up the bag and shoves it in his sack. Dante walks over to his book, cleans the mud off it, sits down under the shelter and writes.
The book continues to Amieé’s amazement. Part of her doesn't want to go on with such a horrible story, but she's compelled to finish. She's forgotten all about the elderly man and her job as a hatter, and the corner she stands at in her little village. She is focused solely on this tale.
Another night, Dante lays in his top bunk in an underground room carved out from the earth, writing away. In the bunk below a fellow soldier lays, shivering and praying. The soldier’s hands shake, his eyes cry, his face white as milk. He sits up in his bed, still shaking; he plays nervously with a gold ring around one of his fingers. Wobbling away he takes uneasy steps over to the table where his trench knife sits. With shaking hands he lays the book of the lords down next to the knife, the crimson seal of the empire embossed into the leather bound cover. With the other hand he slowly wraps his fingers around the handle of his knife, it's cold to the touch. Dante looks up to see this happening; he jumps down off the bed just as his friend puts the knife to his neck. Dante pulls it away in time. They scuffle; Dante is shoved back up against the bed as they both cling to the weapon. Dante pushes back, they hit the side of the table and both collapse onto the top knocking the book of the lords onto the ground. Still both holding on his friend gets the upper hand, he elbows Dante in the gut and then in the jaw sending Dante to the ground. Dante scrambles to his feet, he jumps for the knife - too late.
His friend slides the blade across his own jugular. Blood sprays across Dante’s face. It's not pretty or clean, he chokes on his own blood, coughing and splattering all over the place, till he falls to the ground reaching for his book. But he's too far, he twitches away his life.
Time doesn't seem to exist in the moments as Dante stares at his friend lying on the floor. After a long time, Dante lightly picks up his friend’s hand, takes out the trench knife, and slides off the golden ring from the blood soaked finger.
Amieé looks away, but the story continues like she has no control, it goes on and she forces herself to keep watching.
Dante lays silently in the open battle fields, motionless, alive, and alone amongst the dead. Dark grey clouds over head blot out the light. Barber wire and flesh scattered across the land. Sounds of whistling over head from the bombs are endless, covered in mud he slowly crawls on his belly. Trying to be careful of mines and other enemy traps that wait for him he scans the ground in front of him. He pauses, voices of enemies near by, he stops breathing. He waits a long time for the voices to fade away. And just as he's about to move on a glint catches his eye. Right in front of him a fallen comrade lays face down in the mud, his arm is spread out towards Dante, and even in the darkest of nights a gold ring still shines brightly. Dante looks towards the enemy he'd heard, he can see no one. He crawls forward, reaching out for the ring, his fingers are just touching the tips of the dead soldiers hand. He stretches some more and grabs the ring, as his pulling it of he moves the limp arm to one side. 'Click', a moment of dread, a realization, a trip mine. Darkness.
Back in the village of the wives, on one extreme winters night as the winds howl across the streets an official from the empire fades in from the darkness. He's perfectly groomed and kept, his movements are stiff and marionette like. His eyes have the same silver shine as he searches the address' of the broken. He walks down the little street, past the little corner and into the street of the wives, up to the first door and knocks. He is cold and calculated. He informs them all, one by one, knocking at each door, thump, thump, and thump. Their husbands are dead - all of them. He offers no more than a letter of condolence, marked with the red blood of an imperial seal. He says his rehearsed lines, and then down the stairs with his heavy boots he exits out the gate and to the next house.
Some of the women can't handle it, they end the pain shortly after letter in hand. All this waiting and worrying for the most tragic of outcomes. Others leave town never to be seen, they simply walk out into the snow and disappear. The ones that stayed are truly lost from the world, they become more fused with their homes, never leaving. They grow even older, almost instantly as if their hearts were holding onto their youth for them and let it go. The children tell stories of the empty street with the empty houses and the old ladies. They make up tales of how they keep children in their basements and cook them up for dinner like witches.
When Dantes vision returns, lords know how much time has passed, his face is covered in mud and blood, he can’t hear a thing and he has shrapnel lodged into his leg. In his right hand he holds something. He opens his hand and there, a finger. A finger with a golden ring around it. So, he slides the ring off tosses it aside and opens his little satchel that's now clipped to his belt. Placing the ring in he looks down into the bag, there are countless rings he's collected, each with their own story. He holds onto the lost till this dirty war is over, and he tells their story in his book, as best he can. He adds that one to the collection.
Tears run down Amieé's cheeks. She turns away from the little flick book again, she's had enough. The elderly man watches her; he puts a tender hand on her shoulder and gestures for her to continue, she must. Shaking her head she wants to leave, but he gestures again to continue. She does, tear soaked eyes she continues.
One day, years later. Dante hobbles from over the hills in to the little village, carrying his book in hand. He's wearing an officer's uniform from the imperial army, his shoes are warn to the socks, his socks to his feet, his feet to the bone, his bone to his soul. His lips are cracked and parched.
He walks to a small house along the empty street. An old woman stares out from the front at him, she's cold, heartless and barely anything but bones wrapped in tissue paper skin. He walks up to the front door and rings the bell. She pulls the curtain away from the door and glares at him to leave. Falling to his knees he offers her the book, he offers her a ring. She refuses it.
Dejected he walks to another house with the bag of rings, he offers again to another. On his knees again he is rejected. Of the ones left they all reject him, throw him out and turn him away.
Lost and hopeless, he stands at the end of the street with everything behind him. He looks down into the mines that once smelted great things for the village. So, he takes his book and rings down into the mines that lay outside of town. He melts down the rings that he's collected from the soldiers and friends, melts them down and lines his book with a golden trim. The gold of the men whose lives were lost in the nameless war, wives hearts that decomposed and withered away in waiting. A golden lock he forges and seals without a key hole. Running along the edge of his book the gold dances around the leather till it all meets in the middle where the imperial emblem is delicately carved in glory. There is but a small slit, about the size of a ring in the top above he emblem.
He takes the book to a little second hand book shop and donates it through the letter box then walks away, down the little street, around the little corner and over the horizon with the setting sun.
The next day a portly shop keeper opens the door to his little shop, and sees the book on the floor. It shines brightly as the morning sun catches the golden trim. He tries opening the book, but it will not budge. He gets some tools from the back and tries to force it, but still it will not budge. It will not scratch or crack or break. His little round face, sweating, he sits down to think about it. After a moment he posts a sign on the door, and tells all the other shop owners about the book, and offers a 5 gold piece reward for anyone who can open it.
All the locksmiths and thieves from town have a go, even some come from towns across the river to try their hand. None can open it, not the men from the north, or the wizards from the forests with all their potions and tricks. After a long day of frustration, the portly shop keeper sets it up on the shelf with all the other books. Then he smiles and thinks to himself that maybe one day it will open its self, when the time is right. And there it sat, for generation after generation, as the seasons came and went and the village grew in numbers and forgot the tales of the empty street and the elderly women and the book with the golden trim. Slowly dust gathered on the book so that it didn't shine as brightly as it once did.
Then the flick book simply ended, the last page, an illustration of the little book shop on the little street, and then nothing, the image fades away.
Amieé cleared the tears from her eyes and handed the book back to the elderly man who moved away from her, like he'd just woken up with a stranger by his bed. He returns to counting his chain links, she stares at him with sorrowful eyes. All he could do is glare at her for trying to steal his chain.
So, politely as always, Amieé bowed her bonnet quietly and pressed on to her job as a hatter in this little town.
Her mind was still with the tale of the ring bearer, and still with the golden trim book and the wives on the empty street, and that maybe one day the book will be found again and opened.
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