Ben Alone

By Detlef Wieck 

Ben stood in the middle of the floor, looking at the layers of newspaper he had put there to block the cold drafts that were coming up through the cracks between the rough, worn, boards of the floor. Although the majestic cook range was burning with the draft all the way open, water froze on the floor next to the range 

He couldn’t remember how long he had been alone.  His sister and her husband had left, leaving him “in charge” of the farm. He was told to take care of horses that were in a swampy, woodland pasture, about a half mile from the farmhouse. He had enough food to last, if he also ate the canned vegetables and fruit that his sister had preserved that fall, that were stored, wrapped in newspaper, in the root cellar. 

He had not spoken to another human since the day they left, telling him “You have everything you need to stay here while we are gone. Just take care of the horses.” He thought about those last words as he stood, rocking back and forth from one foot to the other. The only sounds he heard were his own voice when he talked to himself, or imagined he was talking to his mother. Other than that, he heard the ticking of his Big Ben windup clock, the fire crackling in the cook-range and the sound of the wind as it rattled the windows and crept under the front door and moaned through the bare branches of the trees.  He  ached of loneliness.

As he looked through the kitchen window, he saw the late afternoon light was fading. Since there was little difference between the temperature in the house and that outside, he already was wearing his heavy outdoor clothing to go out and fetch more firewood. He started the fire in the barrel stove, in the living-room before he fixed something to eat, on the kitchen range. He stuffed in wadded up newspaper, using only a couple of sheets, then set dry wood that he had split into thin, narrow strips, on top of the wadded paper. He watched with satisfaction as the burning paper caught the kindling strips alight. Carefully laying slightly larger pieces of wood on the burning kindling, he waited patiently as the larger pieces lit. He put in bigger, split pieces that would burn hot, then closed the cast iron door that squawked as it turned on its ancient iron hinges. 

While he waited for the fire in the living room to get hot, he popped the lid on a jar of canned tomatoes, wrapped in newspaper, he had brought up from the root cellar. Tasting them, he stirred in a quarter teaspoon of baking soda and a teaspoon of sugar. Crumbling two dry heels of bread over the kettle, he stirred. He took the soup into the living room and sat as close to the stove as possible while eating. 

As Ben ate, he listened to the crackling fire and the steaming tea kettle as it burbled faintly, reminding him of his mother, who always kept a kettle on the stove to make coffee, or to heat dishwater, or, on one occasion, to wash his wounds after he had been kicked in the face by their draft horse, King. 

He had been left, while his mother, his brothers and sisters, there were eight, had all ridden off leaving him, at the age of eleven, to care for all of the animals, including the horses.

  He couldn’t remember why, but King had kicked him while he was putting down new hay for bedding, behind the horse. The kick knocked him across the stable, against the opposite wall, where he fell to the floor, stunned. When he was again conscious, he thought that his brains were running out of his nose, so he stuffed manure into his nostrils to keep them from leaking out. The headaches only came when his face was cold, now, though it had taken years before he was without a constant headache. People said the accident had made him simple.

Lifting the simmering teakettle from the top of the barrel stove, he carried it to the kitchen. Setting it down on the range top, he fished a tea bag out of a jar that was on the shelf above the stove. He poured the hot water, over the tea bag, into a mug that had been stored on the shelf, above the range, where it stayed somewhat warm. He preferred coffee, but, except for the used grounds that were in the pot, that was all used up, as was his Copenhagen snuff. He’d saved all of the little round containers and had filled them with broken shoe laces that he might need in a pinch, pretty pieces of broken red glass from a tail light, and little pebbles that had caught his eye on his walk to see the horses, before snow had covered them.  He would open one of the snuff cans and take out the things he had saved, and fondle and study them before going to bed.  

His cot was in the attic. It was the warmest spot in the house. It was next to the brick chimney and directly over the barrel stove in the living room.  As he always had done, he said a prayer: “Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray thee Lord, my soul to keep. If I should die before I wake, I pray, Thee, Lord, my soul to take. This I ask in Jesus’s name, Amen”. He found so much comfort in this prayer, it helped him fall asleep. This night, however, he promised himself that he would walk to the horse pasture to see how the horses were, in the morning. He would talk to them and they would listen. He would tell them that they were beautiful and that he loved them.

He listened to the wind rattling the bare branches of the trees outside his attic bedroom. He fell asleep imagining that the wind was his mother, crooning a lullaby and that he was a babe, in his mother’s arms, gazing up, into her face as she sang.

Before the sun was above the horizon, his Big Ben jangled him awake. Rolling over, he struck a match, lifted the chimney and lit the lamp on the stand beside his cot. His frozen breath was on the window at the peak end of the attic, opposite of where he slept. He could dimly see the lamp light reflected on the frost. Sitting up, and staying under the covers, he quickly slipped on his shirt over his long johns, which he had worn to bed. Next, still keeping his feet under the blankets, he slipped on his socks which were under his pillow. His trousers were last before he removed his legs from the covers. He quickly slipped his feet into his shoes. They were cold, even through his wool socks.

Breakfast had been weak coffee, made with the used grounds of the last two or three pots, fried potatoes and a can of sardines. Pulling the door shut, against the snow that had drifted there in the night, He turned and started for the horse pasture. The snow was just below his knees as he broke a trail through it. He looked forward to giving the horses, each, a carrot he’d taken from the root cellar, where they were buried in sawdust to keep them from freezing. 

The road led around the lake, and the drifts were higher against the bank where the road was. Ben left the road, and broke trail, out on to the ice. There, where the wind had blown it away, the snow was much shallower so the going was easier. As he approached the horse pasture, he angled toward the shore, expecting to see the horses. He called for them: “Prince, Dandy.” It always gave his heart a thrill to see them trotting up to the fence.  Today, they didn’t come. He called louder; “Prince, Dandy”. Still no response. He let himself into the pasture through the gate, calling as he did so; “Prince, Dandy”.  A wave of fear passed over him, as Ben plowed his way through the snow to the straw filled pole barn that Frederick had built for them. 

The straw was gone. The horses had eaten all of it as high as they could reach. They lay still, under the remaining roof. Through the slanting rays of the sun, Ben could see the hollows between their ribs in dark shadow, so deep were the depressions. 

A sob of horror and grief rose involuntarily from his chest and throat. Tears flooded his eyes and ran into his beard, where they froze. “Oh no! Oh no, Prince, Dandy, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry”. Controlling his grief, he took the carrots from his pocket, then tried to push one through the frozen lips against Prince’s immovable teeth. When this failed, he laid them each in front of their frozen eyes, so that they could see them, if they could still see. Lying on the snow, he spread his arms and legs, making a snow angel, in the thin snow, between the two horses. Next, he searched around the perimeter for two sticks, which he broke to the proper size, then tied them, to form a cross, using one of the shoe strings he had used to tie his pants cuffs against his boots to keep out the snow. After affixing the rough cross to one of the poles at the opening of the barn, he stood, hands held in prayer, and recited the only prayer he knew.

“Now I lay Prince and Dandy down to sleep. I pray, thee, Lord, their souls to take. This, I ask in Jesus’s Name.” 

He was startled when he heard a whinny, then a snort. Opening his eyes he saw two beautiful horses trotting through the snow toward him. 

“Oh, Princey, Dandy, you are so beautiful. I’m so glad you are still here!”  The horses nuzzled his pockets as if looking for carrots. Ben reached in and found two, which he gave to them. He kissed their noses while tears of joy poured from his eyes. He lay down between the two corpses and closed his eyes, a smile on his face.