Untitled | Kaya Parker (11)

Rubert is essentially the god of the village. Distanced from every other individual by the skills he bore from a young age, Rubert stands alone in a herd of sheep where none can confine the vibrant crimson of his wool. As once shunned in childhood he is now revered in adulthood. By spending the majority of his time performing in front of the elders in order to satisfy the laudatory needs of the people, Rubert appeared as a kind man with simply a slightly unique skill. His ability to measure and pour mystified liquids that stained the glass of capsules light purple seemed to enchant the villagers and drew them from their hog-worn houses to Rubert’s humble dwellings. Once there, they’d sit and watch from every open entrance to keep track of Rubert’s mischievous hands. From the drooping little window to the creaky old door hanging on its last life with only one hinge, everyone would crowd around to ooh and aww at the marvels of Rubert’s experiments. For the most part it was Rubert and me in the center of it all. The totem of fame that deemed cures of poisons and solved the aching backs of the villagers. As ever a creator of family I am, I felt no desire or ambition to travel or disseminate my newfound revelations. I held no avarice or greed within my heart and likewise, I’d thought the same of Rubert. Yet, upon his, I’d say 20th year of life, Rubert curtly arose to the dawn with images of exploration filling his head. He looked to the horizon with an empathy of faith that spellbounded him to the road beyond. By mid afternoon his mind was made up, and no amount of complaining

did me any justice in his choice. Walking through the village to borrow a trunk from the preacher down the hill and two loaves of bread from the baker, paid for of course in a liquid cure for mold, I floundered along at Rubert’s side following his own chipper gait with my imploringly sloppy one. Heavily did I drag my legs if only to sustain one moment longer in the midst of the town. Rubert of course felt no such tentativeness to returning home and as such finally scooped me up in his arms when I wandered a little too far behind.

“Klink old mate, old pal. I haven’t forgot you just yet. Just you wait till eve I say. Eve’n is the time of leave. You’ll do fine, just fine I tell ya. No need to go worrying over n’thing, worrying over n’thing I saw. No need...” his impartial linguistic string of mumbling faded off as the speech lost meaning to me. Rubert often did this at home while working. What would he do now without me to listen carefully to his displeasurable stutters? Who’d he have to put up with that foul breath of his? Or the stuffy disproportionate beard that covered half his face and not the other? As these thoughts filled my head, newer more mournsome worries pursued, and then darker more devilish solutions soon followed. At last I withdrew from my inner solutions to only stare at Rubert with drooping eyes and punctuating thoughts. Course, these thoughts never seem to reach the bridge on Rubert’s end, so back to the once renowned house of fame we went. As I looked for our home I found it a little smaller, darker, a little sadder to lay eyes upon. The once beautified thing of my past now appeared dilapidated in the soon to be abstinence of life. The roof, which I swore was still left standing before we left, was cracked and now bent as if it would barely live a day longer above the walls of the house instead of below. The bushes, where I’d hide as a young kid, were overgrown with thistles and depleted of their old usual vibrance. The heavy oak door that hung on a single hinge no longer left that charming impression of rustic craftsmanship. I no longer found solace in the weathered walls that had separated Rubert’s workspace from the outside world. Everything seemed dull, like I was looking at it from far away, and the transparent part of my sight was fuzzy and blurred. Slowly, minute by minute I watched as Rubert gingerly picked up each piece of glassware in order to pack it neatly in the chest with a soft cloth separating them to keep them from clinking against one another. Then I stared in horror as he withdrew his chemical box and laid it securely

next to the beakers and tubes laid out in the chest. The reality of him leaving had only just

started to set in once the chest was filled to the brim and the mule and cart appeared in front of our house, a gift from the village shepherd who’d insisted that he’d watch me in Rubert’s absence. The mule gazed at me with glass capsule eyes that said the world had grown dull in all its misgivings. I drew back my lips in a sneer that said I’d never turn out like him. Course, looking back I suppose that was the gift of naive ignorance on my side. Within the hour our hut of a house was empty, unoccupied, and deprived of life. We’d finally made it to where me and Rubert would part ways. Me and the Shepherd on foot till we made it to the Shepherd's dwellings, and Rubert by cart till he’d become too tired to travel any more or found himself near another village that would grant his temporary residence. Wishing me a final farewell and a promise to return, Rubert commenced towards his future.

Watching Rubert turn his back and leave me wasn’t as hard as I’d initially thought, but the days after were some of the most dispirited days of my life. Crestfallen at having been abandoned by the man who’d taken me in as a kid, and frustrated at being forced into the Shepherd's governing, my sanity was all but nearly gone. My once light heart underwent a variation of changes as I shifted from saddened, to angry, then frustrated, and finally to a bitter resolution that deprived me of the motivation to do much more than lay in the pasture and watch as the sun passed overhead. The days turned to months and the months to years. Every now and then the Shepherd would hear word of Rubert’s achievements out in the big cities. Rumor held that Rubert had been deemed by the King with the title of the royal alchemist. Thus, having taken that rumor to be true, I determined that royal alchemists were extremely busy with little time to spare, which is why he never visited. In retrospect, the bitter truth likely was that Rubert had

forgotten that ‘old Klink, old pal’ had even ever existed. I suppose that’s why he never did come back.

I can’t say that the rest of my life was very fulfilling. I’d learned for the first time what it was like to sleep outside and have only grain to eat. I’d never been as dirty as I was in the month of constant rain, nor as cold I suppose. Unimaginable in my prior beliefs, I made friends among the sheep and took comfort in their company. The day I died was no surprise to the Shepherd or the sheep. It’d come like snow in the winter - unexpected in the expectation of it. The shepard had carried my body to the highest hill that overshadowed the old village. From there he dug a 6 ft grave for me with the final condolence of “I’m sorry Klink old chap, I guess he never had the time to come visit. Such a misfortune that tups don’t live as long a life. Such a misfortune Klink old friend.” As the consciousness that had lived beyond my body faded, I suppose I never stopped scanning the horizon looking for a royal alchemist who’d once only specialized in the skill of appeasing the village elders. ‘Such a misfortune,’ such a misfortune it was.