Chapter 9

Chapter IX

“And just what do you think you’re doing here, little boy?” Patrick groaned as a burly man stood before him.

“Great. Just great. I leave here on a hunting trip for a week, just a week, and Livermore uses my house as a homeless shelter. Is that his revenge? Is it? What is his point of doing this? He can’t kill me, so he fills my life with nuisances? Speak boy, what did he do this time?”

Patrick had overcome his initial shock of finding out this house wasn’t really deserted and was now faced with assessing if this person thought himself someone else or if he was stark raving mad. ‘Maybe he’s both,’ thought Patrick.

“I don’t know who Livermore is, or frankly what you’re talking about. I’m Patrick, and I just came here before I go tomorrow to…” He paused, not knowing whether he should tell him the truth or not. “… to look for someone. Someone important.” ‘That should do it,’ he thought.

“Who may this important person be?” His voice wasn’t sarcastic, but sounded less attacking as he was beginning to realize that he really was an innocent kid.

“That’s irrelevant to this discussion.”

“So the little boy wants to talk like an adult? You’ll see, you’ll come around soon enough. Anyways,” his voice became less defensive and turned more inquisitive. “I need to breakfast and then see what more havoc that thrice damned Livermore wreaked. You will join me, and then I’ll see what I can do for you. I don’t dare assert that you are that good of a liar to have fooled me into thinking you’re not a bad person, and so that only leaves that you really aren’t. You’re my guest now, and I shall treat you like one. Come, sit at the table while I prepare what I need to.”

Patrick roused himself from the bed which had become to him irresistibly comfy in the past five minutes and started towards the table. He sat and not more than five minutes later did he sit down opposite him, two boiled potatoes and a small bunch of dried fruit in his hands. He did not offer a plate, and Patrick seriously doubted that he even had any to offer. Instead, he placed it on what looked like a wooden coaster and lent him a knife, also oddly wooden.

‘Is everything wooden around here?’ Patrick was about to voice his thought when the farmer asked him, “So, lad, what be your name?” He pronounced the ou in your like a long e, giving him a rural accent.

“I’m Patrick Henderson, sir. What’s yours?”

The farmer’s face hardened at the sound of his last name. “There’s no need for bluffing, little kid. Tell me your real name; now’s not the time for petty jokes.”

Patrick was slightly taken aback at how the farmer thought I was lying about my name. “I’m not bluffing, I tell you. I am Patrick Henderson, son of Bartholomew and Henrietta Henderson. My surname is not a joke.”

If the farmer was concealing his anger before, he did not bother to now. His body stiffened and his face became wrought with hostility. He stood up and slammed his hands on the table, bringing his voice down to a rasping whisper, “You are not welcome in my home. I don’t welcome sons of dogs!”

“Take that back! You probably don’t even know them! Bessie and even Anne said they were kind and honest!” Patrick’s hands were quivering, and he was once again surprised to see that his assailant’s hands were, too.

“You have no idea what you are talking about, little child!He Herhuorehethpii JHH You were doomed from the start and drowned with lies about the past! Poor substitute for the reality! Your inheritance has doomed you from the start!”

“You’re mad! You’re raving mad and and you’re lying! Tell the truth now!” He was screaming on the outside, but his inside was cowering from the farmer. He didn’t know what had driven him to react in such a crazy manner towards the farmer; something seemed to have taken control of his senses, turning his impulses into actions twice as large as they were.

“I will not tolerate such a person in my house! Begone, and don’t consider yourself safe from me if we happen to meet again!” Again his voice dropped into a rasp. “You can wreak no mayhem on me.”

In some way or another, Patrick stood his ground, partly because he was stubborn, but mostly because he felt as though he was rooted to the spot with invisible ties. When the farmer saw he didn’t move, he grabbed the table, sinking his nails deep into the old wood, and lifted it up to throw at Patrick.

There wasn’t ever a table in his house.

***

Author's Note

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