The track was a muddy bitch, no two ways about it. John Kent’s bad leg, courtesy of an unwanted French souvenir, sank ankle-deep with every step. He leaned heavily on his stick, a gnarled branch he nearly tripped over on the road. It was mid-afternoon, but dark and damp. It was the sort of damp that clung to your clothes and seeped into your bones. Spring in Essex.  He’d have laughed if his ribs didn't ache so damn much.

A dog, ribs showing through its matted fur like the hoops of a barrel, slunk past, its tail tucked low. It spared him a glance before disappearing behind a crumbling wall. Probably off to find a nice, juicy rat to gnaw on.

Lucky bastard.

Horndon-on-the-Hill, little more than a muddy smudge on its exposed perch, seemed a bit worse for wear.  Then again, he couldn't rightly recall it ever being a jewel in the King's crown. Just a straggle of houses, clinging to the High Road that snaked its way towards Tilbury and the river crossing beyond, huddled together beneath the watchful gaze of St. Peter and St. Paul's, where many of his neighbors likely now prayed for deliverance from hardship. But now, even that meager roadside life seemed to be fading. Roofs sagged, their thatch riddled with holes like moth-eaten cloth, walls leaned at drunken angles, their wattle and daub starting to crack, revealing the skeletal frames beneath

He passed the smithy, its door hanging crookedly. No smoke rose from its chimney, the sounds of the hammer and anvil now silent. He wondered if the smith had found his way across the sea as well.

A group of young women pulled water from the well. He saw the way their kithes hung loose on their thin frames. The girl who pulled the rope trembled as she drew up the bucket. Not much meat on those bones. Not much meat on any bones in this village, it seemed.

"Ho there! You!"

The voice, small and high-pitched. John stopped, turning to see a child running towards him, thin legs churning through the mud. A lad, no older than six.

"You! Got a farthing?" the boy asked, his eyes fixed on John's face. "Mam says..." He trailed off. “Well I need it, is all.”

John's fingers brushed against the few pennies he had left. Not enough. Never enough. 

"What's your name, lad?" he asked, his voice rougher than he intended. It had been a while since he had spoken to a child.

"Robin," the boy replied.

"Well, Robin," John said, "I might not have a farthing to spare, but..." He pulled a small, carved horse from his pouch, its surface worn smooth from years of handling. A trinket he'd made in the many empty hours on campaign. "How about this?"

The boy's eyes widened. He reached out a tentative hand and took the horse, his fingers tracing its carved mane. A slow smile spread across his face, transforming his features.

"Thank 'ee," he whispered, clutching the horse to his chest.

"You take care of it," John said. "It's a good horse."

The boy nodded, his eyes shining. Then, without another word, he turned and ran back towards the village, the gift clutched tightly in his hand.

John watched him go, the smile lingering on his face. He thought of his own daughter, little Mary. He hadn't seen her since she was a babe in arms, barely able to lift her head. He wondered if she was as thin and hungry as young Robin. The thought spurred him on.

His own house came into view, and his breath caught in his throat. It was smaller than he remembered, the thatch roof patchy and discolored, the walls bowed and cracked. He could almost see himself in that front room, seated by the window as he stitched heavy wool cloaks for the farmers or fashioned simple gowns for the village women. He could almost smell the lanolin and hear the pleased murmurs of neighbors as they examined his wares, spread out on the worn table that served as both workspace and shopfront. A time before the wars, before the plague, before the aches in his body. His hands tightened around his walking stick, the rough wood a jarring contrast to the smooth bone handle of his shears, now resting somewhere within, waiting to be held again.

This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source.

The warped door creaked open on hinges that hadn't known oil since the good times, whenever those had been. John stood in the doorway, the meager warmth  spilling out into the damp air. Home. 

He saw her then, by the hearth. Eleanor. Thinner, yes, her face drawn tight with lines that hadn't been there when he'd marched off to play soldier. She was mending, the long work of making do. Beside her, perched on a stool, was Mary.

His heart gave a strange lurch. She was the image of her mother, all dark hair and eyes that seemed to see too much for one so young. But those eyes, when they lifted to meet his, held no recognition, only the wary caution a child might show a stray dog. A dog that might bite.

He stood there, framed in the doorway, the shadows obscuring his face. For a moment, Eleanor didn't see him. Then, she looked up, her needle freezing mid-stitch. Her hand flew to her mouth, stifling a gasp.

Time twisted and snapped. The fire crackled, a log shifted and spat sparks, but John’s world narrowed to the shifting expression on his wife’s face. 

"John?" 

He couldn't speak. The lump in his throat was a fist, squeezing the air from his lungs. He'd dreamt of this moment on the eve of every engagement, her smile, and the warmth of her in his arms. But the reality of it, the naked emotion in her eyes, hit him like a pike through the chest.

The scrape of Eleanor's chair against the packed earth broke the spell. As she stood, Mary scrambled off her stool and darted behind her mother's skirts. 

"You're alive," she said, her voice rough with unshed tears.

"Aye," he croaked, the word dragged from the depths of him. "I'm back."

A thousand apologies warred on his tongue, for the years lost, the pain he'd caused, the life he'd left behind. He said nothing, and he rubbed his hands together.

She stopped a pace away, her eyes raking over him, as if searching for the man she knew in the wreckage of war.

"I... I'd given up hope," she said.

He nodded, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. He knew the feeling.

 Eleanor looked down at her daughter, then back at John. 

"Mary," she nearly whispered. "It's your father. He's come back to us."

Mary's eyes, wide and dark, fixed on John. She didn't move, didn't speak, just stared at him with an intensity that was both unnerving and heartbreaking. After a long moment John knelt, wincing as his bad leg protested, and looked into his daughter's eyes. He tried to smile sweetly,  but his face felt stiff and unfamiliar with the gesture.

"Hello, Mary," he said. Then, on a sudden impulse, he added, "My little mouse."

It was the nickname he'd given her when she was a babe, a name he'd whispered in her ear as he'd held cradled her on cold nights. He hadn't thought of it in years. 

“Ay, little mouse she is,” said Eleanor.

As he heard that name pass over his wife’s lips, something within John broke open.The dam within him burst, and the tears he had held back for so long flowed freely. He wept for the years lost, for the long cloying pain, and for the blessing of being exactly here, exactly now. 

"Pa?" Mary  whispered, the word a fragile, broken thing.

"Aye, little mouse," he said. "It's me."

Eleanor stepped aside, her hand gently guiding Mary forward. She took a tentative step towards him, then another. She moved slowly, hesitantly, as if approaching a cat that might bolt at any moment. But she didn't stop. And when she finally reached him, she didn't flinch when he reached for her.

He gathered her into his arms. She felt so small, so fragile. She buried her face in his shoulder, both of them shaking with sobs. John could feel her tears wetting his tunic.

"Papa," she whimpered, the word muffled against his shoulder. She clung to him. And he held her close, forehead to forehead. He buried his face in her hair, and breathed deep of the scent of woodsmoke and something sweet, like wildflowers. He didn't try to shush her, didn't try to stop her cries, or his own. He just held her as the long years of waiting poured onto the dirt floor. 

He looked up, over Mary's head, and met Eleanor's gaze. Her eyes were also shining with tears, but she was smiling at him. It was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.