Dominic Obraitis

Fortuna

It had not rained for two weeks. The ants claimed refuge from the summer heat in their hills, the birds in their nests, and the squirrels in their trees. The farmer found no such respite and was forced by necessity to make his monthly journey to the communal well at the edge of town. He said bye to his wife, untied his mule, and set off on his journey armed with his walking stick and eagle-like sight. He had made this same trek a thousand times, and not once did he complain or resent the simple but arduous task. On his way towards the wooden gate, a group of dusty, oblivious children ran in front of his path and sent a shudder through him that shook his weary spirit. Whenever he heard the carefree chuckles of the adolescents or saw them running at full speed to eat their lunch he was reminded of his frail state. He had grown old. Since he was ten years old, he had been working on the patròn’s estate, living in the same one-room red brick hut that he was born in. His translucent skin, brittle platinum hair, and malnourished appearance made the children scatter with fright in their hearts whenever he approached. The farmer was a sinewy skeleton blanketed in a taut skin covering. The other workers often referred to him as a specter that haunted the estate. His appearance betrayed his personality. The trials of rural life had hardened his exterior, but the beauty of nature had softened his soul. He removed himself from earthly concerns, besides his daily chores, and would seldom make conversation with his neighbors. They were far too young to say anything of importance. The farmer usually sat in the patròn’s gardens during his leisure time, listening to the bees and smelling the sweet lavender and cardamom plants, while the other tenants whispered about the triumphs, and more likely defeats, of the romantic revolutionaries. Recently the eastern front guerrillas had made it as close as two miles away from the capital, where the farmer lived. Rifle shots and stifled screams could be heard by the workers at night. The children would sometimes pretend to be soldiers and play with sticks that resembled gun barrels. The farmer did not place any emotion or expectation in the amorphous revolution. He had lived through five defeated revolutions, each one bloodier than the last. In his youth, the farmer would daydream about joining the freedom fighters, and he almost did. But those bygone days were like the memories of an old lover: bittersweet. The early revolutions captured the imagination of the whole country. Every night rebellious citizens would furtively turn on their radios to hear the developments of the guerillas; adjusting the volume so it was as silent as a mosquito’s hum. But it seemed to the farmer that whenever the rebels made considerable gains, the government would reclaim just as much land in another province. So, the farmer gave up on his dreams of equality and freedom, resigning his life to one of simplicity and duty. In any case, there were more pressing matters to attend to the chickens must be fed, the cows must be milked, the soil tilled, the food prepared, and the water collected. Revolutions demand sacrifices of body and spirit. They were complicated, nasty affairs. And at the end of it all, there was rarely anything to show for it. The farmer knew all of this and decided to continue living his straightforward existence.