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CHAPTER FOUR
The rain pattered hard on the roof and the dark night lit up with the occasional flashes of lightning. It was so cold that Christian stretched an old, torn woolen blanket over his body. Then it hit him: the leaks!
With a moan, he rolled out of bed and picked up three metal buckets from a shelf in the dark hallway and carefully navigated the small farmhouse he shared with his mother and younger sisters. He knew the notorious spots in the little house and didn’t even have to carry a lamp before he heard the lowdrip-dropsound.
“There you are: culprit number one.” He looked up at the ceiling where a dark spot formed and the rained dripped through. A drop caught his face as he placed a small bucket under the leak.
There was another spot in the living room, and this one was worse than the first. The drops fell much faster, tapping the stone floor like a drum. They’d already created a small pool of water, which threatened to start flowing as soon as a few more drops settled in. The metal bucket clanked when Christian placed it down. He grabbed a mop.
“You’re quite the stubborn one, aren’t you, culprit number two?” he muttered, sliding the mop over the patch of water until the floor glistened. Thetap-tapsound became a deepclankwhen he shifted the bucket under the trail of water.
“You’ll be full by morning at this rate,” he said and skipped over to the last spot by the door in the small kitchen.
On his way back to bed, he dropped by the small room his sisters shared. Standing by the doorway, he smiled fondly when he saw the four little bodies spread out on the two mattresses they shared. For a moment, he watched them stir quietly even while it rained and thundered outside. He’d do anything to keep the storm at bay, to let them sleep in peace.
His eyes went to the worn curtains, which were snapping from the blowing cold night air. He left the room and came back a moment later with two extra blankets—one of them his own. Quietly, he stepped into the room, past the shadows of stuffed animals and old dolls, and spread the blankets over them, tucking all four of them in. He stepped back and took one last look at them, then he too went off to sleep.
***
The next morning, Christian opened his eyes as the rising sun spilled through the cracked glass of his window. He pushed off the sweaters he’d used as a makeshift blanket and scanned his more-than-modest room—with not much more than a wooden desk and bed—for new leaks. Nothing. He sighed in relief.
“Time to start the new day,” he said with a yawn and got out of bed. Peeking out the window, he saw the glisten of wet grass shining in the sun. The day was clear, warm, and pleasant.
Christian stretched out his long arms and felt his muscles loosen. He bent over and touched his toes and turned to his left and his right, the cracks along his spine like little knocks on wood. He rubbed his hand over his bare chest, subconsciously sliding his finger across the small scar close to his neck—an accident he’d had with a nail when he was young. His daily manual labor gave him his athletic build, his arms strong and bulging, his height at six feet even.
“That’s a good thing, you know?” his mother would always tell him when he was younger. “Women like tall, strong men.” His chin had the beginnings of a black stubble, which he would shave off soon. His hair was trimmed, dark, and smooth. Not long enough to make a man bun like the warriors in those fancy American movies, but nice and practical and neat.
While rubbing his back, Christian turned to his worn-out mattress and cast an accusing glance at it. “This one’s your fault.”
He picked up a white shirt and slipped his arms through it, linking together the four buttons that were left on it and heading for the door, but not before taking a glance in the mirror at himself. “Looking like a man who will land a big tour today,” he said. Then he walked out the door, having to bend slightly under the low-hanging doorframe.
The buckets in the living room had filled with water from the rain last night, with the larger bucket almost spilling over. He grabbed them and went outside, dumping out the contents. Even though he knew the roof needed fixing—again—he didn’t let that dampen his spirits as he reached for the last bucket and tossed the water.
The air smelled of freshly cut grass. Their old, white farmhouse was located in a small village in Transylvania. It wasn’t much, the old house, but it was home and home always gave him a sense of security. Once in a while, when he had some free time, he’d carry planks and nails, clutching a hammer between his teeth, and try to fix the “bad spots” in the old house. Technically, almost every part was a “bad spot,” but since his father had suddenly passed of a heart attack a few years back, the duty of keeping up the place and taking care of his mother and four sisters fell entirely on him—which he accepted wholeheartedly.
Christian stared up at the sky. The sun cast warm rays over the grass and the aged, mossy wooden barns. Birds fluttered past, chirping and circling in the air. They reminded him of his days as a little boy, when he’d played in haystacks and chased butterflies with other village children through the market crowds and the idyllic, small alleyways.
He walked toward the barn’s red, wooden gates, behind which he could hear the deep snorting of their cow.
“Good morning, old lady,” he greeted the cow as he pushed open the squeaky barn doors. “May I request some of your milk?” He patted the large, friendly animal’s face. The cow grunted and mooed at him.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” he said and took a seat on a shaky wooden stool and settled the bucket under the cow. “Don’t know what we’d do without you.” He squirted fresh milk into the bucket. They’d had to sell most of their livestock when his father passed away. Moomoo, as the girls called her, and a few chickens were all that they had left.
“Thanks for the milk,” he said and patted the cow, again receiving a low grunt. His sisters had often chided him for talking to the animals like a crazy person.
“They sense your feelings,” he’d told them. “So if you’re sad or angry or unhappy, they know.”
“Really?” the girls had asked, wide-eyed.
He’d nodded. It was what his dad had told him when he was a boy, and he’d accepted it as truth.
He moved along the barn to the chicken coop, the steady clucking of the birds ringing through the air. The hens were all pecking around, some sitting on stacks of hay.
“Morning, ladies.” Christian scanned the coop. He grinned when he spotted the eggs, but his smile wavered when he counted just six of them. Not enough for everybody, again. He placed the eggs carefully into his basket.
“I’m sure we can do much better tomorrow, ladies,” Christian said to the chickens as he carried the eggs and the bucket of fresh milk to the house.
He was in the kitchen, a cramped room with old flower wallpaper and outdated appliances, making breakfast when he first heard the thumping of feet and the tiny voices of the girls. The eggs sizzled in the pan while he whistled and moved from one corner of the tiny kitchen to the other, picking up the tin of salt and pepper.
