Cousin Seth had always lived on his own. It
was his way.
“Some people need folks”, he would say” and some don’t , that’s just the
way of it”. Then he would stuff his pipe with old Boulder with the back of a
spoon as was his habit, stoop to pick a taper from the pot on the grate and
touching it to the fire before lighting the clay pipe. He would pause and take
a puff and the billowing smoke billowed out enveloping the one roomed dwelling place in an ashy fog,
filling each and every surface until the only bright light came from the
gnarled oak roots burning in the fireplace, their flames like cherry coloured paper
licking the shroud of pipe smoke.
And it was hard to imagine him in a scene
of domesticity, with a wife and family, strapped into a collar and waistcoat
with a bright pocket watch hanging from a golden chain.
“What need I a wife? The woods are my only
love, the animals of the forest my children” and indeed he was as suited to his
ramshackle abode at the edge of the
Ragged Wood as the hazels and alder that
grew up against his walls, providing shelter and rendering the structure
impossible to see from the eyes of passersby. Only the plume of smoke emerging
from the single chimney gave way his position in the wood and that only by
intention. Manys the dark, wintery night when no fire was lit to keep the
fingers of darkness from his window or give protection against the cold.
Seth was a man of unnatural height. Taller
than any in the village. He walked with a bend in his back with gave him the air
of being shorter though it was probably an affectation so as not to draw
attention to his long limbs and elongated neck. His hair was kept long as was
the tradition of the men at that time but he did not tie it back with ribbons
or leather as was the preferred way of wearing it. It flowed long and wild,
grey as a badger. Never combed and often filled with bits of leaves and old
seeds from his long forages. I once saw him pull a beetle from the confines of
his mane, its tiny legs seeking purchase in the thick nest of his hair.
I
watched in interest as he stroked the tiny beetles back with a bony finger, the
nail of which was rimmed with earth and ragged. and he placed the beetle in a
glass jar upon the table where it attempted to climb the slippery walls only to
fall on its back again and again.
“Cousin
Seth” I asked as I sat at the table
drinking homemade cider out of a wooden vessel..
“Aye” he fixed his dark eyes upon me.
“What are you planning to do with that
there beetle?”
He wiped his dirty fingers on the bib of
his tattered shirt.
“Well, Cousin Bill, I plan on eating him
for my tea “ he picked up the jar and stared at the beetle, causing it to slide
back down to the bottom.
“Ain't much eating in a beetle “ I said
watching his face closely. People were always tricking on me and I had to be on
my watch.
He laughed suddenly. A joyful happy sound,
and the room seemed suddenly filled with the light of the late Autumn sun. I
joined him.
“I guess your’e right there” he said and he
unscrewed the lid and set it on its side. We watched the black beetle crawl
quickly along the glass and up over the lip of the jar to drop to the earthen
floor. It quickly escaped under the table.
He looked at me over the scarred, rough oak
table.
“Sometimes I just like to look at the
little creatures. They give me comfort”.
