Ok, I'll admit it; I've been pretty slack. I started off writing the prequel to Swallow with every intention of finishing it before 2019. Well, that ain't gonna happen. Don't get me wrong - The Sparrow and the Peacock is well under way, but I need some discipline so I've decided to post at least one draft chapter every two weeks to keep me on the straight and narrow. Feel free to comment (it's a draft after all), and I'll gladly take your feedback on board. (Please ignore formatting as I'll be posting straight into this blog).
Chapter 1 Autumn, 1900 "The boys simple I tell you—must take after your side of the family.” Karl Richter always spoke his mind. His wife, Klara, had long become immune to his toxic remarks, her disregard manifesting itself in dismissive retorts of practicality and common sense. “He is still a baby. No one expects a four-year-old to eat perfectly.” “Baby? Bah! I was eating with knife and fork before I could talk. Look how he only uses his left hand.” Klara drew in her scant eye-brows, challenging her husband with a scowl that wrinkled her nose in a most unflattering manner. “Karl, don’t be so ridiculous. Max will use his right hand soon enough. I will speak with the nanny. Consistency—that is the key.” She nodded and smiled at her golden-haired child, though she made no attempt to soothe him with a gentle stroke or motherly embrace. Seemingly annoyed by this moment of tenderness, Karl frowned and continued to rant. “How often must he be shown? I’ve lost count the number of times I’ve taken things from his left hand. He just doesn’t get it.” He raised his right index finger and shook it earnestly at his wife. “And I’ll not have a child of mine with such a defect.” "Left-handedness is no defect.” “Of course, it is. Everything is designed for the right-handed. It will put him at a disadvantage--it could even be dangerous. I’ve heard that lefties are more accident prone. Besides, he’ll be ridiculed, and he’s already too sensitive as it is.” Karl pinched and twisted the lobe of Max’s ear and though Max did not cry out, a tear trickled down the boy’s cheek. He quickly wiped it away with the palm of his left hand. “See! Again, he uses the wrong hand.” “Karl, leave the boy alone—you will turn him against you if you keep this up.” “Such a baby. Look how he cries.” The little boy turned to his mother, his lower lip trembling. She frowned but opened her arms to the boy, and he timidly moved towards her, keeping his gaze low to avoid any eye-contact with his father. “Klara, do not mollycoddle the boy.” “But Karl—” “Enough!” Max pulled away from his mother and ran from the room, barely able to see through his tears, down into the kitchen and out of the manor house. He stumbled across the yard, landing on the cobblestones, grazing his knee: more tears. Though in pain, he did not call for his mother or his English nanny. Instead, he ran to the field beyond the wooden fence that skirted the estate, past the avenue of elms and up a gently sloping hill to his special place, the old oak, where he crouched beneath its canopy and rocked himself into an exhausted sleep. It was mid-afternoon, and the sun shone sporadically through passing clouds of ashen grey. A cold gust swept over the boy, curled like a kitten, waking him from his slumber. With his pain now forgotten, Max extended his arms and released a yawn, rubbing his eyes and gaping up into a hostile sky: a flash, a boom, a drop of rain. The thunderstorm exploded, discharging a sheet of icy water that drenched the child in an instant. Max scrambled to his feet and ran, fighting the onslaught of rain as it pelted down, obscuring his vision to a blur. Though muddy and sodden, he ran into the house, to the drawing room, where his parents and sister sat propped in their usual places like marionettes, having coffee and cake. “Oh, my God. Look at the mud—and on the Persian rug!” Karl grabbed his son by the ear, dragging him from the room to the kitchen, where staff looked on with sympathetic eyes. “Look at you. Full of mud! How could you come into the house like that? No respect—but I’ll teach you!” Taking a seat, he drew the boy around, laying him on his lap: a whack, a whimper, another whack, then another. Karl paused to listen to the sniffling of his son, who, to his credit, withheld the urge to cry out aloud. Satisfied that justice had been served, Karl bustled Max back to the drawing room. “Now, you clean up after your mess. Go get a bucket of water and a cloth and be sure to use soap. God help you if you leave a stain behind!” It was a hard lesson learnt by one so young but one that Max would never forget—that the fine Persian rug meant more to his father than he ever would. Thank you
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