Snowfall

The sky turns the most amazing shades if you sit still long enough to watch it. I\'ve been watching it for hours now. The pitch black of night that becomes a deep velvety blue eventually lightens to shades of purple and pink. Laying here I\'ve gazed at all these changes with a rapt fascination of a person who might expect to find the wonders of the universe in those shifting colors. Perhaps I could, had I long enough to ponder it, but I don\'t have that time. Odd that I\'ve never paid attention to it until now when I cannot do this soul searching true justice. Isn\'t that always the way of things? A little too little and always a little too late? I sound cynical don\'t I? I have reason to be, I assure you. Let me explain, from the beginning.

I was born on the winter solstice, the shortest day of the year. My father was shoved unceremoniously out into the cold night while my mother was giving birth. My mother brooked no nonsense and though my father was very much the master of the house, there were times when she showed him that she was every bit as strong and hard headed. She pointed to the door and the midwife hurried my father out into the cold.
He stalked the outside pacing a path in the snow just in front the small home. Hours passed and my father eventually resigned himself to being in the cold for the duration of the night. He told me later that the snow began to fall, he stood still and began to watch it blanket the earth. The soft whiteness of the new snow, so pure was like the innocence of the new life that he was waiting to see. He said that it was one of the rare moments when you realize that the creator had plans for us all. My father was a devote man but not overly spiritual so this was a unique memory in his life. I suppose things like the birth of your first child cause such thoughts even out of the hardiest plain thinking farmer. Even as he stood watching the snowfall my newborn cries filled the air. It was not long before the nurse allowed my father entrance into the small cottage and presented me into his arms. He named me Albin meaning white in honor of that brief moment of philosophical thought. So on the longest night of the year, I, Albin Nachton was born.
The deep musings on the night of my birth did not last long after it, my father was a farmer and the practical needs of raising a family and bringing a new born son through the rest of winter kept him firmly focused upon the reality of life in the middle ages. Oh, I didn\'t mention that did I? The Middle Ages, a time when life was hard but simple, the church ruled us all, including our kings.
I found life as the son of a farmer quite pleasant. People perhaps find this surprising but look at it as I see it. I spent my time in the sunshine, I learned to work the land and tend the animals. Life involved working but it left my thoughts free. My problems began around the age of 6. I was pale and small, my father felt working me harder would put muscle on me, but it helped very little. The sun didn\'t seem to do more than burnish my skin with a golden hue and though I rarely burned, I also rarely tanned. My hair was an unruly mass of golden curls that I was forever pushing away from my eyes. Eyes the color of the blue sky on a cloudless day with long dark lashes to hide them when I sat with my gaze down cast for another lecture on the merits of working hard in order to become a man my family could be proud of. These things combined made me appear more a girl child than a male.
The other boys my age found me an easy target, I was small and easy to push around. My mother admonished me time and again that it was far better to forgive than fight. So I tried to avoid the confrontations as much as possible. The Lord wanted us to turn the other cheek, I personally felt that it was best to keep both my cheeks and the rest of my body out of harms way. This could only be done so often and events in town and times when we went to mass brought me into contact with the others. Knowing my fears, they hounded me. Like the fear scent of a rabbit, the other boys seemed able to hunt me down no matter where I tried to hide. I was becoming rather creative with it, or at least I thought. I would hide in the wagon amongst the items we\'d brought to barter, in the church underneath the pews and wait until I felt it safe to crawl out once more. Surely they\'d have found some other form of brutish entertainment by now. But that rarely seemed the case, not when there was a frightened little waif of a boy to torment. No more fun could be had than this.
Looking back upon those times I am lucky that they never caused me permanent harm. I came home with many a bruise, cut or blackened eye but bones were never broken. Still my father felt that I was an embarrassment to the family name. He raged at me to defend myself. At least fight back no matter if I failed, there would be honor in that. Cowering under sacks of grain while other children played was no way to bring pride to my family. He tried to teach me to fight and I learned the moves. I was able to punch and kick the practice dummy with a ferocity that my father found encouraging, however when it came time to test these skills upon another living being I couldn\'t bring myself to do it; harm someone, to be the cause of their pain.
This was a great character flaw in my father\'s eyes. I was not a man and he feared I should never be. He roared at my mother for tending my wounds and \'coddling\' me too much for his liking. How would I ever grow up and take over the farm? Did she long for a girl child? Indeed, she probably did. Looking back on these days I realize that a part of my father\'s fear was the lack of children. Many of his friends had four or five by now and he had but the one sickly boy who seemed to get no larger and would not fight even to protect himself.

It was in the summer of my eighth year that my life changed forever. I had done my chores and was given the rare treat of being able to go down to the river in hopes of catching some fish for dinner. This I could do. It gave me plenty of time to enjoy the beauty of nature around me. I always felt somewhat guilty fishing; it seemed to be standing idle while the day was passing by. No doubt my father would agree but that it proved I was rather skilled at it. It came from watching the fish and seeing where they liked to go at various parts of the day. Most of the time I came home with enough fish for several dinners. This particular day I had already caught enough for the night\'s meal and was hoping for a few more when I heard the sounds of laughter drawing closer. That would be the end of my fishing, who ever was headed this way would surely scare the rest of the fish away. I made my way to the shore from where I had been standing out on a rock over looking a nice shaded spot where the water was less turbulent. I had hopes of getting out of sight before the voices caught me but it wasn\'t to be. Geoffrey Thomas, a large ruddy complected boy with straw colored hair led a group of friends over the stones. They spotted me just as I reached the line of fish and made to leave. I did what any small kid would do when faced with those who\'ve harmed them in the past. I ran. Now, I might not be big, but I was fast. I dare say that normally I would have outrun them easily had it not been for that ill-fated moment. I turned back to look over my shoulder. You know they say never look back...I tell you this is good advice. Still I looked back and saw to my relief that I was actually well ahead of the pack of boys and that is when it happened. My foot hit a large stone and I went crashing to the ground sprawled face first in the tall grass. It went worse for me for trying to escape and giving them a good hard run. No doubt each of them realized that I would have been safe had I not fallen.
It was the worst beating of my young life. I could not move when they were done, I moaned and whimpered but after a while even that stopped. No doubt they feared me dead, for I had stopped moving and lay curled in a limp ball. Dusk fell and still I lay there, night came and with it the cold but I could not move. I heard my father in the distance shouting my name but I could not speak to answer him. I thought I was going to die. The next day I was found some time in the late afternoon by my father and one his friends. One of the boys was with him, attack of conscience it would seem. When my father went to ask for aid in searching for him the boy agreed to go along. Of course he knew exactly where I was and so I was found. That I had been severely beaten was obvious, and the boy\'s father was no fool. He went to strike his son, yelling at him for preying on the weak. I managed to speak a small word, just one. \"No\"
They were stunned into silence. My father bent to pick me up and I managed to open my eyes a small crack though they were swollen near shut. Looking at one of my tormentors I smiled faintly and then tilted my head to his father. I would love to say this was done with some grace but in truth it flopped like the fish that were lying scattered on the ground baking in the sun.

\"Don\'t hurt him. He regrets.\" I whispered. I could see the guilt in the other\'s eyes and I knew it were true. Alone without his friends things looked different. I was not simply a weak toy for them to kick around but another living being. One he feared was dead because of his cruelty.
His father looked from me to his son and lowered his hand. He looked at my father in bewilderment.

\"He\'s like the Lord\'s own son, Addam. To be forgive\'n after such punishment. I do wonder if ye\'ve got there some holy child.\"

The man clasped his son roughly by the arm and carried him away. I heard their words, as they grew more distant. The man told his son that if the Lord wished to spare the boy the beating he so richly deserved it was not for him to say otherwise, but he\'d be daft if he expected not to be punished for it. They were too far away for me to hear clearly what that punishment was but it sounded like it involved chores and church, a dreadful combination in the eyes of most young people.

For myself I can\'t say that it was as saintly a motivation as it appeared. In truth I figured it was my one chance to help out one of my attackers and have them be indebted. Seems like a complex plan for a child of eight? I was a complex kid.
My father took me home and it would take weeks before I was able to walk again. Looking back on things I would guess that there was internal bleeding. I was lucky not to suffer pneumonia on top of it after laying on the cold hard ground all night.
There were many quiet discussions when it was thought that I was sleeping. My father seemed very influenced by the words spoken by the other man. Despite my mother\'s pleading, he had decided that it was for my own benefit to send me to the nearest abbey for training as a monk. My mother was heartbroken. I was her only child and she did not want to give me up so soon. My father appealed to her maternal protectiveness, saying that I would be safer there than here. I would always have a place to live, there would always be food to eat and I would get an education. It was nearly unheard of for the eldest son to be sent to a monastery much less an only son. My father felt it was the will of God and he would not be swayed. My mother did eventually agree, in her heart I suppose she knew that my father was right.

For my own part, the idea scared me. I was just a child and though I was curious, this would take me away from everything I ever knew. Just as those that are abused sometimes do not wish to leave their abusive homes neither did I want to leave this life that I had grown accustomed to. My father was stern man and the work on the farm was difficult but I had freedom and most of the time I was happy.
My father did not wish to hear my pleading either, once his mind was made up there was no changing it. When he deemed me well enough to travel he packed up my meager belongings and took me to the Abbey. There I was given into the care of Father John. Funny, I never knew him by any other name. The church was a small building that was staffed by only 6 brothers, Father John and now myself.
Father John was a kind and patient man. He seemed to see me as a true test from God, to be allowed to teach someone from a young age to know the ways of the Lord was a blessing. So he said. He began by teaching me to read and write and I thought he\'d given me the world. Here was knowledge from places I\'ve never been, written by people long ago dead. I was amazed. Granted I was only shown those works approved by the Holy Church but I felt that plenty sufficient to keep me happy.