Part one – unfinished and late
The thick early morning haze hung low in the river valley trapped by two spiny ridges running in parallel. From the ridges, the crisp clean mountain air offered a view of the moon still hanging on to the horizon in the west and providing more light to the valley than the still rising sun in the east. In the valley itself, only the first inkling of light had begun to mingle with the fog’s dark grip.
The valley was more farmland than river as the fertile dirt was interrupted only by brambles and rivulets cut and etched into the land by its inhabitants to demarcate their possession. The patchworked farms did their best to resemble clean squares but disputes over the centuries among local lovers and faraway kings had distorted the shapes of the farms so that on a clear day every version of a rectangle could be seen from the tops of the ridges. The only non-conforming shape was the meager river that snaked its way from east to west through the valley. It was a scene typical of the land running up toward the Alpine foothills of France.
Down in the valley, the morning’s quiet was broken in an instant by the crash of a barn door opening and closing. Fernando was a Spanish man of 50 who’d arrived in the valley after the troubles began in Spain about 15 years prior. If he had known that same kind of trouble would follow him, he would have gone west. He hadn’t wanted to leave Spain, but he was neither a separatist nor a fascist. A grandmother he’d never met had been born in this valley and the papers his family had kept allowed him, his wife, and young daughter to cross the Pyrenees as the front moved closer in Spain. It wasn’t long after they’d arrived in the valley that the front from the north closed in on them too, and they’d had nowhere else in the world to go. They survived much the same way one survives a passing storm. As the forces swirled around them, they’d closed the windows to the outside and huddled together.
On this morning, he found himself standing in the still dark barn reaching for the stable latch where, by huffs and rustling he found Inés, the seven-year-old Aubrac cow. Her visible features were dulled by the early morning light, but Fernando often considered the phenomenon of standing in a small space with so massive a beast. It comforted and terrified him as her massive silhouette stood motionless in her stall. He patted her head and moved his hand to her shoulders as she leaned in like a dog. Her demeanor betrayed her size. She was intelligent and affectionate towards Fernando while also being a reliable farmhand. He rewarded her as any boss would their best employee. In this part of France, cows and oxen were still used to till the land and transport heavy items.
Fernando took her from the barn and led her into the morning light where her features struck him. He stood for a moment admiring his most prized possession. He’d gotten her from a Spanish friend who did not have space after Inés’ mom was more prolific in her rearing than expected. It had been a mutual favor as Fernando got a cow that he should not have been able to afford for a price he could, and his friend now had a favor owed to him. Inés had brown hair that lightened as it moved down her body until her hoofs looked like linen white socks. She was bigger than any female Aubrac Fernando had ever seen so he was always happy to have her pull the cart to town in case anyone had forgotten. He’d sit happily as the veins in her muscles bulged and shifted in unison. Most striking were her eyes. With her face of caramel colored hair her eyes sat like volcanic islands in the sea. A thick outline of black encircled her equally black eyes. They were not empty though, at least not to Fernando, and not in the way often seen in animals. They seemed to accept the fate offered to a beast of her stature with grace.
Andrew Witt 