Story for the Day: Leaving the Nest

You're twenty-one, Myndil. Get the hell out of my house.

At last, a place for Myndil was found in a neighbouring parish: it was at a newly established church, to be a caretaker of the building and the issuing grounds, and though the position was not what Myndil deserved, it was a something to get him out. Head Brother Crannach was given the office of breaking it to Myndil. He was a large and lumbering man, kindly and affectionate, one who had installed himself as a father figure for the orphans, one who had always been fond of Myndil and was sorry to see him go; like Myndil, Head Brother Crannach was fond of most people, had a tempered resolve, and had forbearance even for that which distressed him most. He was not one for long and laborious conversation, but communicated more effectively by gesture rather than word, and when he came to Myndil, to speak to him about what must be, his words and heart both failed him. He instead inclined his head and gestured toward the garden.

                “Oh, now?” said Myndil, adjusting his scapular. “I was just about to take in the water and let in the cow. She’s been in the pasture all day, and the clouds are coming in a little faster than I would like—“

                A hand on his shoulder silenced him. A pained look overspread Head Brother Crannach’s face.

                “Myndil-son,” said Head Brother Crannach, in a grim tone, taking Myndil by the arm, “c’mere to me, lad. Let’s have us a walk for a bit.”

                Myndil always listened readily whenever Head Brother Crannach said anything to him, and he went with him into the garden, where they walked amongst the first of the snowdrop and daffodil, Myndil remarking the how the violets were sure to come out soon, and Brother Crannach meeting his conversation with an, “Aye, lad,” punctuating every phrase.

                They walked to the far end and sat on the stone bench, Brother Crannach dreading the coming conversation and Myndil, too busy admiring the first signs of Spring, having absolutely no idea of it.

                “It really is a lovely day,” Myndil proclaimed, putting his hands beneath the front panel of his scapular. “A bit of a chill in the air, but the sun is out, and everything is beginning to thaw. I will miss the winter, however. I know it can be a difficult for the elderly and infirmed, but there is really nothing better than snow. I love when I can see my breath in the air—I still can--haah, haah—see the way it coils and vanishes—but the first few weeks of Spring bring about such a change—the trees are budding, and the grass is just beginning to—“

                “Lad,” Crannach began heavily, putting a hand on Myndil’s knee.

                “I know I have allergies and I will begin fits of sneezing soon-- Oh—“ Myndil paused, looking down at the hand on him. “Yes, Brother Crannach?”

                Myndil gaped with speaking anticipation, and Crannach sighed and stared at the snowdrops beside the well.

                “Ever think o’ things, lad?” Crannach began.

                “Oh, I know the answer to this one! I think of many things.”

                “Sure you do, lad. What I meant was, ever think ‘o what the world has to offer?”

                “Of course I do,” Myndil proclaimed. “I think about it all the time. I think about town and the coming holidays, I think about the music and dances in the square, I think about all the cheeses I haven’t tried and all the bread that was left over from yesterday that would go along quite well with a melt. I think about all the eggs I have to take in, because Sister Helena does not like going near the coop—the chickens do peck her a lot— well, they peck me too, only I don’t care much about it-- I think about all the laundry that needs to be taken down to the river and beaten out—“

                “I meant life beyond the orphanage, son,” Brother Crannach interposed. “Ever think about what comes after?”

                Myndil pouted in deliberation. “Well, I try not to think about it, because I want to finish my work first and appreciate everything the Lord has given me, but I suppose we all must consider what comes after sometime.”

                “That’s it, lad,” said Brother Crannach, giving him an encouraging pat on the back.

                “I own it is somewhat distressing to think about. I do wonder what the hereafter will be like and if it will be anything like how the Good Book says, with all the clouds and angels and golden gates, and Divine Judgement—but God will be there, and I should very much like to visit God at his home. He told me all about it once when I asked. God said there are many pillars and long halls, and that there are pits of fire that smell like brimstone and contrition—“

                “Aye, that’s good, Myndil-son,” said Brother Crannach, petting and placating him, “that’s plenty, but I meant do you ever think about leavin’ the orphanage and livin’ somewheres else?”

                Myndil blinked. “No. Should I?”

                “Well, yer gettin’ aulder, son.”

                “Well, one does get older by default, I think. I don’t know that we can stop aging—although there was that one fellow near the beginning of Creation--”

                “What I mean is,” said Brother Crannach, straining under a heavy heart, “lads yer age go aff to make their own way in the world, to find work and make a life for ‘emselves.”

                “Most do go away,” Myndil acknowledged, “but not all. You’re here.”

                “Aye.”

                “And you’re older than me.”

                “Aye, I am that. I’m also anointed and ordained by the abbot, and I’ve dedicated my life to carin’ for wee-uns and bringin’ ‘em up by the Grace of God.”

                “Then that’s what I’ll do,” Myndil proclaimed. “I’ll stay here and help you.”

                There was an awkward pause. “Well—you see, son—you can’t.”

                “I can’t? Oh.” Myndil glanced at his feet, swung them a few times, and played with his thumbs. “Well, why not?”

                “’Cause, er—“ Brother Crannach glanced nervously about. “—‘Cause we don’t need anymore Brothers or Sisters here.”

                “But I love it here. I love everything about the orphanage. I love you and all the children.”

                “Aye,” said Brother Crannach, averting his eyes to hide his tears. “Yer not makin’ this easy, lad— Look, the Lord needs you elsewhere, so no matter how much you love it here, the orphanage can’t keep you forever.”

                “But, I do live here, don’t I?” said Myndil, in a softened voice. “And I don’t think I am very much in the way, and even though I am tall, I don’t think I take up that much space—I do have my own room, but I love my room and my bed.”

                “Well,” Brother Crannach hemmed, “there are others who’d love it too.”

                “I love doing all my chores. I love getting up early to the ring the bells and bring in the bath water, even when the water is ice cold and it whips me in the face when I put the basin down. I love the garden and sward, and I love pulling up all the brassicas and feeding them to the goats that love biting my fingers. I love the dairy and the byre—I don’t even mind it when Bessidh kicks me during milking anymore--”

                “Aye, yer right helpful round here, son. No one’s denyin’ that, but don’t you want to get on with life? Learn a trade and that?”

                “Should I? Well, I already know how to make titles and do waddle walls. I don’t know that I would be very good at brickmaking or hedgelaying. I am useless for masonry, because I talk too much to make the chisel go straight, and I don’t think I should make a very good blacksmith either.”

                “Well, what else’re you good at?”

                Myndil hummed and considered this. “I’m very good at running away,” said he thoughtfully. “I’m also good at being kicked by cows and horses.”