At Least It's Not a Grandpa's Guitar
Feb. 1st, 2007 06:55 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dethoratsTitle: Stolen Minutes
Rating: G
Word Count: 855
‘I am in need of assistance. Could you please direct me to the nearest information booth?”
“I am in needs of asstistances. Could yous direct me to de nearests inframatshun boot…uh please?”
There, that was the last of them. Toki took off the bulky headphones with a tired sigh and slumped back into the unforgiving hard wood of his chair. English practice took a lot out of him, made his brain and his tongue tired and his ears always felt like they needed to be popped when he had the thick foam pads of the headphones over them deadening all other sound. But it kept him after school and away from the foreboding silence of his parents’ home and so he persevered every Tuesday and Thursday.
His father was against his only son learning English but, despite more or less ruling Hastanfjord with an iron fist, he could do nothing against the will of the Norwegian government. The people of the tiny village lived more or less according to very old ways, eschewing most modern conveniences. There wasn’t even electricity in the Wartooth household or in the church where the reverend spent most of his time. Still, as part of its effort to connect the far-flung citizens of the chilly, mountainous land, the government had installed a cell phone tower and maintained a small school house that also served as post office and bank for the village.
Most of the townspeople were on the dole. Well, not really on the dole as the community was largely self-sufficient and had little need for money to spend on outside goods. Goods and services were largely provided through barter but each qualifying person also received a governmental stipend from the oil profits. Additionally, the Norwegian welfare state provided Hastanfjord with a visiting doctor every two weeks and sent them a schoolmaster as was needed. The reverend Wartooth had protested quite vigorously against having an outsider teach the town’s children but the government had ignored him because the children would eventually be full-fledged Norwegian citizens one day and they would be required to know certain things. Hence, Toki learned English.
He couldn’t practice at home but that was, as he had reflected, just as well. Even if it did mean he had to do a good portion of his evening chores in the dark, he was grateful for the extra time to himself. And, in this his sixteenth year, the current teacher came with more than just idealism and the sort of plucky courage it takes to teach fourteen or so children of varying ages in practically the middle of nowhere and surrounded by hostile adults. It couldn’t compare to his lost Flying V, but the man’s banjo at least had a similar structure. Toki, once he had mustered up the courage to ask and managed to obtain a strict promise to NEVER let his parents find out, was allowed twenty minutes or so of playing time once his English practice was over.
It was just about the only time the banjo came out of its battered case in the closet behind the teacher’s desk in the main classroom. The poor man had quickly learned that music, anything outside of what were the basic educational requirements of the government, was prohibited in Hastanfjord. He felt sorry for the silent, hollow-eyed children, wanted to reach out to them and introduce them to a life beyond fear and cold, but he was alone and vulnerable out in the ice fields and even a small slip of a child’s tongue, he felt, could be costly. But he could help Toki, was more than glad to especially once he discovered he would be subverting the reverend’s very own son.
Almost reverently Toki opened the closet and took out the stringed instrument. He tuned it carefully, ears having finally become accustomed to the twangy nature of the strings that was so different from his lost guitar. Then, after locking his fingers together and stretching, popping his cold, stiff joints, he began to play. Music carried him away, far from Hastanfjord, old Latin prayers, and the endless howl of the wind that was all that usually filled the silence. The banjo had a different sound, not as wild or joyful as his guitar had been, but it was happy, good-natured and warm, at odds with everything around him. All too soon, his noodling and fingering exercises came to an end as the teacher entered the room with a sad smile. Toki was risking a great deal already by stealing away those twenty minutes and he couldn’t afford to indulge himself no matter how badly he might want to. So the banjo went back in the closet and Toki went out in the cold in a coat that was far too thin and short on his growing frame. Back to Anja and the reverend, to the cold flagstone floor of the church and then out to the cow shed for the evening milking. But at least it was Tuesday and that meant he only had a single day to wait before he could have music again.
Rating: G
Word Count: 855
‘I am in need of assistance. Could you please direct me to the nearest information booth?”
“I am in needs of asstistances. Could yous direct me to de nearests inframatshun boot…uh please?”
There, that was the last of them. Toki took off the bulky headphones with a tired sigh and slumped back into the unforgiving hard wood of his chair. English practice took a lot out of him, made his brain and his tongue tired and his ears always felt like they needed to be popped when he had the thick foam pads of the headphones over them deadening all other sound. But it kept him after school and away from the foreboding silence of his parents’ home and so he persevered every Tuesday and Thursday.
His father was against his only son learning English but, despite more or less ruling Hastanfjord with an iron fist, he could do nothing against the will of the Norwegian government. The people of the tiny village lived more or less according to very old ways, eschewing most modern conveniences. There wasn’t even electricity in the Wartooth household or in the church where the reverend spent most of his time. Still, as part of its effort to connect the far-flung citizens of the chilly, mountainous land, the government had installed a cell phone tower and maintained a small school house that also served as post office and bank for the village.
Most of the townspeople were on the dole. Well, not really on the dole as the community was largely self-sufficient and had little need for money to spend on outside goods. Goods and services were largely provided through barter but each qualifying person also received a governmental stipend from the oil profits. Additionally, the Norwegian welfare state provided Hastanfjord with a visiting doctor every two weeks and sent them a schoolmaster as was needed. The reverend Wartooth had protested quite vigorously against having an outsider teach the town’s children but the government had ignored him because the children would eventually be full-fledged Norwegian citizens one day and they would be required to know certain things. Hence, Toki learned English.
He couldn’t practice at home but that was, as he had reflected, just as well. Even if it did mean he had to do a good portion of his evening chores in the dark, he was grateful for the extra time to himself. And, in this his sixteenth year, the current teacher came with more than just idealism and the sort of plucky courage it takes to teach fourteen or so children of varying ages in practically the middle of nowhere and surrounded by hostile adults. It couldn’t compare to his lost Flying V, but the man’s banjo at least had a similar structure. Toki, once he had mustered up the courage to ask and managed to obtain a strict promise to NEVER let his parents find out, was allowed twenty minutes or so of playing time once his English practice was over.
It was just about the only time the banjo came out of its battered case in the closet behind the teacher’s desk in the main classroom. The poor man had quickly learned that music, anything outside of what were the basic educational requirements of the government, was prohibited in Hastanfjord. He felt sorry for the silent, hollow-eyed children, wanted to reach out to them and introduce them to a life beyond fear and cold, but he was alone and vulnerable out in the ice fields and even a small slip of a child’s tongue, he felt, could be costly. But he could help Toki, was more than glad to especially once he discovered he would be subverting the reverend’s very own son.
Almost reverently Toki opened the closet and took out the stringed instrument. He tuned it carefully, ears having finally become accustomed to the twangy nature of the strings that was so different from his lost guitar. Then, after locking his fingers together and stretching, popping his cold, stiff joints, he began to play. Music carried him away, far from Hastanfjord, old Latin prayers, and the endless howl of the wind that was all that usually filled the silence. The banjo had a different sound, not as wild or joyful as his guitar had been, but it was happy, good-natured and warm, at odds with everything around him. All too soon, his noodling and fingering exercises came to an end as the teacher entered the room with a sad smile. Toki was risking a great deal already by stealing away those twenty minutes and he couldn’t afford to indulge himself no matter how badly he might want to. So the banjo went back in the closet and Toki went out in the cold in a coat that was far too thin and short on his growing frame. Back to Anja and the reverend, to the cold flagstone floor of the church and then out to the cow shed for the evening milking. But at least it was Tuesday and that meant he only had a single day to wait before he could have music again.
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Date: 2007-02-03 12:05 am (UTC)GOD IT'S NICE TO FIND MULTIPLE OF THESE WHILE CATCHING UP WITH THE LAST FEW DAYS OF MY FLIST. Toki. Music. Toki. ♥
The background continues to be built up and fleshed out beautifully with little glimpses... as always, happy and eager for more.