Not sentimental by tom weston

Not Sentimental

he landlord of the Green Dragon Tavern rubbed wistfully at the tankard in his left hand with the cloth in his right, and sighed. “Come on,” he barked at his one remaining customer. “Some of us have to go to bed, so we can get up again before light.” “Some of us do indeed,” replied Harry the Farmer. “One for the road, then I’ll say goodnight.” “You had one for the road several drinks ago.” “This time I mean it.” Harry the Farmer had one more for the road and said goodnight. Using the bar for support, he climbed to his feet, a little wobbly on his legs. “You want that one of my lads should see you home?” “After all these years, I reckon I can find my own way home.”

Not Sentimental Harry the Farmer stumbled into the darkness, straightened up and whistled. An elderly sheepdog, named Ben, slowly got up from his station as night watch at the door of the tavern and went to his master’s side. Now farmers are not sentimental folk by tradition, they cannot afford that luxury. The farm cannot sustain idle hands, hooves or paws. And any man or beast no longer able to do a job at the farm simply had to go. Ben had outlived his usefulness as a working sheepdog many years before, and by rights that should have been the end of him. But Ben had been the old man’s favorite. The farmer remembered Ben’s arrival into this world, his playfulness as a pup, his eagerness to learn, his gentle cunning as a herder and his fierce loyalty. Once, some years earlier, Ben had stood between his master and a bear and faced the beast down. Harry felt that heroic act worthy of a reprieve from execution, perhaps for just a day or two, nothing more. The days had turned to weeks and months and years. And over the years the farmer and his dog remained inseparable. When the farmer visited the Green Dragon Tavern of an evening, Ben would jog beside him and stand guard at the tavern door while his master drank inside. Ben never left his post, come rain or shine. The landlord’s wife, who was sentimental, created a lean-to for the dog, shelter for when the east wind howled and the snow fell thick. Tonight was such a night. Before he continued the dreary hike to the farm, Harry the Farmer halted, pulled his cap low and wrapped his jacket tight around. Ben trotted at his side, sometimes behind, sometimes in front, as called for by the situation, to prevent his master from a stumble over a fallen branch or a tumble into a roadside ditch. Harry turned right and hobbled toward the village green. Ben, showing that his instincts as a sheepdog remained intact, turned his master around and pushed him left, towards the farm, 2

Not Sentimental as easily and tenderly as if the dog returned a stray lamb to the flock. “Perhaps for just a day or two.” Harry the Farmer was not sentimental.

As they reached the West Wood, the howl of the wind died to a whisper and the old man felt a sudden warmth, calm and comforting. Ben peered back into the darkness, down the path they had just travelled. “Come on, Ben, keep up,” commanded the farmer as he headed toward the river. Ben sprang into action to divert his master towards the road home. The cold and the wind returned. When they reached the fork in the road where the path divided, one way to the farm, the other to the mountain, the farmer hesitated, as if no longer certain which was the true path. Again he felt warm and again a silence fell on his ears. He felt in need of a little rest and leaned against a tree. Ben barked at him to rouse him from his slumber. “What’s the matter with you, boy?” asked the confused farmer. “Let’s get to farm before we turn to ice.” He began to take the mountain path, and once again Ben corrected him. “This way, you daft creature,” shouted Harry. “Have you been at the landlord’s mulled wine?” Ben would have none of it and barked in denial. When it came to herding, he was second to none. The farmer had no choice but to take the road Ben had selected for him, the road back to the farm. 3

Not Sentimental “Oh, no, wait, that way it is? Good dog.” The frozen wind once again stung the farmer’s face. “Come on, dog, stay close.” The snow increased its tempo, and Harry took many missteps, but eventually, with Ben as a constant chaperon, the farmer and his dog reached the comfort of the farm house. As they entered, Ben turned and glared at the darkness. “What is it, Ben? What’s out there?” The dog turned and trotted in. Harry looked out across the farm, but could make out nothing more than the hazy silhouettes of sheds and trees. He shrugged and closed the door. Harry’s wife had already retired for the night, but she had left the fire lit and the farmer decided to have one more nightcap before he called it a day. He sat in his arm chair by the fire. Ben lay at his side. Harry watched the flames dance and felt the warmth return to his toes.

Harry the Farmer must have nodded off, for the fire had burned low, although the room remained peculiarly warm. As he threw a log on the fire he thought he heard something from outside. No, that was wrong. He heard nothing from outside and it was that absence of sound which puzzled him. But Ben, with sharper hearing, had heard the rap on the door, and in an instant was at the front door, alert and prepared. The farmer tilted his ear to the door. No new sound came, but the farmer knew that someone was at the door, and even suspected he knew the identity of that person. He reached for the

Not Sentimental handle. Ben lodged himself between his master and the door, and would not permit Harry to open it. “Now, Ben, don’t mither,” said Harry. But the dog was insistent and pushed his master back and back until the farmer had no choice but to tumble into his armchair. Nevertheless, the farmhouse door opened and the loyal Ben once again stood between his master and whatever danger he faced. Death appeared, his black garb highlighted against the snow white back drop. Death entered and Ben growled. Death halted, showing some hesitancy at the sight of the dog, and waved a bony hand in Ben’s direction as if commanding him to be silent. The dog complied. “You’ve come for me at last,” said Harry the Farmer. “You are not afraid or surprised?” asked Death. “Afraid? No. Surprised neither. I’ve felt you near these past few days. Drunk or nay, warmth on a cold winter’s night don’t come natural.” “You have avoided me.” “Well, that does come natural. What creature doesn’t want an extra day or two?” “Even when you have outlived your usefulness?” The farmer shrugged. “But you have lived your days well,” said Death. “That I have, and no regrets.” “Now you have reached the end of your days and must come with me.” Death moved towards the farmer, but Ben maneuvered between them, and would not allow Death to reach his master. “It seems that at least one creature believes you still have worth. He has thwarted me several times tonight.” “How so?” “I waited for you by the river. I waited for you in the mountains. Each time he led you to take a different path.” 5

Not Sentimental “Pay him no mind, he’s just a sentimental old thing. Down, Ben, sit down.” Ben refused. “Nonetheless, perhaps I have come for you too early. Perhaps you are worthy of a reprieve,” said Death. “Perhaps for just a day or two. For I am not sentimental.”

Next morning, Harry the Farmer awoke from his dream and surmised that he must have fallen asleep in the chair. His wife stood over him. She scolded him as a good-for-nothing who neglected his duties and allowed fires to die on a winter’s night. Harry had to agree. He felt cold. Cold and alive. Years later, when Harry the Farmer eventually passed away, the wake was held at the Green Dragon Tavern. The old man had been much loved by his family and well-liked by the villagers, and so the turnout was great. “He shall be missed,” said the landlady. “That he shall,” said the landlord. “A good and reliable customer.” “Although,” said the landlady, “I’m surprised that he didn’t pass sooner.” “Why do you say that?” “Well, you remember his dog, Ben?” “Aye, good dog that!” “Once Ben’s herding days were done, the naysayers had called Harry soft for keeping the dog around, but them two were so close, it was said that not even death could separate them. I always thought if anything happened to Ben, Harry would die of 6

Not Sentimental heartbreak soon after. So I didn’t think he’d live long after Ben got killed in the fight with that bear.” The landlord felt a pang of emotion rise within him and quickly moved to beat it down. “Now, Missus, don’t go getting all sappy in front of the customers. It’s not good for business.” “But had he listened to the naysayers, we’d have held this wake years ago. Shows there’s something useful even in the smallest thing, even when we can’t see it. That there is divine intervention or something like, I’ve no doubt.” “And I’ve no doubt,” said the landlord. “That the fact that the old man lived a good many years after Ben was killed proves that Harry the Farmer was not sentimental.”