Aftermath
A miscellaneous chapter in the life of the Clydesdale.
Aftermath
The dismal artificer's skills were apparent, resulting in a stunningly deceptive appearance. Claymore Jacob Edalstan looked more lively and robust than he had for many years, and, except for the context, one might never have guessed that he was neither. Claymore Highfield, gazing quietly at the polished wooden chest near the altar, could not bring himself to look at the old man's face
. His adopted father's descent toward this end had been quite rapid, though not unexpected. Mostly disoriented in his final years, the older, human Claymore had had moments of profound lucidity. It was one such moment that now brought solace to the younger, equine Clay. A late summer morning just recently past stood out in Clay's mind. As usual, he'd bathed and fed the old man before heading out to the barn and caring for the remnants of the family business.
He'd returned to the house about a quarter past eleven to start on lunch, and heard CJ calling from his room. "Son, is that you?" the old man called. "Can you come in here?" In actuality, CJ's son Phillip had perished in the war, and grief had driven the old man to alcoholism and neglect of his farm. When the man/horse had appeared some years later, bedraggled and near starved, dementia had already begun sapping the old man's mind. In the odd creature he'd discovered shivering in his barn, the old man 'saw' Phillip, returned to him from a distant, blood-drenched rice paddy. The delusion brightened CJ considerably, and Clay responded to the old man's muddled affection by working to repair the shambles of the farm.
In time, moderate prosperity had returned, and the old man was glad to find a willing student eager to take up farm craft. Until earlier in the summer, CJ had been physically vigorous. Clay remembered scrambling down the hall, rushing to the old man's room. "What is it, Pop?" he called, darting to his bedside. CJ's chest was heaving, and he was sweating much more than he should have been. "What's going on, let me call the doctor." "No, son. It's my time." Though he was having trouble breathing, CJ's voice was fairly strong. "I just needed to make sure you knew something. I've got my will in the safe deposit box at the Trust in town, you have the key?" Clay nodded, sitting on the bedside and taking the old man's hand. "It's fine, Pop, don't worry about it. Just take it easy." Clay's brow furrowed as he looked into the old man's blanched face, full of gray stubble. He appeared weak and even fragile, like the flame on a candle before it burns out. Only his eyes seemed more clear than they been in a very long time. "I want you to have the farm, son. And I want you to know that I'm proud of you, and glad to be your Dad. You know, that don't you son?" "Yes, Pop, I know that." Clay nodded, squeezing the old man's hand and looking away.
CJ's grip was beginning to relax, becoming flaccid as his voice grew more faint. "You know I love you, son?" the old man whispered. Clay's eyes watered heavily, and he was unable to speak, but nodded his head instead. His well-intended charade, standing in as a substitute all these years, at that moment seemed desperately wicked. "Look at me son! The farm is yours, everything I leave behind is yours. It's only right that the son inherit from his father." With a final, gentle squeeze, the old man gazed into the stallion's eyes, smiling as he whispered. "I know you are not Phillip, I've always known; but you are my son." Looking now at the old man's silent face within the wooden chest, Claymore's eyes again began to well up. "Good-bye, Papa," he mouthed, as the tears began rolling down his muzzle. "I love you, too."