On Nature

Part 1

Cenrith opened his eyes. The familiar, sickly sweet, aroma of a thousand hearth fires filled his nose. He let his eyes adjust to being awake and flexed his hands as he stared up at the ceiling. He always enjoyed looking at the underside of the thatch, observing the patterns and taking comfort from knowing the ancestors were watching over him.

The first rays of the morning sun began to seep around his door. He’d always been able to wake up just as the sun rose. Ever since he was a child, he felt that something deep inside of him was always watching the horizon, waiting for the first, subtle, brightening. He rose and stretched his arms. For the past few months, he’d noticed a little stiffness in his shoulders. He knew he should start making a new fire for the day, but he always allowed himself a little time to watch the sun rise. His family were all still sleeping, as he stepped through his door. His house, like the others around, all had their door facing south, to catch as much heat from the sun as possible.

This was the part of the day he enjoyed the most; he was alone, the only waking being as far as he could see. It was mid-Spring, the nights were still cold, but the days were warming. This early in the day, a low mist was hanging over the river in the valley below. He breathed in the fresh scent of the dewy grass and the morning air made fresh by a cloudless night. He looked over the vista that he’d seen since his first recollections. Even though he’d seen the same view every day of his life, he never tired of it: there always seemed to be something different. This morning he noticed aurochs slowly entering the plain, beyond the river. He felt a sense of calm as he took in his landscape. He felt a deep connection to the world; he knew everything to the horizon and back, like the back of his hand. He felt a wave of happiness flow through him as he continued to breathe in the fresh, early morning air. A chilled breeze blew up from the valley, bathing him in an invigorating cloak. He knew that his children, and their children, would take the same pleasure from the same views.

He sighed contentedly, knowing how lucky he was to have been born into such a beautiful area. Taking one final look before starting his day, he turned back into his small house, to construct a new fire.

* * *

Cyril grumbled to himself as he was startled awake by the knocker-up banging his window. Every day, except for Sundays, people would walk the streets, tapping on peoples’ windows, to awaken them in time for their shift in the mill. He shuffled over to the window, as his wife began to stir. He opened it and gave a curt nod to the knocker-up, watching as they moved on to the next window.

His house, like all others in the area, was small, but functional. Built into a long row of terraces, his street were like all the surrounding streets. Long roads with terraced houses either side. The company that owned the local mill provided the housing to the workers, as a benefit to working in the mill. Everyone on the street knew everyone else. It had a real sense of community. But as he watched the mist rolling across the river, separating the houses from the mill, he experienced an emotion he couldn’t quite put his finger on.

The mill was already humming away, belching coal smoke into the air. The acrid smell never seemed to disappear, even when it rained. He heard the distinctive rhythmic call of a collared dove. He was amazed that such a small animal would want to live anywhere near so many buildings, and in dirty air. Then he realized what his emotion was. A mixture of disappointment, sadness and maybe some guilt. He was convinced the valley that he lived in, the river and the plain beyond, where the mill now sat, used to be beautiful. Like many others, he’d been lured away from country life, with the promise of better opportunities and more money. However, he couldn’t help but think that maybe this wasn’t better. Maybe, what was here before was better.

He felt bad for the dove that he could still hear warbling on a chimney. He felt guilt that humans thought they could own every piece of land and do what they pleased with it. Everything around him was owned by the mill company. Even the water in the river. He tried to sniff the fresh morning air, the air he remembered from his childhood, growing up in a farming community. But all he got was the sickly sweet sting of coal smoke. Gone were his days of being able to walk through meadows and kick up clean dust. Everything here seemed to always be draped with a fine layer of soot.

“You’d best be hurrying if you don’t want Mr. Rooke to dock your wages for being late!” his wife called as she was getting up. He blinked, brought back to the present by his wife’s admonishment. He signed knowing that all the dreaming and regrets in the world wouldn’t turn back what everyone was referring to as progress. If this was progress, he’d hate to see what regression would be like.