It had been a while since his last visit, but finally the ex-ranch hand had returned to the place that reminded him most of home. With flared nostrils, he inhaled the warm, heady air, heavy with the scents of horses, straw, and leather. Other more subtle scents, overpowered by the others, mingled in his nostrils as he shut his eyes and savored the smell of home. For a moment, he could almost imagine he was back home, over an ocean away, standing in the barn in Montana. As much as he longed to lose himself in that memory, to step from reality into imagination as easily as a dream-weaver demon, he was stuck. His boots were planted firmly in the realm of reality and the floorboards creaked beneath his feet to remind him of that fact. With a soft grunt, he hefted the strap of his duffel across his shoulder before it slipped down his arm. Gunnar carried a bundle of cloth and cord tucked beneath his other arm. In all of Ireland, they were his only possessions. Nothing else on the emerald isle had ever been his, save the three banknotes he had given to the clerk at Overton or the dollars he had originally exchanged to get the Euros at the currency changer when he’d first arrived.
Opening his eyes, Gunnar looked across the stable and then stepped from the wooden floor of aged planks onto the hard-packed dirt littered with straw. The dried grass crinkled beneath the thick soles of his boots as he walked down the aisle between the stalls. Many of them seemed to be empty, and in the ones that weren’t, the horses slept. So far, the ex-ranch hand hadn’t seen a single person take one out on a ride. Granted, he knew that he didn’t have eyes everywhere, but he figured that after his time at the school, he would’ve noticed one person saddling up and taking a leisurely ride on the grounds. With a shrug, he let the thought pass as he checked each stall. At the end of the line of them, he found an empty one, tucked into the corner of the stable. It was larger than the others, almost twice the size of the rest, and it had a desk in it already and a rickety old cot that looked about ready to crumple beneath its own weight. “Someone must’ve kept an office in here at some point,” he muttered, giving the cot a nudge with the toe of his boot. The wood groaned, the joints protesting even the tiny bit of force. “Hafta git rid of that.” Gunnar swiped a hand across the desk, calloused fingers coming back gloved in dust. Wiping the grime off onto his thigh, staining the faded denim gray, he set his loads down on the recently cleaned surface. “Time to get to work,” he told himself as he took the folding cot and tried to collapse it. The rusted hinges refused to budge and after a few yanks and pushes, the wood splintered in his hands. “Figured as much…” he grumbled as he tossed the broken wood and canvas mottled with dust into the aisle outside the stall to dispose of later. Gunnar loosened the drawstring of his duffel and pulled out a small tool set. In a few minutes, he had holes drilled and eye-screws fastened into the stall walls, and a few minutes later, he had his hammock set up, spanning the far corner of the stall. “Not too bad,” he stated as he settled onto the stiff canvas, drawn taut by the cords laced through the ringed heads of the screws. To him, it was far more comfortable than the luxurious goose dawn-stuffed mattress he’d had back in his room in the men’s dormitory. In seconds, he was sound asleep, his tools still strewn across the desk, along with his open duffel.
Opening his eyes, Gunnar looked across the stable and then stepped from the wooden floor of aged planks onto the hard-packed dirt littered with straw. The dried grass crinkled beneath the thick soles of his boots as he walked down the aisle between the stalls. Many of them seemed to be empty, and in the ones that weren’t, the horses slept. So far, the ex-ranch hand hadn’t seen a single person take one out on a ride. Granted, he knew that he didn’t have eyes everywhere, but he figured that after his time at the school, he would’ve noticed one person saddling up and taking a leisurely ride on the grounds. With a shrug, he let the thought pass as he checked each stall. At the end of the line of them, he found an empty one, tucked into the corner of the stable. It was larger than the others, almost twice the size of the rest, and it had a desk in it already and a rickety old cot that looked about ready to crumple beneath its own weight. “Someone must’ve kept an office in here at some point,” he muttered, giving the cot a nudge with the toe of his boot. The wood groaned, the joints protesting even the tiny bit of force. “Hafta git rid of that.” Gunnar swiped a hand across the desk, calloused fingers coming back gloved in dust. Wiping the grime off onto his thigh, staining the faded denim gray, he set his loads down on the recently cleaned surface. “Time to get to work,” he told himself as he took the folding cot and tried to collapse it. The rusted hinges refused to budge and after a few yanks and pushes, the wood splintered in his hands. “Figured as much…” he grumbled as he tossed the broken wood and canvas mottled with dust into the aisle outside the stall to dispose of later. Gunnar loosened the drawstring of his duffel and pulled out a small tool set. In a few minutes, he had holes drilled and eye-screws fastened into the stall walls, and a few minutes later, he had his hammock set up, spanning the far corner of the stall. “Not too bad,” he stated as he settled onto the stiff canvas, drawn taut by the cords laced through the ringed heads of the screws. To him, it was far more comfortable than the luxurious goose dawn-stuffed mattress he’d had back in his room in the men’s dormitory. In seconds, he was sound asleep, his tools still strewn across the desk, along with his open duffel.
Last edited by Gunnar Sigmond on Sun Aug 15, 2010 7:39 pm; edited 1 time in total