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Night settled upon the camp. It had been a busy day for Arthur, collecting debts, selling stolen horses, chopping wood, and a small hunting trip. By the time he finally collapsed on his cot, the sun had long gone. Mostly everyone was asleep, the acception being a few drunkards by the fire. The only sounds were their chattering joined by he hum of Dutches sad excuse of music.
The brute had been exceptionally sensitive today. More distant, more quiet. He didn't feel it necessary to tell anyone why; it was his mothers birthday.
He rolled over while simultaneously wiping his damp eyes, lighting the lamp on his desk. A small glow lit what was near, a photo of Betrys Aerona Jones. She had been a quiet woman, which was almost visible in her expression, frozen in frame. But there wasn't a tale she didn't tell Arthur. Lyle had a Welsh ma and pa, but Betrys was Cymro through and through. "Unwaith nes i briodi dy dad, naeth e cyflwyno fi fel 'Beatrice' i'w theulu a ffrindau...mae jyst di sticio." She'd told him, as a small blonde boy had found old immigration forms with such an unfamiliar title.
The photo found its way to Arthur's large, gentle hands. With some fiddling, he managed to open the frame. Hidden between the portrait and wooden board was a small note, something she left in her final days. Written in her mother tongue, which meant it was only for Arthur. He was maybe 7 or 8 when he lost his dear mother. She didn't have any family in the West, and his father's family where coal miners in the South of Wales, so when Betrys passed so did his laugauge. He had no clue what that message said, but he could recall how the letters were supposed to sound, and the rhythm comforted him.
"Annwyl fy mab bach,
Yn anffodus hyn yw'r diwedd. Duw, dwi ddim yn gwybod sut i sgweni hyn yn ffordd priodol, ond gwybod sut gymaint rwy'n dy garu di. Gall dy tad bod yn creulon, ond mae'n caru ti hefyd. Ti'n bachgyn caredig a dewr, rwy'n sicr mae modd i ti bod rhywbeth well na dy rhieni ffiaidd. Mae yna dyfodol llachar yn aros i ti."
He'd love to know what it says, one last conversation with his mam. He knew he was too stupid to learn, so maybe he'll bump into someone on one of his adventures. That was something else he got from his mother. She was the youngest of four brothers, they used to take her exploring in the woods. She'd wear their shorts and boots to go help around the farm. They had this thing at schools called a "Welsh Not" that she'd fall victim to frequently. Apparently it was like a necklace attached to a wood slab with "W.N" carved into it, if a child used a Welsh word, they had to put it on. Whoever was wearing it at the end of the day, got a beaten. But Betys treated it like a game; it was a thrill for her, some sense of rebellion.
What would she say if she could see him now? If there is an afterlife where she's waiting, Arthur is not excited. But it's not like he's going to heaven anyway. Maybe he'd lay his head on her lap, like he would as a boy, and she'd whisper soft comfort in his ear. "O, cariad bach, be sy? Paid a chrio, rwân." The words were just sounds to him, but that strange accent was a warm solace.
Others spoke about their family often. Seán about his father, Charles and his mother, Sadie and her husband. Javier spoke about home, Hosea about Bessie, Pearson and the sea. But for Arthur, he'd rather these tender memories stay between him and Betrys. That way their stories and epoch could stay as they always were, a secret. Silly shrouded conversation from Lyle, or untold accounts from the gang. It'll always just be between him and her.