Bliss

Genice was your average dull remote village. Nested on the side of a mountain like seagulls on a rock cliff, sheltered by trees that witnessed more than they care to share. Quaint, peaceful place, where the church bell could reach every nook and granny wondering in the back alleys. The sound of the bell filled people with a sense of purpose.

Mr. Belcheck was born in this village. Wasn’t born a mister though. But was raised as one. Traditional parents, traditional rules, only letting in a whiff of the new. Thought him manners without mannerisms, religion without blind beliefs. And a craft without making him crafty.

At first, he hated carpentry, the splinters, the resin, the sawdust that would creep in everywhere. Yep, even there! But he has grown to love it, as they did back then. Mistake gratitude for love. Particularly enjoyed planing. Smoothing the surface, taking off the edge. Pure delight. And he was good at it too, so the initial dream of a modest workshop grew into a factory, with more food for the family and less work for his kids

When the village was rolled over by one of those wars that get started in the big cities for grand ideals and greater financial rewards his factory was the first to go. A strict general just pointed at it and it was requisitioned in the name of an ideal so great they couldn’t see it from this insignificant hamlet. Belcheck pleaded with the general, but the stiff man, molded by the heavy hand of academy instructors and generations of taking and giving orders wasn’t fazed by the selfish pleas of a shortsighted slob.

Life became a lot harder without the factory and the war devouring everything. Luckily the resident general was a stickler for grandeur and everything had to be polished. Including the benches and beds at the barracks. In those times before electricity, nothing beats hand planing for smoothness. And nobody was better at it than Belcheck. They subsisted on the crumbs they picked up from the army for all the flawless planks. So he spent much of his time in the tiny workshop where he started as a lad. The remoteness of the village spared them from most of the bombing and destruction, but even when a lost bomb exploded in the fields Belcheck wouldn’t hear it. Planing was good, planing was precise. Sharp. Sleek. Straight.

His young boys played in the workshop all day. Laughter filled the air, little boys shooting at each other with wooden guns. Smoothly chiseled by loving hands. Then a burst of laughter, a pine cone grenade landed, sending them all scampering for cover behind freshly planed boards. Neighbors would advise against letting the kids play in the workshop but Belcheck simply waved them off: rather have wood shavings falling on them then shrapnel.

One winter a friendly army stumbled upon the village and drove the enemy troops out. But the liberators needed the plant and a lot of timber too, so nothing really changed. The villagers struggled to differentiate between friend and foe.

Then suddenly the objective must have been reached or forgotten or something happened that only politicians could interpret but the war ended. The plant was blown up as a parting gift but Belcheck started clearing the debris as soon as the last tank was out of sight. He labored there every day but spent his evenings in the workshop. Planning ahead was prudent, planing that evening was necessary. Lose yourself in something you know. Something that has an easily identifiable goal and a clear cut way to it. All in your hands.

Years passed, the factory was rebuilt, his sons have grown into fine young men and together they increased the plant and the comfort for their family.

Then, on a lazy autumn afternoon, war descended on Genice again. Fuelled by another noble cause, no doubt. Older generals, younger soldiers. The factory was taken over again and the Belchek family was left fending on scraps anew. Still, the old workshop provided a little on the side. The aging hands of the carpenter slid instinctively over the bristly planks. His hands seemed smoother too.

The boys were not there anymore, they were dragged to the front for the greater good. Screaming filled the air, boys shooting each other with machine guns. Smoothly chiseled by hateful hands. Then a burst; a grenade landed sending all of them scampering for cover behind freshly slain bodies.

These screams couldn’t be heard in the workshop though. The only sound there was the rhythmic sliding of the blade, slowly chipping away every flaw and irregularity. The war sought to wipe all in its path too but it ran out of breath before old Belcheck did.

Got the plant back, got his sons back, one of them in a wooden box made out of unfinished timber. Belcheck took his plane, the jagged boards smoothened under his hands with a soothing simplicity. The family grieved, cleaned up the rubble and reconstructed. And multiplied.

Laughter soon returned to the household, sad memories were locked away in an ornate cupboard only to be opened on anniversaries. Belcheck would awkwardly smile when pestered long enough by his grandkids but generally drifted away on family gatherings. Buried in his thoughts his hands would inevitably reach for the plane. And a rough board.

Fresh winds from the east reached the village. New ideas that will undeniably transform the world for better. For some at least. But this required everyone to chip in. With everything they had. And he lost the plant again, but this time it happened in peacetime. Far from peaceful though. He resisted as long as he could but had less and less time to fight. He had work to do in the workshop. His sons and grandsons picked up the pieces while he was planing away. Planing was relaxing and calm. Freedom in motion.

The planks got smoother but there were still many faults. So he tried harder. The lilies were drunk with dew when he took up his place in the workshop and the moonlight reflected on his thick grey hair when he staggered back in the house. Paused only for meals, went in the kitchen, automatically shoveled down some lunch and carried on planing.

Neighbors would drop in, looking for him, his wife would reply in a hushed tone: ‘Shush, shush, darling, he’s in the bedroom, having a nap. Don’t bother him now.’

Belcheck toiled relentlessly day after day. Even though his son removed the blade of the wood plane a long time ago planing was still smooth. Bliss.

Since I can’t compel you to stay as there are laws against it why don’t you do it on your own? Stick around and read more of my short stories. All of them are amazing. Well, most of them are. OK, honestly, some of them are. Why don’t you decide for yourself? Take a look around –> Here’s a map!

Or, if you’re really adventurous, get off the beaten track and read a random story!