Chapter 117 - Waking The Dead

The next morning, after a night of tossing and turning in bed, Reynard headed out to 'The Longing Table'. It was a nice morning after many cold ones, and for once, it was warm. 

"But won't you have any breakfast before taking off?" Rosa had asked before he left, worried.

Reynard shook his head as he slipped on his sweater. "I haven't the appetite right now. I'll come join you once I check up on Uncle Franke."

Rosa pursed her lips as he put on his boots. 

"Make sure he's okay, alright?" she muttered. "He has a weak heart, after all."

Reynard smiled as he stood up. "Sure. See ya', then."

The walk to the inn seemed to take a short time today. Was it because he enjoyed the weather so much? He watched people set up their stalls the whole way as the mourning gradually came to an end, and people started to realize that going out of business for a while was a burden already. 

Reynard pushed the door to the inn and stepped right in. But what was this? Where was everyone? He looked around, confused at the dimly lit pub and the absence of the typical drinkers. No glasses of beers were being poured, no glasses were tinkling and there was no chatter or laughter wafting around. 

For the first time in many years, Reynard saw how sad this place looked without the bright people to occupy it. 

Going back to the door, Reynard pulled it open and checked the scribbled piece of parchment that was stuck clumsily to the outside, saying 'CLOSED' in big, careless brush strokes. Reynard had somehow failed to notice the unmistakable sign the first time, and wondered what was wrong. It was the first time his uncle had done something like this on purpose.

Clenching his jaw, Reynard burst through the other door and entered the lounge. Again, nothing met him but silence. Where were all the cooks? The people enjoying their morning meals? Where was his uncle who usually sat at his table eating the special meals by Marion? 

Reynard looked around at the bleak state of the place and wondered how it had been in business in the first place. It was true his uncle was short on cash to renovate the inn, but to think that it was in such desperate need of rebuilding stoke Reynard. Was it just the people inside that made the inn so warm and cozy?

Taking a deep breath, Reynard took 3 steps at a time as he ran up the fleet of stairs. He headed straight to his uncle's room past all the closed doors as soon as he stepped on the landing and found out that it was locked. 

"Uncle! Uncle Franke!" he yelled and bammed his fist into the door. "Uncle Franke, open the door! It's me, Reynard."

There was no response. 

Reynard bammed his fist loudly on the door again and the thud of it echoed through the deserted corridor. It was still early in the morning, and the people staying at the inn were either all still probably asleep or out to get breakfast from elsewhere. Reynard worried that he'll wake the others up.

"Uncle Franke!"

No reply, still, but Reynard heard a bit of shuffling inside and he knew that his uncle was awake. He tried one last time. 

"It's Reynard," he said gently this time. "Can you please open the door?"

There was a moment of silence before the door clicked open and someone that seemed like a skeleton appeared in the doorway.

"By God, what happened?" Reynard muttered at Uncle Franke. He seemed sick, to say the least. His eye bags were as huge as they could get, and his eyes were bloodshot with apparent crying. His cheeks were sunk in and stained with tears as well as embedded with pillow imprints. He stood meekly in the dark room behind him, holding a crumpled pillow to his stomach.

"Have you eaten?" Reynard asked, his eyes wide with worry. 

His Uncle looked at the floor but didn't reply. 

"Have you eaten?" Reynard repeated. "I'm talking to you, Uncle Franke."

This time he shook his head in response. Reynard sighed. 

"And why did you close up for the day?" Reynard frowned as he led his uncle back to his room, and turned the lanterns on and parted the curtains over the window. 

When the room was finally flooded with light, Reynard was shocked at the state of it. Clothes were thrown on the floor in careless piles. Cups (of tea, perhaps?) were hidden badly under the bed. The bed sheets were wrinkled and stained with tears and spots of tea, at which Reynard sighed and turned to his uncle who seemed smaller than he had ever seemed.   

"What is wrong with you!?" he cried in his face. "One death and you forget how to live? He was our father, you know? Even so, we aren't as bad as you. You've just decided to let it all go! What would father think if he was alive?"

The whole time Reynard talked to him, Uncle Franke's face was expressionless. He looked at Reynard as if he was an unrecognizable face, and then all of a sudden, tears started flowing down his cheeks and he buckled up.

"I'm so sorry," he cried, his voice breaking at various instances. "I'm so sorry! I'm so sorry! I'm so sorry! I'm so sorry! I'm so sorry! I'm so sorry! I'm so sorry! I'm so sorry! I'm so sorry! I'm so sorry..."

The whole time he cried in a heap, he had Reynard's finger clenched in his palm. He looked down at his uncle with a painful look in his eyes, watching him cry his eyes out and apologize time and time again. Indeed, it was a most heartbreaking sight. 

"Get up," Reynard muttered and held the hand his uncle clenched his with. He pulled and Uncle Franke stood upright in a second, not because he wanted to, but because his godson was much too strong. 

"I'm sorry," he said again and Reynard rounded the old man up in a hug, keeping back his own tears. 

"You have nothing to apologize for," he muttered as he tightened his grasp, wondering why he'd never hugged his uncle like this before. "Shall we head downstairs and arrange ourselves a meal?"

A minute later, Uncle Franke sniffed and pulled out of the hug. 

"Alright," he said, wiping his face with his sleeve. "I'll be out in a minute. You head down."

Reynard nodded and smiled reassuringly. Uncle Franke reciprocated the smile and both of them chuckled. Reynard left him alone in his room to freshen up and skipped downstairs by himself, trying not to think about the bleakness of the inn. He parted the curtains over every window and let some light shine through. The lounge looked much more welcoming this way.

"Well, it's a start," he grunted, satisfied. 

He heard a distant tapping of feet behind him and he turned around just in time to see his uncle dressed decently for once. He donned an unironed, but neat grey tunic over his brown pants. He had made an effort to look better in front of his godson, and Reynard realized that by his rare, swept-back hair. 

"You've cleaned up nicely," Reynard muttered as he fist-bumped his uncle. "Let's see if there's something in the kitchen."

Both of them headed to the kitchens which too were dark and gloomy, but after Reynard let some sunlight radiate through, everything seemed normal and warmer once again. In the cabinets, Reynard discovered a jar of beans and a packed up loaf of bread which seemed fine to eat. 

"You go and take a seat," Reynard muttered as he pulled on an apron from the stack under the shelves. "I'll fix us some beans on toast. Okay with that?"

Uncle Franke nodded as he dreamingly gazed around the kitchen.

"It looks so weird when there's no one here to cook," he muttered, dazed. "The usual bustle of cooks and the friendly chat between my customers is the only thing that gives me the will to carry on. I'll go get some papers arranged on my desk. See you out." Woot hat, he left Reynard alone in the kitchen to do his work. 

Reynard threw the dry beans in a pot of water and let them get soft and chewy before draining the remaining water out. He toasted the bread and seasoned the beans before spreading them neatly over four slices of neatly portioned bread. 

To add on with the breakfast, he got some oranges out of the basket behind the back door where they were usually stocked and made some fresh orange juice. 

At the end of the day, he was proud of his work. 

With great difficulty, Reynard carried the decorated tray of food out in the lounge where his uncle sat on his desk, studying over his spectacles a piece of parchment. As Reynard approached, he put the paper under his desk and smiled at his godson's effort.

"Never knew my boy could cook," he mumbled as he glanced at the warm breakfast. "This looks good. Oh! And orange juice? Did you squeeze it right now?"

Reynard nodded proudly and put the plates on the table before putting the tray aside and bringing himself a seat. 

"Mother taught me to do a tad bit of housework before she fell sick," he said with a sad smile as he picked up his toast. "She would get really angry when I would argue, saying that housework is only a woman's duty. "

"Isn't it?" Uncle Franke asked as he took a sip of his juice. "Too much sugar."

Reynard shook his head, ignoring the sugar part. "Not really. Once I started actually doing the chores, I realized how hard it all was and then it led to the question that wasn't heavy work actually for men? That day, a new admiration for hardworking women arose in me."

Uncle Franke laughed. "That's great. You really don't know how hard they work once you start at it by yourself."

Reynard smiled. "Well. Shall we start letting customers in, then?"

Uncle Franke frowned. "Who'll run the kitchens?"

Reynard grinned mischievously and that's when Uncle Franke realized what it meant. 

"We'll work the kitchens by ourselves."