Art Explained by a Writer: En landevej (1893)

It was a day like no other, or so I thought when I woke up. Grandma was making porridge, and Grandpa sat chewing tobacco.

"Go wash your face under the pump," said Grandma. "The porridge will go cold if you don’t hurry." Well, I never got to taste that porridge. I hadn’t even put on my clogs before the police came in. They carried sticks in their hands, driving us out of the house.

"The porridge, Grandma!" I cried, but she said nothing as one of the men struck her back while she quickly wrapped her arms around me and hurried us outside. I glanced over my shoulder to see those officers sitting at our table, spooning up my porridge. My stomach growled with hunger.

"Move along, come on now!" barked a well-dressed gentleman. I’d seen him before, and from a distance, he’d seemed kind.

Grandpa muttered something I couldn’t understand, but Grandma did. We walked with many others along the road. Some carried bundles; we had nothing.

"It’ll be alright," Grandma whispered. "Your grandad’s hidden a bit of things somewhere. Just wait a bit and then you’ll get something to eat."

"But I haven’t even washed my fa..." I whispered, clutching her skirt as she hurried me along behind Grandpa.

The other people grew farther ahead, and in the distance, I saw more of those awful men shouting at people, shoving the stragglers forward.

"No one’s watching us," Grandpa muttered, suddenly slipping into a thicket where a small shed stood.

"Quick."

Against all odds, I did get a little food there, though the hut was cramped, and we couldn’t stay.

"What’s happening?" I asked, but Grandpa stayed silent. Grandma only told me to hush and keep walking, that we’d find another home, just like all those other people on the road.

The road was long, the sky grey, and it was chilly. My feet ached, and those stupid clogs didn’t help. We walked and walked. Grandma held my hand now, her fingers rough from work. Grandpa trudged ahead, shoulders hunched. The thicket we slipped through scratched at my dress, but "Better than the open road," Grandma said, where the landowner’s men still hunted for stragglers.

My mind wandered as we walked. That shed had smelled of damp wood and wet earth, but I’d rather have stayed there.

Eventually, we reached the open road again. Grandma took the heavy shovel and scraped a clearing among the stones. She pulled a small kettle from her pocket.

"We’ll heat some water," she said. "It’ll help with the hunger and thirst for a while."

With trembling hands, she lit the twigs Grandpa had gathered, striking a flint. The flame flickered weakly, but it was enough. I heard the shouting of men in the distance.

"Pay them no mind," said Grandpa, sitting down calmly.

"Well, well," came a voice. A man stood over us, his gaze shifting between Grandpa and Grandma. "Think you can just disappear, do you? This land belongs to me, Sir Van Deventer. Anyone staying on it pays or leaves. And lighting fires by the road is forbidden. You know this is mine too. Pay up, old man. Come on! Out with it."

Grandpa’s voice was hoarse. "We’ve got nothing left, sir. Everything’s been taken."

The man ignored him, eyeing the kettle over the fire. "Boiling water? So you do have something." With a kick, he sent it flying. Water splashed across the ground. "What’s that in your hand, old man?"

I started crying, but Grandma pulled me close. "It’ll be alright, love," she whispered.

The landowner leaned in. "You’ve till sunset. After that, I bring the law down on you." With that, he turned and strode off.

Silence settled heavily. Grandpa slumped to the ground, hands trembling. Grandma picked up the overturned kettle, wiping it clean with her skirt. "We have to keep moving," she said.

"Where to?" I asked.

"Somewhere better," Grandpa said. "Somewhere the land belongs to no one."

We walked on, the road stretching endlessly. The farther we went, the fewer people we saw. Then the rain began.

"Drizzling again," Grandpa grumbled, looking weary but keeping the same steady pace. By sunset, I couldn’t tell if we were still on that man’s land. Grandma shook her head when I asked, and after a very long walk, Grandpa pointed to the woods ahead.

That night, we slept beneath a fallen tree on a bed of autumn leaves. Grandma pulled a dry crust of bread from her apron and pressed it into my hand.

"Eat up, child," she whispered.

Grandpa told stories of the old days, when he was young and the land was free to live on and work.

"That’s how it was," he said. "But those times are gone."

I fell asleep dreaming of warm porridge...

_{2.6.25
Exodus: 15 - original Dutch
The contest is hosted by @solperez
Painting: En landevej (1893) - public domain
Painter: A Brendekilde
#story #art #review #steemexclusive}