Caerus

The Worth of All We’ve Done

Ester and I return to the Von Braun estate, asking if what we’d done was really worth it, and find answers in unlikely places. 

Arrival

Out there we had felt like heroes of old conquering the world. Now we were turning onto the gravel road to the Von Braun estate, past a skillfully crafted mid-century style sign indicating the name and wealth of that family, feeling like we had done little more than headlessly flee from our fears and inadequacies.

Had there really been a ghost in that van (the plating was so red and rusty, we told all who saw it the story of a metalworker who had fallen into the molten mass inside a metal turner), he would not have heard our usual pattern of conversation for hours before we arrived at that sign. Where my responses would usually follow her call of talking about whatever crossed her mind, in that moment there was just silence, the kind that I imagine would put even a ghost in a solemn mood. 

The old man that lived in the estate atop the fir-covered hill was called Oskar von Braun. He was Ester’s dear Grandfather, whom she had lived with as a Goddaughter for three of the four years preceding that silence in the van. But then she had gone on an adventure, hoping to find meaning out there and I had joined her, looking for the same.  Although, as we started driving up the hill, those grand ideals seemed as real to us as that ghost we had conjured in a moment of boredom on the road. Really, it all seemed like that to us- all we’d done. What had it been for but to satisfy some childish fantasies?   

The Von Braun Estate 

We started driving up the hill slowly, for which we could not blame the state of the gravel road. Ester’s grandfather was by no means obsessed with keeping the estate prim and proper, but he did employ a groundskeeper to keep the driveway even enough for him to descend comfortably on one of his old cruiser motorcycles. He’d let Ester ride one for a little stretch why I was there one time two summers ago. She’d enjoyed it like I’ve hardly ever seen her enjoy anything, though her frail limbs made her poor at handling it. Before then, she used to say that, if she ever went on an adventure, she would take a motorcycle because she liked the sense of freedom she got from it. The reality of your life depending on your ability to control a mountain of metal strapped to a heavy engine (and me laughing at her failing to do so - like an idiot) changed those plans. 

She stopped the van which had taken the place of the motorcycle in her vision of freedom as the front gate came into view, dreading to announce our arrival to her Grandfather. “I still don’t know what to tell him, if there’s anything to tell him” were her first words in a while. We had of course discussed this moment, and she had known that it would come from the moment she left last summer, when she had told him she would go take a trip east for a few weeks, said that she would return and go back to her studies when summer turned to autumn, and a part of her had believed herself when she said that. But she stayed on the road, only occasionally sending letters to the man who all but raised her. I had joined at the opening of the new year, saying it was to spend time with a close friend I’d known for the better part of my life and to find some new perspectives, but I suppose I was running from something- as she was. We had a good time. I’d always admired her for her ability to live carelessly, and I joined her in living that way. All the more unnerving it was for me to realise that she was beginning to doubt herself leading up to her planned return. I told her she should go and call her grandfather before she arrived, but she refused. 

“A year, and naught to show for it. Some photographs, some half-written songs, some impressions of some places, what’s it all worth?”  her lips mechanically curved and she laughed mirthlessly while her eyes remained weary “You know I realised that this was more motivated by me wanting to do my thing than it was about being a hero going out there to slay a dragon and bring the gold back to the community- but I’ve even failed at being selfish”. I said that what we had done had not been meaningless, and I believed it - for her sake, I would judge what I did for myself later- by myself, as I usually did. She released her false smile from its painful existence and slowly started to bring the van towards the gate.  “I’m sorry that I got you caught up in this, he liked you alright, probably not so much after this” she sighed, and then half sang “Don’t ask me what your sacrifice was for”

The Hof

We arrived before the gate and waited for the attendant to open. Both Motorcycle and car stood inside, so the chances were good that Oskar von Braun was either in the house or at least somewhere on the grounds of the estate, and he would not take long to come as he sometimes did with other guests once he was informed who it was that was there to see him. Jon, the attendant, a burly Scotsman of about 40, seemed pleasantly surprised as he noticed us at the gate, and went up to open it with a spring in his step and a smile on his face.

He opened the gate and pointed at a spot to park the van. When we got out into the pleasant summer air he yelled “honoured by the rare appearance” and did as much of a mock bow as his belly allowed. “It’s good to see you again, Jon” I said, meaning it - a Jon a day keeps the poshness away - as Ester used to say. Jon told us to wait in the hall, he would go and fetch the master of the house, who was out chopping trees. 

As we waited inside the hallway, Ester seemed to regain some of her usual composure. “I appreciate you being here with me”. I nodded.

We waited for about 10 minutes. The estate was large, even if Jon knew exactly where Oskar was, it would take some time for them to return. I was afraid of what the old man would say, but Ester must have been expecting hellfire. 

Footsteps outside.

Measured speed like the tick-tack of the reaper’s clock. Two pairs.

Left

       Right

Left

      Right 

Jon stumbling and swearing 

Left 

       Right 

Left 

      Right

Tick 

      Tack

Tick

      Tack

Tick

     Tack

The old double-door to our right opened. Jon was pushing it open, still smiling. Behind him, Oskar, with blank expression. Even in the leather work jacket he was wearing he had an air of aristocracy about him. Behind his grey beard wizened eyes looked at us with no discernable emotion. He looked at me briefly, then rested his attention on Ester. 

And he laughed. 

Not the sort of joyless laugh Ester had laughed before. Not a laugh of derision or mockery, but a genuine laugh.