THE SCARRED OAK. William Walraven

      Chapter 1

      The air filled with music of singing birds, the soft new grass, and the blue skies with high white clouds announced the new life of spring. The sounds of lowing cattle in the distant meadow didn’t interrupt Eric’s deep thoughts. Sitting on top of a hill, he accepted these familiar sounds around him. In this picturesque landscape of flowing hills, spotted with rich farmland, and woods located in the most Southern party of Holland, Eric grew up.

      He was now in his early twenties, his slim but strong built body, blue eyes, and light-brown hair made him a sharp contrast with the green grass. Rolling a cigarette, he kicked off his wooden shoes, which rolled a couple of feet down the hill. This spot, overlooking all that was dear to him, was his spot. Many times, he sat here, trying to find answers to the thousands of questions that arose in the mind of a young man.

      Nico, his closest friend, had been the only one who had shared this place with him. Here, where they had opened up to each other their deepest thoughts and feelings, would become past. Eric felt lonely. Within a couple of days, he would emigrate to Canada, leaving all this behind. Question after question, impossible to answer, shot through his mind. Why was he leaving all this? He could make a living here. Going to the other end of the world as a complete stranger to people with a different language (he spoke only a few words of English) and likely with different habits scared him. From the other side, the excitement of traveling and meeting the unknown had always been in his blood. Even as a young boy, his blood had urged him to find out and experience all that was beyond his vision, strength, and endurance. He welcomed the feeling of unmatched powers that the release of adrenaline gave his body in occasions of danger or excitement. But always after every experience, there was this place called home. All through his young life, it had cradled him. It was a hard decision to make, but after all, farming in this area was a poor existence, and working in the deep coal mines of this district was hard and with no future except early retirement.

      He spent five years in one of those coal mines, which had not only strengthened his body but also made up his mind to get away from Holland. If he had to leave this area and try to start a new life in another part of Holland, he could just as well travel to a country that supposedly had better opportunities for willing and hard-working young men. Once he left this nest, he would be a stranger anyway.

      A sparrow landed on a thin branch within an arm’s reach of him, perfectly balancing its tiny body against the gentle swaying of the branch, which accepted this added load. For a moment, it sat there nervously, twitching its head in all directions, until it noticed the presence of Eric. It made a shrieking sound and hastily left this danger zone. The sound broke Eric’s thoughts, and with a deep sigh, he pushed his cigarette butt into the soft ground beside him. On the other side, looking down the hill, he could see his village lying like a jewel with its red-shingled roofs and white-walled houses between sloping hills.

      On his left in the distance was the coal mine, the only industry in this area, spitting out large clouds of smoke and steam from its chimneys.

      The sound of the church bell made him look back to the village again. He would never forget his village and all its people. They were good, decent, hard-working people, and somehow, sitting here, he loved them all. He also knew that some of them he would never see again, at least not in this lifetime.

      The village where Eric grew up and spent his young years was an old village with some of the relics dating back to the twelfth century. One of the houses still displayed a date of 1737 in one of the walls. It is located in one of the most beautiful provinces of Holland, a province called Limburg, where in this area the famous—or rather infamous—Limburger cheese originated. It is one of the smaller provinces and extends like a tail on the southern part of the country. This tiny strip is bordered by Germany on one side and by Belgium on the other. It is at the most, thirty miles wide, and since on each border a different language is spoken (German and French), many different dialects are spoken. Nearly every village, some only a couple of miles apart, had its own dialect ranging from low German to low French. Proper Dutch was only spoken in schools.

      Eric’s village, located on and practically surrounded by the German border, had a low German dialect, which Eric would never lose, even after decades of living in English-speaking countries.

      Eric’s