Episode 3: Raging Blizzard and Grandfather's Final Breath

As we entered mid-December, the sky in Flanders did not show a clear face for a single day. A severe cold front originating from the Arctic Ocean passed through the Scandinavian Peninsula and struck the lowland plains head-on, causing the worst cold weather and snowstorm in 50 years to freeze the entire land. The wheat fields and canals that stretched out to the horizon turned into a huge sea of ​​ice, and the roaring sound of willow tree branches being frozen and broken by the murderous strong wind shook the village day and night. The old adobe hut at the entrance to Hoboken Village was trembling as if it might collapse at any moment.

Because of the sharp wind blowing through the cracks in the wall, thin ice froze thickly on the water bowl in the room, and only cold emanated from the furnace, which had run out of firewood and was left with only cold ashes. Inside that cold, dark room, on the bed, Grandpa Yehan's heavy breathing continued like the sound of a light bellows.

"Cough! Cluck, Cluck...! Haa... Haa..."

The old man's thin chest rose and fell painfully. The severe flu and pleurisy that had started a few days ago had already worsened to the point where nothing could be done. Heat as hot as a fireball was burning the old man's entire body, and his lips were dry and turning dark blue. “Grandpa... please come to your senses... Nero is here, it’s Nero...!”

Nero was clutching his grandfather's bony hand with both hands, his face covered in tears. He tried to warm the old man's cold hands and feet with his own body heat, but the icy shadow of death was gradually encroaching on the old man's limbs. Patrasche was also resting his chin on the foot of the bed, staring at his grandfather with sad, dark brown eyes. The dog instinctively knew that the old man's breathing was failing. Patrasche covered his grandfather's feet with his thick, warm fur and let out a low, pitiful moan.

That groan was his last prayer to his holy benefactor, who saved him from the chains of a cruel junk dealer and embraced him with warm love. Grandfather Yehan was an old soldier who was conscripted into Napoleon's army half a century ago and traveled through the battlefields of Waterloo, Italy, and Germany, crossing countless hardships of life and death under a hail of artillery fire and bullets. Although he suffered a leg injury in the war and had to limp for the rest of his life, and did not even receive a proper military pension and had to live in extreme poverty, the old man's soul was always as pure and noble as that of a saint. On winter nights, he would sit Nero on his lap by the fire pit, tell him old Flanders legends and stories from the Bible, and teach him the letters from an old prayer book.

‘Nero, guns and swords only take a person’s life, but beautiful paintings and love keep a person’s soul alive forever. You must become someone who saves people.'

That holy voice still rang in my ears, but that gracious hand was now growing cold. “Medicine… I need to get some medicine… If I go to the village doctor, I’m sure he will have the medicine to save my grandfather!”

Nero could delay no longer. He put on an old overcoat and took out a small cloth pouch that had been stored in a corner of the kitchen shelf. In his pocket were twelve copper coins that he had saved up by buying less loaves of bread while delivering milk. This was all Nero had in the world. “Patrasche, watch over your grandfather. I’ll bring the doctor quickly!”

When Nero opened the door and tried to run out, Patrasche jumped up and hung down, holding the hem of Nero's clothes. A white snowstorm was raging outside, making it a dangerous white hell where you couldn't see an inch ahead. The dog barked as if he could not let the little boy go alone in this terrible snowfall, and that he would take the lead. king! king! “No, Patrasche... You must stay with your grandfather. He is so cold. You must warm him with your fur... Please, Patrasche!”

Faced with Nero's earnest tears, Patrasche could not bear to remain stubborn and returned to the bedside. The dog climbed onto the bed, gently placed its thick paws on the old man's chest, and wrapped its whole body around the old man. Crash. Nero kicked down the door and ran outside. A blizzard like a knife hit the boy's face mercilessly. Every time I took a breath, a freezing pain struck deep in my alveoli, and white icicles instantly formed on my eyelashes. In the snow that was deep down to my knees, my old clogs often came off, and the snowflakes that seeped through the cracks of my torn pants froze my skin and took away my senses.

But Nero didn't stop even though he fell and rolled. 'Following the snowy road, the wind passes by my face coldly. Even if my fingertips freeze, I can't stop walking this winter road with you. My breath turns white in the cold air, and only your warmth melts my heart.' With the sole thought of saving his grandfather, the boy dragged his blood-covered feet and ran to the clinic of Van Hop, the town doctor. By the time he reached the door of Dr. Van Hopp's two-story brick house at the corner of the town square, Nero was already as white as a snowman.

bang! bang! bang! “Doctor! Are you there?! Please open the door! Doctor!”

Nero desperately knocked on the rough oak door with his numb fist. After a while, the door opened a little, and Doctor Van Hopp, wearing a thick fur dressing gown and holding a glass of warm wine, peeked out with a frown. Inside the clinic, the smell of savory lamb stew wafted out along with the sound of wood burning in the fireplace. “Who is this, making a fuss in this blizzard? Isn’t it the milkman from Hoboken? What’s going on?” “Teacher! Please help! My grandfather... Grandpa Yehan can’t breathe properly! His whole body is as hot as fire and he can’t stop coughing! Please come and check on him!”

Nero knelt in the snow and held out a cloth pouch. “That’s all the money I have… twelve centimes. Although it’s not enough, I’ll deliver milk in the spring and pay off the remaining medical bills every single day! Please save my grandfather!” But Dr. Van Hop snorted as soon as he saw the coins Nero held out. “Twelve centimes? Are you telling me to go on a visit to that run-down hut in Hoboken through this murderous blizzard with just this little money? That’s not even the price of a bottle of fever-reducing potion! Besides, your grandfather is already over 80 years old and as good as a corpse. Even if Archangel Michael, not a doctor, comes, he can’t do anything about it. Don’t make him suffer in vain, get the hell out of there!” “Teacher! Please! I will never forget your grace, teacher—!”

bang! Leaving behind Nero's bloody scream, the heavy door was closed and bolted mercilessly. A dozen copper coins bounced off the frozen front steps and scattered into the snow. Nero dug into the snow with his frozen fingers and picked up the coins one by one. Red blood oozed from under my fingernails, but it was nothing compared to the tears of blood gushing from my heart. The world was a cruel icy hell that did not show even a single shred of mercy to the poor who had no money. As Nero, who had been kicked out of the clinic, stumbled through the streets of town, the joyful sound of an accordion and laughter leaked through the glass window of the large tavern “Golden Swan” across the street.

There, wealthy grain merchants and village officials in fur coats were clinking glasses over warm cinnamon wine and grilled sausages. The world inside the window seemed like heaven with its sparkling chandeliers and warm fires, but for the poor boy bleeding and shivering in the snowstorm outside the window, it was a crueler scene than hell. Nero bit his lip and swallowed his tears. The injustice and coldness of the world crushed the young boy's small heart, but his soul was never stained with hatred. Only my desperate love for my grandfather made my frozen legs move.

Nero stumbled and walked back through the blizzard again. When I opened the cabin door and entered, the air in the room was already as cold as ice. Patrasche whined, biting on the hem of Nero's clothes and leading him towards the bed. The grandfather on the bed was blinking his blurry eyes and struggling to raise his hands.

“Yes… Ronya… you’re back…”

The old man's voice was faint, like dry leaves rustling in the wind. "Grandpa! I'm sorry... I couldn't get the medicine... I couldn't find the medicine... Hehehehe..."

Nero buried his face on the bedside and sobbed. The boy's heart was torn apart by a sense of guilt that his helplessness and poverty had led to his grandfather's death. However, the grandfather wiped away Nero's tears with his dry, trembling hands and smiled an infinitely gentle and sacred smile. “Don’t cry… my good grandson. Even without the medicine… I’ve seen your face… there’s no more time left.” The grandfather also placed his hand on the head of Patrasche, who was whining next to him. Patrasche rubbed his wet nose against his grandfather's palm and licked the wrinkled back of his hand with his warm tongue. “Patrasche... thank you... Nero... protect our poor Nero... until the end... never leave this child alone...”

The dog quietly laid down with tears rolling down from his big, clear eyes, as if he had engraved his grandfather's will into his heart. “Nero... listen carefully...”

The grandfather looked straight into Nero's eyes, as if squeezing out the last remaining spark of life. "No matter how harshly the world treats you... Don't hate people. Honesty and love... That's the only light that overcomes the darkness. The pictures you drew... Your clear soul in them... God knows it all..." "Grandpa... Don't go, don't leave me behind! How can I live alone without you...!"

Nero screamed and fell into his grandfather's arms, but the old man's heart was already growing cold. “I love you… my child… I will watch over you… in heaven… with your mother…”

The old man's eyelids slowly closed. The sound of his rough wheezing subsided, and the old man Jehan Das, who was like a saint and a holy veteran of Flanders, finally laid down the burden of a lifetime of hardship and departed for the embrace of eternal rest. “Grandpa—! Grandfather—! Argh!”

Inside the dark and cold cabin, the boy's tearful cries and the pitiful howl of the huge dog echoed high into the sky through the howling night wind. The next morning, the heavy snow had stopped, but the town of Hoboken was still immersed in gray silence. The news of Old Man Yehan's death spread quickly throughout the village, but few people came to offer sincere condolences. Only a kind-hearted neighbor, Mrs. Michelle, brought an old burlap shroud and carefully washed the old man's body, and old Father Peter from the church came and said a simple funeral prayer.

Mr. Koze of the mill did not even show his nose at the funeral. However, his wife, Lady Coze, had a maid send him a small silver coin and two loaves of black bread without her husband's knowledge. Aroa was locked in the room by his father, unable to come out, and had to look through the bars, crying, and only see the smoke rising from the cabin in the distance. On the outskirts of town, a snow-covered cemetery for the poor. The frozen ground was so hard that even a pickaxe could not penetrate, but Nero dug with Patrasche, holding a shovel with his bloodied hands.

The shabby pine coffin was lowered into the cold dirt pit and covered with a pile of dirt. Instead of a single flower, there were only a few green pine branches picked up from the snow and a rough wooden cross. The people left one by one, and only Nero and Patrasche were left standing at the tomb where the cold wind blew. Nero lay down with his cheek on the cold dirt and cried. Now the boy had no blood relatives left in the world. The only reason the boy needed to breathe was Patrasche, a huge dog by his side, blocking the harsh wind and blowing warm breath.

Sigh. Patrasche licked Nero's tears and wrapped his thick paws around the boy's shoulders. ‘Nero, don’t be sad. I am by your side. I will be with you until the day I die, until the end of the world.'

The dog's hot eyes were saying that. Nero hugged Patrasche’s neck. “Yes… Patrasche. We are not alone. Grandpa is watching us from the sky. We must survive. We must survive… so we can put a beautiful marble on Grandfather’s tombstone and become a great painter that Grandpa will be proud of.”

The boy raised his dirt-covered face and looked up at the sky. A thin ray of winter sunlight came down through the gray clouds, gently caressing the shoulders of the boy and the dog. Late at night after the funeral, someone crossed the snow field and came to the cemetery despite the curfew. It was Aroa. The girl secretly climbed through the window of her room to avoid her strict father's eyes and ran through the frozen snow. Aroa knelt in front of the grave and hung a small winter flower wreath made of dried lavender and rosemary, which she had carefully dried, on a wooden cross. “Grandpa Yehan... He was a kind and kind grandfather... Please don’t get sick and rest in peace in heaven. Nero... I will definitely help you no matter what happens. Please protect Nero in heaven...”

Aroa prayed, shedding hot tears. The cold wind scattered the girl's tears, but those tears left a warmth like a small spring flower on the frozen grave. But the tragedy did not end there. Just two days after returning to the cabin after the funeral, the owner of the house, old Baas, came into the cabin yard with a grim look on his face. Old Man Bath was a terrible miser who was notorious for squeezing the poor tenant farmers in the Hoboken area. “Hey, little guy! I guess you had a good time with your grandfather’s funeral? Now, give me 6 months’ worth of overdue rent, or 18 silver coins! Right now!”

Old Man Bath shouted, pounding the dirt wall with his cane. Nero turned blue and lowered his head. “Uncle Bass... As you know, we don’t have that much money right now. But I’ll pay you back by delivering milk to Antwerp every day. Please just wait until spring comes.” “What?! Milk delivery? Hmph! A kid like you can pay off such a big debt just by earning a few pennies a day! And haven’t you heard the rumor?”

Old Man Bath smiled wickedly and coldly spat out. “Mr. Coze, the miller, put a lot of pressure on the village farmers. ‘I will cut off the mill’s business with anyone who entrusts milk to the beggar boy Nero!’ Do you think the farmers will hand over the milk jugs to you? You’re done with your milk delivery job!” “Huh...?! Uncle Koze... really...?”

Nero's mind was bleached white. It was no different from a death sentence that cruelly cut off the boy's last remaining source of livelihood. “Hmph! I don’t have a room to give to someone who doesn’t have money. If you don’t pay the rent by tomorrow, I’ll throw everything, including your luggage, on the street, so you know that! Do you understand?!”

Old Man Bath spat and walked away. In a room filled with silence. Nero sat down and looked blankly at the empty furnace. If milk delivery was cut off... I couldn't even get a piece of bread to eat tomorrow. It was bitterly cold outside, rising to -20 degrees Celsius, and if they were kicked out of the cabin, the boy and the dog had no choice but to freeze to death in the snow. A desperate crisis, a moment when all directions are blocked by complete despair. Nero's eyes turned to a huge oak board standing in a corner of the room. It was a large three-by-four-by-four-foot canvas that I had dragged along with Patrasche, sweating blood and sweat, after selecting the strongest and most spacious piece of waste wood discarded from the Antwerp shipyard a few days ago. 'Concours... Youth Art Contest...!'

Nero's heart began to beat violently. There are only five days left until the deadline. The painting had to be submitted to Antwerp Cathedral by noon on Christmas Eve. First place prize of 200 francs. It was the only miracle in the world that could comfort the grandfather's soul, protect the cabin, and survive with Patrasche. “Patrache... this is the only way left for us.”

Nero held a charcoal pen in his hand. There was no more fear or sadness. The boy's eyes flashed with a superhuman concentration that would only burn his entire soul to create the miracle of life. 'What will happen at the end of this winter journey? Looking for warmth in a cold world. As snowflakes bloom, we too shine, and if we are together, we are not afraid of any path.' Nero knelt down and began to make the first strokes on the great oak plank. The fingertips were cold and blood could not flow, but wherever the boy's charcoal dust passed, the miracle of living and breathing began to bloom.

The image of a grandfather and a young boy holding hands in a snow-covered field, and the faithful Patrasche pulling their cart, came to life on the canvas, filled with vivid light and spirit. Patrasche stood close behind Nero, supporting the boy's stiffening shoulders with his strong body heat. On the canvas, Patrasche’s images began to come to life, one by one. The exquisite gradation between dark ink and light ink created by coarse pine charcoal powder amazingly brings out the texture of the rich and strong fur unique to the Flemish Bouvier dog.

In particular, Patrasche's eyes, looking up at his owner with a leather yoke around his neck and stepping firmly on his front feet, were emitting a powerful soulful resonance, as if a living creature had stepped out of the canvas. Next to it was the sacred face of Grandfather Yehan, adjusting his old coat and embracing his grandson Nero's shoulders. The benevolent smile that spread through the deep furrows of time on the forehead and the rough wrinkles that had endured the ravages of war and poverty contained a more sacred and deep humanity than the mercy of the Virgin Mary or the saints in the cathedral.

The distant snowy plains of Flanders in the background of the picture and the spire of Antwerp Cathedral towering in the distant fog symbolized the eternal light of hope that never breaks even in the tragedy of a harsh winter. I couldn't tell how much time had passed. The cold morning stars twinkled through the cabin window, and Nero's fingers were completely stiff and bleeding, but the boy did not stop. The enormous artistic spirit surging within the boy's heart had already transcended the pain and hunger of the body. Even in the cold winds of the world, the flame of art created by the great souls of the boy and the dog was burning, tearing through the darkness.

The oak planks were rough and uneven, but Nero spent all night rubbing and grinding their surfaces with fine sand and whetstones collected from the river. Although the blisters on my palms burst and oozed blood, the surface of the board finally revealed its smooth, soft texture like velvet. The boy selected the blackest and hardest pine charcoal in the oven, ground it, and mixed it with resin collected from the forest and a small amount of milk to create a natural fixative. Once this black charcoal powder ink soaked into the wood, it would become an immortal color that would never fade even after a hundred years.

"Before he drew his first stroke, Nero drew a cross on his chest and closed his eyes. Before his eyes, the gentle wrinkled face of his grandfather, the wounded eyes of Patrasche who had looked at him when they first met, and the countless dawn roads they had run through the fields of Flanders passed by like a flash of light. The tears that flowed from the boy's eyes fell onto the plate of charcoal powder. Those tears were not tears of sadness. The purest art in the world. It was the holy water of life that conceived.

"

The boy and his faithful dog, Patrasche, spent the long, cold winter night white-washed, devoting their entire lives and souls to the canvas. Although a merciless blizzard was raging outside, this small miracle created by two souls was powerfully anchored towards the great vortex of fate that was to come.