Gennady's Tale

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“Clubfoot! Clubfoot!”

Gennady stayed low as he ran into the undergrowth, trying to put as much distance between him and his father as possible. The man had come home blind drunk, as always, and would beat Gennady to a pulp if his father caught him before the drink finally sent his father into a drunken stupor. He’d been drinking more than usual lately, ever since Huckeba—Gennady’s elder brother—had married some poor girl from the neighbouring village and moved into her shack with his in-laws. Someone had probably reminded him that his son was a cripple, a disabled boy in a world that cared nothing for disabled boys, and he’d gone home to take out his frustrations on his son.

He gritted his teeth as his ankle started to hurt, a grim reminder of why everyone—even his parents—called him Clubfoot. It wasn’t a real clubfoot, he’d been told, but it was bad enough. Gennady could barely keep up with the women, let alone the men. He was weak, too weak to handle anything from farm work to the late-night drinking and fighting that occupied the men when they weren’t working the fields. There was no way he’d ever be allowed to marry, let alone have children. His father would probably disown him, sooner or later. There was no way he could pass the family’s tiny shack to a cripple. Gennady’s younger brother would probably kick him out even if their father didn’t. And no one would say anything about it at all.

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