Souls Dryft
Page 40
Where was the end of time, I wondered? Was it the horizon, where grey sea met somber sky? Or was it somewhere in my garden, where orange trees blossomed and the stone wall, when I pressed my ear to it, whispered stories?
* * * *
Summer softened into autumn. The sweet scent of baking apples filled the house and the elder tree turned into a mass of trembling gold. Rufus, the Shiftless Rogue, snoozed by the fire. In the window seat, Nathaniel told a story to Grace, who held his finger, gripping it tightly. Burnished sunset oozed through the mullioned windows like runny egg yolk, dripping into corners and crevices, highlighting my odd little family; a collection of mismatched souls, brought here by the spirits of the house.
While it was still warm out, I wandered in the orchard, checking for good apples among the wind-fallen. For a while I sat under a tree, listening to the chirp of a blackbird, until he suddenly took flight, breaking off his song mid-note. The sky was the color of mulled wine and that bird a tiny peck of spice upon it. The dogs in the yard were restless tonight, barking in a sudden burst of their old enthusiasm. Rosemary and mint drifted across from the herb garden, mingling with the sweet scent of the wild roses that traversed the orchard walls on winding, thorny tendrils. They bloomed early each year and stayed late. Impatient and stubborn, Rufus said.
The light faded gradually, going reluctantly to its bed. I was surprised Nathaniel had not yet come to find me; he never let me out of his sight for long. Sure enough, the grass rustled and someone was standing under the honeysuckle bowers. He must have been perched on my father-in-law’s shoulders, I thought, for they made a tall shadow.
A sleepy exhale, a last yawn of the sun, blew gently over the wall and, for one brilliant moment, lit him up from head to toe.
It was Will.
I walked toward him, pretending, for those few blessed moments he was truly there, alive and kicking. This must be what it was like for Rufus and his memories. I played it out in my mind, what would happen next. We would tease one another and laugh, pretending we were not so glad to be together again, but, like Grace, he would be a blur of light – just a memory of the house.
And then I felt his arms around me. His shirt was damp, the ribs hard beneath it. Piece by piece, as if brought to being by pen and ink, sketched lovingly around me, he was there. I thought I would never stop the tears that flowed, never calm the frantic hiccups skipping in my breast, but neither did I care to. When he held his dry lips to my forehead, I felt them smile.
"I waited, see!" I murmured. "I waited forever, so now you know."
We held tightly to one another. He was a little faded still, but gradually the colors were shaded in to make him complete. She worked fast with her pen, for me. At last he found his voice and whispered in my ear.
"Supper first!" I admonished, laughing. "We are civilized here now. Souls Dryft has a new mistress, and I am in charge."
"Mutiny, is it?"
"Once you cross that threshold, you are under my command, sir."
"I believe, Genny, I was always under it. My heart was yours from the first insult."
I laid my head to his chest again, listening for the beat, still not quite believing. He told me how he’d been shipwrecked all these months, finally rescued by chance and brought home on another ship. I listened, but my mind was a whirl of thoughts, the most important being…
"There is a small matter," I began cautiously.
"What have you done now, Scrapper?"
"’Tis what you did," I replied. "Your fault entirely and a girl, I’m afraid." When he continued to stare at me, I laughed. "You have a daughter."
Slowly his eyes widened. Clearly, this was a sizeable bite and, from his expression, I could not tell if it was bitter, or sweet, on its way down. "A daughter?" He drew back, pointing to his scars. His voice was uncertain, as I’d never heard it before. "I’ll scare her."
My heart hurt. "Nonsense. My daughter is fearless." Still he hesitated, anxiously cracking his knuckles, so I took his arm and said, "Like my beloved, who never lets anything get the better of him."
So he smiled and let me take him inside, where we belonged. I thought how far we had come from the day he threw his shirt in my face, mistaking me for someone unimportant. If not for the mischievous spirits of Souls Dryft, we might have gone our separate ways, but someone gave us a second chance.
He liked to say that we both came back from the dead, in our own way, never knowing how right he was.
* * * *
A reckless tumble of tiny roses thrive there in the garden, a tribute to other things of a similar hardy and perennial nature. You will never find them in any other place, but here at Souls Dryft. Lushly untrained, they grow without tending, spreading wiry, stubborn and covetous tendrils along the wall and anything else they find of interest. Now they embrace the orange trees, curling about the stems in a loving caress, lending their untamed strength to those exotic plants that should not flourish here. In return, the thick leaves and snowy orange blossoms shelter the rosebuds, holding them tenderly, until they unfurl and cover the trees with kisses of deep, velvety red.
A Middle
The tower listened when no one else cared for the rambling stories of an old woman. It brought her comfort when her spirits were low and, in return, she shared with it her joys, of which there were several – more, to be sure, than she deserved. Today, as it grew colder, the wind tugging on her shawl like a bossy child, she left the view and all its memories, good and bad, then began her descent. But the steep tilt of the staircase was not so easy to negotiate these days and she forgot to rest her hand on the wall at the turn.
Tripping forward, she gained speed, unable to stop. Her heart was beating, surely too fast and suddenly she encountered a warm draft of air; another figure approached. Too late to avoid collision, she closed her eyes, cursing that clumsiness she’d always known would be the death of her.
It was no longer cold; her bones no longer ached with the damp; the sun sat high and birdsong filled the air.
"Hurry up, Grace!" a woman yelled. "What on earth are you doing?"
Agile again, she leapt down the last few steps of the crumbling tower, her heart thumping wildly in her chest.
Ah music! Such as she’d never heard. She stopped, stunned motionless.
The man sang about never giving up on his love, never letting her down, or deserting her. He vowed never to make her cry or say goodbye. Never, he swore to his sweetheart, would he tell a lie and hurt her.
Entranced, she followed the sound. A young girl slid across a seat, making room for her, and so she climbed in, drawn to the music.
"Where were you all that time?"
Well, they’d never believe her.
Of course, he was not gone forever; she just couldn’t see him now, but she would. She would find him again. One day, she’d be back to tell her story, remembering all the details that she already began to forget.
The End
About the Author
Jayne Fresina is the author of many books found at www.jaynefresina.com
Twisted E Publishing, LLC
www.twistedepublishing.com