Читать книгу Wind-Borne Sister - Melinda Holland - Страница 6

The larks skim the sky overhead, arcing, dancing in the morning light. I want to be one of them, free with that breathtaking acrobatic ease. Gravity and grief weigh me down like this old wool cloak, cumbersome, careworn. The road leads down to the sea, a narrow winding way with shadow-patterns and cobblestones and the echo of memory. My footsteps mar the silence. My presence is unwelcome. Children stare at me out of dusty doorways, admiring and yet distrusting my scarlet shawl. Their sleepy eyes speak truth and distance: “You are not one of us.”

I smile at them because they are beautiful. They do not know this, so their beauty is worn lightly, not yet cage or tool. They do not smile back. So early the young can be taught to hate. I do not blame them for their fear.

About halfway down the hill a cart takes up most of the roadway, and I must edge past. A corner of my shawl catches and tears against the ragged wood. It is no matter, for long ago my shawl ceased to be lovely. I make sure not to leave threads behind, however; I do not need evidence of my passing beyond the stories of the small.

I had hoped for a gray day to mirror my soul. Yet the sun is bent on playfulness today, running in and out among clouds just as my little sister used to scamper among the haystacks of our fields. I still see her face, with a sense of wonder and joy shining in her eyes as her last ragged breath caught in her throat. No money for medicine, no hope for the young. I buried her myself. I wonder now what she saw with those eyes that looked past this life; I know it was something more lovely than our poor life had ever shown her.

My hand slides of its own accord into my pocket, fingering the small pewter cross. Anna found it at the seashore one day, and we threaded narrow twine through its loop to fashion a necklace for her. It was her one treasure. Perhaps I should have buried it with her. Instead I carry it always, a link to her and to that vision of her last breath. I carry it, or perhaps it carries me.

Suddenly a man reels drunkenly out of a doorway, shouting epithets at the occupants within. He is large and dangerous, anyone can see that; I also see with my spirit that he is dark-souled and intent on harm. I cannot go back the way I have come. I need to get to the sea. If I cower, he will bully. If I speak, he will hurl his dirty speech at me. But the way is narrow. I stop and wait and watch from a deep place within. He was wounded long ago, a whip striking repeatedly across his shoulders and neck. I see it in my mind’s eye: a lad of five, punished for stealing apples. His drunken father nearly killed him. A wind makes its way past us, and the hair on the back of his neck lifts; still the deep scars remain. I focus my compassion on the wounds: balm, peace, a little sacred space of hope. He takes a deep breath, rubs his neck in a puzzled way, then stoops to tie his lacings. He does not look my way. Swiftly but not hurriedly I make my way by him and away.

I do not know what to call that which I do. Some call me a healer, but I have no schooling in those ways. Some call me a witch, but I seek only power for good. I know that it started the day Anna died, the day I put the cross in my apron pocket. But it isn’t the cross that makes it happen; I know that much. Maybe it’s my love for Anna and my love for the Lord, along with the grounding and closeness I feel to each of them when I finger the pewter outline that focuses the strength. I don’t know. I do know that it changes things. And it means that I must go away.

Down the hill I go, step by step, a blur of children’s watchful glances, closed doors, murmured voices within. Finally, I reach the turning of the way, and before me the sea reaches welcoming arms. We are friends, the sea and I. By the sea road I will journey to find my future.

Perhaps I should have left before sunrise, yet my leaving is not a secret. Most do not wish me ill; they just wish me not here, not muddling their lives with misunderstood moments of light and sight. My one former friend counseled me to turn off the seeing, to let go of this reaching touch of love, of hope. But it has become like breathing. It is woven into the fabric of my self and spirit. And so I journey on.

I prepared the boat last evening, storing provisions and water enough for several days’ journey from this town, with dried provisions for longer. I can trust that it still lies undisturbed; people are superstitious here and do not touch what belongs to me. In the same way I know that our little home and its one outbuilding will not be occupied or damaged, even if I am gone long years. No one will go in. Nevertheless, I do hope the nearest neighbor will work the land. Though a small plot, the soil is flat and rich and fertile. It would bless them to have the extra crop.

What little money I have is tucked in a pouch beneath my cloak, and I clutch it to myself as I reach the boat. I stoop to clear away the few leaves that have fallen overnight. As I collect them my eye is caught by a small bit of parchment. It is nearly hidden under the seat, secured by a stone. In a strong, slanting style are the words: “Peace to you. May God guide your way.” There is no signature. I do not know the hand.

I glance around, but of course no one is there. I did not imagine that I had even one friend in this village. I blink to clear the tears from my eyes. I finger the fragment, hold it up to my nose to smell the ink: still a bit of its aroma lingers. Then I place it in my pocket, next to the cross. This will be my sending song, the rhythm of my oars: peace to you, peace to you, may God guide your way, peace to you, peace to you . . . I push off with a slight smile, grateful to this gentle spirit who has wished me blessing.

I have been fortunate. The weather has stayed clear and calm. My little boat must hug the shore and keep to the smaller waves. I found a quiet cove in which to tie up and sleep, with my cloak to warm me and with my hand on the cross. Later this day I know I must hide the vessel and continue on foot. The clouds are gathering for a great storm, and I cannot risk the sea. I watch the shore for a good place, with overhanging branches and isolation, knowing one day I may need my boat again. Still nothing offers itself as safe; signs of habitation and activity alternate with rock faces too sheer for landing. Peace to you, peace to you . . . the rhythm of my oars invites me to prayer, and I listen for God’s voice to guide my seeing.

As I shut my eyes the vision of a small house on a promontory, green with white shutters, comes to me. I have not seen such a house along the shore. Most are shacks, gray from the weather and wind. Is my fatigue playing tricks on me? Yet God has not led me astray in the past. I thank him for this hint, as well as for the bit of bread and cheese that will be my breakfast, and row on.

After many hours, the angle of the sun has grown low and long, and the wind is picking up. I have perhaps a half-hour before I must tie up, cove or no cove, house or no house. My eyes are worn from straining, troubled from seeing only the severity of cliffs and treacherous rocks for the past half-day. Please, please, let there be something soon: peace to you, peace to you, the oars plash and pray.

And then I see it, just as in my vision: the green house, the white shutters, high above me. Just as I round the point, a tiny shoreline comes in view. I breathe a deep sigh of relief and praise. I will be safe from the storm at least. I row in, drag the boat ashore as far as the beach will allow, and transfer my pack to my back. Near the far reach of the pebbly cove there is a raised wooden platform and some rope. I lash my boat to the platform in two places; only a mighty storm will cause it to break free now.

Then I realize: I have thought as far as this moment, a short journey by water, tie up, set out on foot. But then what? The water offered me protection of a kind, distance from others, a space apart with risk from the elements but not from people. What do I do now? In my mind’s eye I see once again the green house, and I notice what I did not see the first time: the front door is open and smoke rises from the chimney. It is time to risk contact with others.

I follow a narrow path up through overgrown weeds and stunted trees. Its lack of use comforts me: no one has come this way in several seasons. At a turning of the path, I jump back, startled by a face ahead. Then I see it more clearly: the statue of a lion, worn from the years, covered with moss. Yet the eyes remain strangely bright from inset stones. I reach out to touch the lion, to finger the tracery of mane. Someone had a great gift for teaching the rock to speak.

I make my way upward, careful of my footing at a section where erosion has made the way treacherous. I am glad for the sturdy boots I wear. I traded for them last week, giving up the last of our linens, fine ones that mother’s sister sewed for her in honor of her wedding. So much lost, let go, given away . . . Yet the memories comfort me as no object could. I remember our aunt’s last visit. She had come for Easter, and the weather was unseasonably warm. She and mother washed and cleaned and swept and cooked in preparation for the joyous day. I can see them at the clothesline together, pinning up those same linens, laughing over a story, joining in a silly song. I can even see the butterfly that landed on mother’s shoulder and how the two delighted in it and in the day. They are gone, both gone, like Anna, like the father I hardly knew. My heart holds too many hard stories to recount. I find it better to hold to the shining memories and let them give me strength.

I press onward, step by step. The way remains steep and overgrown, though the cliff is no longer so sheer. About halfway up the hillside I hear the sound of a brook, not far off the path. I need water for my journey and cannot be sure what will greet me in the green house above. I step off the path, toward the song of splashing water. I push past branches of evergreen and elm, past scraggly bushes that resist my movement. And then the world breaks open into a green room, a grotto by the brook, a space clearly tended and touched with loving hands. I pull back, worried that someone might be there. Yet my scanning eyes find only a second sculpture: this one an eagle in flight, on an outcropping above the creek’s passage. Like the lion, its eyes are bright; yet this sculpture bears no moss, not the weather-wear of the king of beasts below. I trace the beak, sharp and sure; then I follow the gaze of the bird to see where it points.

There is a trail on the far side of the grotto, well-marked, clear and uncluttered. I know it must lead to the green house. I stop to gather water for my way, as well as to wash my face and hands. The water is clearer than most I have seen, and I sold our one mirror many months ago. As I lean over, I am startled by my own face: the tangled dark hair, the worry lines on my brow, the mouth set in a determined line without the smile that used to be its constant companion. But my eyes haunt me most: the sadness and the loss are etched in gray-blue depths. It is there that Anna’s death shows most starkly. Even many months later, my sister’s passing marks me, lingers as a shadow, even as it gives me light to see and to relieve others’ pain. I wonder at the irony and the arbitrary nature of loss.

I take a deep breath. It is time to follow the trail to the house. Please, Lord Jesus, protect me. You showed me this house; help it to be a place for the night at least, if not something more. Peace to you, peace to you . . . My oars rest silent in their locks, at the shore, yet I hear that promise repeated, and in its echo I step forward.

The hike to the house is easy after the damaged path below. On the borders are the last of the summer’s wildflowers, flashes of color in the shadowed corners. My footsteps sound terribly loud to me, not knowing who might be living and waiting above. Finally the path opens upon a flat, rocky space, with the house on one side. An old woman has taken tentative steps from her porch, a cane in her hand.

“Anna?” she queries, her voice rich, yet tired.

“I am Anna’s sister, my lady.” I am startled into speech by the name she has chosen. Why Anna?

“Welcome, Anna’s sister. Come closer. I am blind, and so I cannot see you. But in your voice I hear youth and grief, hope and need. Come.”

I take tentative steps toward her, assessing her strength. She is small and lean, in good health except for her eyes. I do not think she can hurt me, and her voice holds warmth along with invitation. I come within arm’s length.

“My name is Susannah,” she tells me, and then she reaches out in my direction. “I would like to touch your face, that I might see you with my hands.”

I guide her reach, and her touch surprises me with its gentleness, its searching intensity. “Ah, you are young and lovely, just like your voice. But you are very tired. How have you come here?”

“By boat, my lady. I have tied up at your beach below. It was the first safe place I had found in many hours, and the storm is coming soon.”

“Aye, that it is. I am glad you found a haven here. Did you find St. Mark’s lion on the way up? How is he?”

My heart lets go its tension. St. Mark’s lion. I had hardly dared hope. But when I saw both the lion and the eagle, I had wondered . . . I finger the cross and speak quickly, “He is covered in moss, but his eyes are bright, my lady.”

“As it should be, as it should be . . . No one has seen him for many a year.”

I forge ahead in hope: “And St. John’s eagle at the grotto fares even better.”

And then she smiles, a broad smile that reaches to her eyes, even in their blindness. Her shoulders lose a bit of their bracing, relaxed into welcome.

“Yes, I care for him each time that I fetch my water. He and St. Luke’s ox are still within my reach. But I am forgetting myself. Come inside, sister of Anna, daughter of God, and I will give you rest.”

I follow Susannah inside. My first glimpse of the interior of the green house reveals a sense of order and tidiness that surprises me, given her lost sight. The front room holds shelves full of sculptures, smaller than those I had seen outside, but with the same elegant line, the same strength of vision.

“Are you the sculptor, my lady?” I ask, betraying my surprise.

Susannah smiles again. “Yes and no. My hands have worked the stone. But I think of them as God’s sculptures. I have the privilege to be the instrument he uses to bring them to light. Please, call me Susannah. We are sisters before God. And what may I call you, Anna’s sister?”

“My name is Gabriela. Sometimes Anna called me Brie.”

“Gabriela, you miss your sister very much, I can tell. Where is she? Did you have to leave her behind for your journey by boat?”

“No, she left me first, Susannah. She died last winter.” And the tears I have held back for so long break free as Susannah takes me in her arms and lets me weep.