A Winter Story
Copyright 2002
by Riene
The weary man shifted the heavy pack to a more comfortable position along his shoulders as he began the steep ascent along the rocky ridge. He had avoided the main road, and consequently the village and more importantly, the small stone farmhouse near the lower trail, choosing instead this more difficult approach.
The massive gray stone structure stood silent and silver in the moonlight. The hour was not late, but night came early this time of year in the mountains of the north. Cold came early as well. His breath formed frosty clouds about his face, to hang in the still air behind him.
The man stopped before the base of the tower and flicked his fingers impatiently at the wardstone by the lintel. The massive bound ironwood door swung silently open and the man stepped gratefully into the welcoming darkness beyond.
He paused suddenly in the lower chamber, the solar where he spent much of his time. The air here held none of the musty, damp scent he expected to find in a room long disused. No odor of spoiled food reached his nostrils, though he clearly remembered leaving perishable items behind in his hasty departure. Frowning, he shouldered his pack again and began to climb the spiral steps that led to his laboratory and sanctum on the third level.
Here there was no sign that anyone had violated his sanctuary. The heavy ironwood doors still stood sealed as he had left them these many months ago. The mage placed his palm against the door and concentrated. A pulse of red-gold light flashed briefly under his hand, illuminating the runes and sigils that sealed the doors, their complex patterns flaring once before disappearing. He gave them only the slightest push and they swung open on carefully counterbalanced mechanisms.
He placed the heavy pack on the stone floor and opened it, removing valuable bound leather volumes of books, placing the tomes carefully on the table so that their brass clasps and hinges would not mar the gilded covers of the books beneath. The man straightened and stretched, cat-like, then left the darkened room to seek confirmation of the intrusion he suspected.
On the second level his bedchamber also gave mute evidence of a visitor. The hearth was swept clean of ash and cinders; the polished brass tray beside it held fresh logs and coal, a splint laid ready to light a fire against the evening chill. His bedding, too, held no mustiness; it had been turned and aired several times. Thoughtfully, the tall dark man stepped out onto the landing, looking about, then descended to the solar.
There was almost no dust on the untidy bookshelves, and here too the hearth was cleaned and laid ready for a fresh fire. He walked to stand near the fireplace and absently reached out to touch the heavy carved ebony wood chair that sat waiting for him. An impression reached him, and frowning, he concentrated, pulling it to his mind…a woman, sitting in his chair, her graceful fingers stroking the satiny wood as she silently wept. His own fingers unconsciously repeated the motions hers had made, caressing the worn armrest.
She could have had no idea that he would be returning today. Her actions in his house left him puzzled, for somehow she must have found the time in her long days to care for his home and possessions. He stood silently, gazing at the chair for several minutes, before turning and ascending again to the laboratory.
Two hours later his head snapped up, senses alerted, for sounds had come to his ears. With soundless grace he rose smoothly to booted feet, laying aside the favorite worn pen, and walked swiftly to the wall beyond. Carefully planned hollow bricks enabled him to hear in this sanctum sounds from the levels below. He paused, listening, but felt no alarm, for there was only one other person who could have passed the wardstones. It had simply not occurred to him that she would do so in his absence.
He had lit no light, for as a mage, he could see well in the darkness. The man walked wrapped in silence, down to the landing and stood motionless, knowing they could not see him.
An auburn-haired small boy of three danced impatiently beside a slim, graceful woman as they crossed the solar to his fireplace. The woman carried a small oil lamp to light their way. Solemnly, the child bent to place a package upon the hearth and waited as she knelt beside the hearth and did the same, her gray woolen dress falling in soft folds around her slender ankles, her hands lingering a moment on the black velvet wrappings. He watched her rise and place the lamp on his mantle, then turn, her hands gently resting on the back of his chair. Of course, he thought, it is MidWinter Eve.
“What if he doesn’t get our presents tonight, mama?”
“Then he will find then when he returns, little one,” she answered quietly.
The little boy was quiet a moment, considering this. “Mama? Why did he go away and leave us?”
The hidden watcher leaned forward, listening intently, to see the woman turn her face away, hiding the sadness in her expressive gray eyes.
“There were things he needed to do, dear heart.”
“Will he ever come back again?”
For a minute, the room was quiet, save for the flickering of shadows along the smoothly plastered creamy walls.
“I hope so,” she whispered.
The child wandered around the room, hands clasped earnestly behind his back. He had been carefully taught to never touch anything in the stone tower.
“Was he angry with us?”
Lamplight threw sparks into her long, shining copper hair. It hung, loose for once, nearly to her waist. “No, he was not angry with you, only with me.” The man knew the touch of that silken hair, remembered the feel of it sliding through his scarred fingers as he caressed her face.
“I know what you could have done, mama,” the little boy said earnestly, returning to look up into her face. “You could have said ‘I’m sorry.’”
She sighed. “Sometimes it is not enough to say ‘I’m sorry.’ Sometimes, when you have hurt another so deeply, words will not do, and the other feels they must leave until the hurt is lessened,” she said softly, knowing he would not understand.
He leaned against her leg. “I miss him, mama.”
The woman gently placed a loving
hand on the boy’s shoulder. A single
silent teardrop fell, to land on the smooth grey woolen of her sleeve, and clung
there, reflecting the golden light. “So
do
He listened to them leave, and watched their figures disappear into the night before returning back up the stairs to his refuge.
If they could not have a reconciliation, perhaps they could have a new beginning. He picked up the small wrapped box from beside the stack of books and tucked it into his robes. The path down the trail was not so long, after all.
Author’s Note….This scene is slightly altered from the one in my novel. I’ve removed their names for the purposes of this story, and eliminated some of the background events.
Thanks, K.B., for your help.
You were right, and I do appreciate it.