centre of the universe - the dreaming: Anemophily

07/14/2008: "Anemophily" "I'll see what I can do," Marek sighed, taking his wife's hand in his. He pulled her gently into his lap and buried his face in her apron. "I'm sorry I took you away from your family. Maybe someday we'll go back there."

She stroked his hair and stared out the window; she doubted they'd ever return to her house on the rock, but she loved him for giving her that hope. When they sat quietly together like this, holding one another and everything quiet, her heart and mind were still and she felt full, content, at ease. Times like this were not uncommon, each one more beautiful and touching. She closed her eyes and tried to remember the feel of cold salt spray on her face.

Later, when Marek was taking the bull out to pasture, she heard the rattle of cart wheels and hoofbeats in the yard. She was in the summer kitchen, behind the house, and didn't see the heavy wagon until the horses were lowering their heads to the trough and the dust settling around them. She didn't see the man grinning through the swirling dust, his eyes dark as lies.

He leapt down from the wagon, dust flying from the many-layered cloak of rags and oilskins he wore, and doffed his strange hat to her.

"I beg your leave, Madam," he said, bowing low at the waist, one foot crossed in front of the other. "I find myself travelling, trying to make a living, trying to make a go of life in this....dry and dusty place." He heard the tiniest hitch in her breath. "I come from the town this afternoon, the town just up the road," he pointed north. "I wonder...a fine woman like you, a pretty young thing," he reached out with his hand, and though he was across the yard, at least twenty feet from where she stood, she felt a cold hand caress her cheek. "Would it be too much for me to ask, my Lady, would it be too much to ask for me to show you these wonderful things?" As he swept his hand toward the wagon, several buffalo robes flipped up and over the top, revealing row upon row of apothecary jars, some full and some empty, their tin lids glinting in the sun. She saw spoons and ladles of every size and description, tins of spice and jars of flavour. Brooms, bolts of lace, a chamber-pot dangling from a thin wire, mice and snakes in cages, and a small purple box in the centre of it all.

"My husband," she whispered, feeling the thunder of her heart. She knew this man. She recognised the thrum of his voice.

"Scirocco" "Utterly horrible"

1 Comment

The Ms. S , on Tuesday, 15th July:

Loving this.

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