When he leaves the shed, the bottle lies empty upon on the benchtop. Beside it are the three stacked books and the tied plastic bag. He plans to return in daylight, to bury the bird, with the level of respect deserved. He neglects to extinguish the overhead bulb, and a sliver of yellow light escapes beneath the closed door. The single slash of illumination falls on the bubbling wet of the ground and seems to point in the direction of the path.
He steps onward into the night and the cigar glows unsteady and red like a smelting penny. His body betrays its intoxication through its plodding movement, but his mind feels refreshed and alert. The wind assaults him, sends smoke across his face and glowing motes of ash soaring by his eyes. He drops his head and braces against these and cold and rain. Onward along the path he goes, gravel grinding wet beneath every footfall.
The rain shows signs of relenting. He pauses upon the path and cocks a fabric covered ear toward the sky. He listens for several moments, body swaying. His features have a newfound brightness and elevation, and despite the effects of the alcohol, he appears younger than he has for several months. Sheltered beneath the wet fabric of his hood, his eyes peer into the darkness and he is smiling as he listens. After some moments, the rain picks up again and the sound he might have heard is lost beneath it.
He emerges at the foot of the path and looks toward the house. His mind is optimistic and giddy in a manner that feels alien and wonderful. He thinks of her, asleep in the basement room. He thinks about going to her, lying beside and holding her atop the child's bed. He imagines trying to sense the child there with them. A near forgotten warmth blossoms in his chest. Tears well in his eyes and spill over the swell of smiling cheeks. For a moment he considers going to her now and curtailing his trip to the shore, but he continues on his way. I will join you soon, he thinks.
The night presents no moon, yet in the darkness he senses new hope. Ahead, the lake is as black as the skies above. The lake surface undulates with the wind's passage and ripples minutely with the rain's fall. The jetty is a deep grey stroke extending outward atop the dark waters. The tarp-covered boat is a vaguely shifting appendage at the jetty's midpoint and his eyes are focused upon it as he approaches the shore.
Upon the jetty and above the the black waters, he turns toward the cabin and gazes. The place is all dark windows and wood viewed through a veil of falling rain. Its only living feature is the lethargic dance of the low fire projected upon the living room walls. He watches the faint glow pulse gently like a new heartbeat in a place that had once been dead. He feels the beating of his own heart and for the first time in many weeks he associates the sensation with life and continuity rather than grief or fear.
He drops his chest to the jetty and lays his hands atop the boat. He loosens the rope that secures the tarp, peels back a corner and slides awkwardly into the shifting vessel. He edges forward, strikes his head upon the wooden bench and curses. He turns to the open corner and secures the tarp loosely, then turns and crawls again. He draws on the cigar, exhaling a thick cloud of smoke into the confined space. He coughs and chastises himself and relegates the glowing thing to the corner of his mouth.
He crawls forward now to where a package rests. The darkness is complete beneath the tarp, but he knows the object by touch. With thumb and forefinger, he releases a knot at one end of the buoy and the coil of rope slides from it like a sleeve. His fingers trace the side of the plastic until it gives way, and then his hand is it within and retrieving the treasure he had hidden the previous evening while she slept. One bottle in the house, one in the shed, one in the boat. All eventualities provided for, although he had not expected cause to celebrate.
He uncorks the bottle, lies flat on the floor and drinks. The whiskey burns him from his throat to his belly. His face blazes and he feels content. The rain beats down on the tarp above him like rice upon a drumskin and the feeling of being securely cocooned as nature makes herself known all about him brings further comfort. He listens to the rise and fall of he downpour as the wind carries it upon gusts. He listens to the the squeak of the buoys against the jetty and the boat. He listens to his breath. He listens to the sound of his own pulse in his ears as the flush rises in his face.
He remembers their wedding and the child's birth and he contemplates all the memories that might again become fond ones with time and healing. He imagines a new future for them. A future together knowing that the child, somewhere, truly watches over them. Such peace to be found in that certainty! In time they could each heal, she from her frailty and he from his dependency. They were still young. Perhaps even another child in their future. A child watched over by an angel sister.
I heard you just in time, my Darling.
YOU ARE READING
Song, Unheard
Horror***Featured in Fright Profile*** Life has been different lately. She feels a growing sense of dread and wishes for things to be normal. His drinking is out of control. The child seems frightened and withdrawn. And then come the birds. Strange b...
