Faces of the Wind

Chapter 17

The coach stopped and gave a strong lurch, waking Adrian from a lousy dream in which he was falling into a dark well. He squinted out the window and saw the wheat fields so grey with the sun trapped behind dense clouds. It looked near sunset. He was bitter and down; he returned home with no gains but plenty of lies to mask his failure, a few days in gaol, a childhood friend who might hang, and bruises and stitches from brawling with a prisoner and being manhandled by the constables. It was as if the sun were setting on his dreams. He felt trapped and restless in his seat. Two passengers, a middle-aged lady and her young son descended from the coach.

"Quite cozy here in the coach, eh?" William, sitting to Adrian's right, asked in a subtle tone.

Adrian turned and frowned at him.

"The coach will not drop you right at your front door, child," William added, speaking with more energy now, "get off and head home for heaven's sake!"

"Oh!" Adrian's frown was replaced by a look of comprehension. "Yes, I guess... I should get off," he said, not sure where on earth they were but got up anyways.

"Tell your father I'll call later this week," William cried after Adrian has left the coach.

Adrian watched the coach shrink and disappear in the horizon. The wind blew through the tall grass and wheat fields, creating a melancholic yet soothing rustling melody. He saw a figure in the distance and squinted at it—a lady it was. He walked to her, hands in pockets, and as he drew nearer, he began to recognize her. She was Irene Longfeather, only very pale and distressed as if gravely ill. Her eyes were sunken and surrounded by dark halos, her hair pulled up but lank locks fell randomly over her face and neck, and her lips were whitish and chapped. This was not the charming and ecstatic Irene he knew. A knot grew in his throat as he watched the fruit of his mischief. She seemed preoccupied, so he walked closer to get her attention.

She shrieked when she saw him and attempted to walk away fast.

"Irene," he cried then swallowed, realizing how dry his throat was, "I am so sorry." The words came out accompanied by tears, but he wasn't sure whether it was the wind that upset his eyes or that knot in his throat.

She stopped and turned to look at him with eyes that seemed to have witnessed a massacre. These were not the eyes of the twenty-one-year-old spoilt beauty, but those of an old lady who has survived poverty and war... only Irene was not likely to have gone through any of these.

Her silent stare strangling him, he blurted in a voice so loud and clear, "I'm an animal." The truth in his own words stabbed him in the throat.

Irene faintly shook her head. "I know what an animal is," she said in a brittle, soft voice, "you are not that."

"Let me walk you back home," he said.

She shook her head. "I wish to walk alone."

"It's near sunset and I think it will rain," he argued, "I won't let you walk alone."

"Go away, Adrian," she said and turned to walk away.

He followed her. She stopped and turned to look at him with the same eyes through which he could see how deep her wounds were. "I said go away," she stressed each word.

He knew when to stop and leave her be. He did enough damage already.

***

Mrs. Dusteby flew downstairs one would think she was tumbling. She opened the door briskly. "Master Adrian!" She cried, gasping for air, "Praise the Lord! Ye're back!" Her face was covered in red blotches.