The heart no longer aches or weeps
After her husband Edwards sudden death, Clara Whitmore fled the town where every brick seemed to echo his name. Eight years had passed, and a cruel accident had snatched the life of the man she loved. Clara thought she would never pull herself together, left alone with her son Tom.
Girls, Im going to abandon everything and move to the country, she announced to her two visiting friends. The old family house is empty, my parents have long since gone. I cant walk these streets, I cant stay in that flat. Edward is still there in the shadows, sometimes I think I see a flicker of him at the edge of my vision, but when I turnnothing. What is that, I wonder?
Maggie, one of the friends, doubted her. Clara, Im not sure you can manage life in a village. You grew up there, but youve built your life here, everythings in order for you.
Clara answered firmly, Theres a school in the village; Ill teach there. The other friend, Lucy, laughed brightly. Then well come to visit you, she said, and they all shared a cheerful laugh.
For five years Clara and Tom lived in a modest cottage on the edge of the village, right by the woods. She taught at the local school, had settled in, and the villagers respected her as one of their ownshe was, after all, born in those hills.
That winter was bitter, and the second half of December turned white and howling. New Years Eve loomed, only a week away, when a fierce snowstorm surged late one night, rattling the cottage while the hearth glowed warm and inviting. Clara and Tom loved evenings when the world outside raged and they sat at the table sipping herbal tea.
Mum, I think someones knocking, Tom whispered.
Its just the wind, Clara replied, yet she listened and heard a faint rap on the door. She stepped into the hall. Whos there?
Please, open up, a thin, muffled voice pleaded.
Fear didnt seize her, but she wondered who could brave such a gale to reach their isolated home, perched by the forest. When she opened the door, a man staggered in, halfburied in snow, collapsing onto the floor. She called for Tom.
My, what a drunken fool, she thought, still, we cant leave him to freeze.
Together they hauled him inside. He lay on the floor, breathing shallowly, his coat torn away to reveal a hunters attirethough his rifle was missing.
Clara felt helpless; she was no medic, and the storm made an ambulance impossible. After a couple of minutes the man turned onto his back and opened his eyes. His right thigh was torn, blood seeping from the wound.
Who are you? Whats happened to you? Clara asked softly.
Forgive me, the man croaked. They stripped off his outer garments; his pleading blue eyes stared up at them, and Claras heart tightened with fear that she might not be able to help.
She examined his legno fracture, just a deep cut. She could dress it, and that small act eased her spirit. She and Tom settled him by the stove, propping him against the wall. He glanced at his own leg and, as if remembering a joke, managed a faint smile.
My name is Arthur, he said hoarsely, and Im sorry for intruding as an unwanted guest.
Clara, and this is my son Tom, she introduced herself.
Im a doctor, you see. The wound isnt fatal, just a loss of strength and a lot of blood, he replied, his tone oddly comforting.
Clara exhaled, relieved that a physician knew how to tend his own injuries. After cleaning and bandaging the wound, Arthur, now more cheerful, sat at the table and sipped tea flavored with thyme and rosehip, spooning in raspberry jam.
Over tea they talked, and Arthur began to share his story.
Im fortythree. I spent years as a military medic, serving abroad in difficult posts. I was rarely home, living in field camps, but I loved the work. My wife couldnt endure the nomadic life; she left with our daughter for the city where her parents lived. She remarried and lives quietly now. I dont blame her; not every woman can bear such hardship, he said.
Clara hesitated. And love? Where does that fitin sorrow and joy?
Arthur smiled sadly. Not every woman can endure that. When I married young, I promised her things I couldnt deliver. I hold no resentment; I understand.
They talked until midnight. Finally Arthur asked, Are you married?
No, Clara replied. My husband died tragically. I left the city five years ago because I could not stay. This is my familys old home; its where my soul thawed. I worried Tom would hate the village, being raised in the city, but hes adapted well, made friends, and now feels at home, she said, while Tom slipped off to his bedroom.
Do you ever feel drawn back to the city? Arthur inquired.
Not really. Im used to the quiet, I teach English and literature at the school, and Im content, Clara answered. And you? Do you work in a hospital?
Arthur chuckled. No. I left the army at forty, got my pension, cared for my ailing mother, then tried my hand as a forest ranger. Mother passed, so I returned to the city, opened a pharmacy, and business has been good. Im thinking of opening another. Lately, though, Ive been plagued by uneasy thoughtsperhaps grief over my mother, perhaps something else. My soul aches.
Clara nodded. Loss does leave a mark on the heart.
Arthur sighed. Friends suggest I see a psychiatrist, but I laugh at the idea. I came out here to roam the woods, hunt, which I love. I got lost, my car vanished, I stumbled upon a wild boar herd, one of them struck my leghence the injury, he explained, pointing to his bandaged thigh. I fired my rifle, though Im not sure I hit anything. The herd fled, and I limped to your cottage, leaving my gun by the doorstep.
Its late, Clara said, Ill set you up with a bed by the stove. Good night.
The next morning Arthurs fever spiked; the wound lingered. The storm had calmed, and Clara and Tom found the abandoned car hidden in the woods, halfburied in a drifts not far from the house.
Ill have to treat myself, Arthur said, I have a firstaid kit in the carsome good medicines.
Uncle Arthur, well dig the car out, get the kit for you, Tom offered.
They managed to retrieve the kit intact. Arthur rested for several days, playing chess with Tom each evening. When his strength returned, he prepared to travel back to the city. Three days remained before the New Year.
Clara asked nothing, understanding his need to leave; she had overheard his phone calls and sensed his departure was tied to them.
Before he left, she gently inquired, Is your soul still hurting?
Arthur packed his bag, looked directly into her eyes, and answered, Now it weeps, then slipped into his jeep and drove away.
After Arthurs departure the house fell silent. Clara felt a hollow, as if something precious had slipped away. She didnt cling to false hope; she realized she had liked Arthura solid, comforting manbut expected nothing more.
The snow kept falling, though it softened, the wind only gusted occasionally, and the flakes drifted lazily.
All for the best, Clara thought, its a blessing that he stayed only briefly; otherwise forgetting him would have been harder.
Arthur never called, despite his promise. He has his own affairs in the city, she concluded, and his little adventure here ended.
New Years Eve arrived. On the morning of December thirtyfirst, Clara drove her battered old car into town, bought provisions and sweets for a weeks worth of festivitiesthough it was just her and Tom, they intended to celebrate together. The Christmas tree was already trimmed.
By evening the storm roared again, but Clara was glad shed shopped before it began. Tom set the table, lit the fairy lights on the tree.
Mum, someones at the door, Tom asked.
Its just the wind, love, she replied, though she paused to listen. A knock sounded.
At the threshold stood a radiant Arthur, arms full of parcels.
May I? he said, stepping into the hallway without waiting for an answer, then into the living room.
Tom shouted with delight, Yay! Uncle Arthur! and ran to him.
Hold on, Tom, take the parcels, then Illlet me kiss your mother, Arthur declared, grinning.
He approached a bewildered Clara, pressed his lips to hers, feeling her heart race like his own.
Tom, Clara, I may be rushing things, but Ive realized I cannot imagine a life without you both, he said, pulling a small box from his pocket. Clara, will you marry me?
You drove all this way for me? she asked, smiling as she nodded.
Tom watched, hopeful, as his mother returned his gaze and gave her assent.
Ill stay, Arthur said, I like it here; the forest needs a ranger, and I can run my business from the city when needed. Clara pressed her cheek to his shoulder, speechless.
Time passed. Tom, now ten, advanced to university. Clara and Arthur built a larger house in the village. Arthurs soul no longer ached nor wept; love and joy surrounded him.
