The Cry of Mary

"I would not go in there on my own, Lass!"

His voice frightened me to death, where on earth did he come from!
Yes, it was a dim evening, dark clouds drifted by, the wind gained in strength but still the visibility was good. And I know for sure that he was not there when I arrived. Neither did I smell the tobacco smoke from his antique clay pipe.
Antique pipe??? The sailor looked if he was from a completely different century....
The look on my face amused him: "Don't be afraid of me, I will not hurt you. But...." and he took his pipe out of  his mouth and pointed the stem at the old derelict building I wanted to explore: ".... be aware of the ghosts in there."

I wanted to ask why but not a sound came from my mouth. Instead I obeyed the silent order in his beautiful grey eyes and walked to the old bench to sit down next to him. How could he be so old and still so young? Like a a strong healthy man in his thirties. If this whole moment wasn't so extremely surreal, I would admit I felt attracted to him.
I sat down and for a short while we looked each other in the eyes. There was a swift recognition and for a second I saw a very strong emotion in his face. Then he smiled again, looked away from me and talked; his deep and warm voice resonated in my chest:

    "The wind howled and the people of the village of Thrusk knew this was not going to be a usual night. They were used to storms and learned as children how to recognize the signs. You had to, being a fishing community so close to the ocean. Too many lives were lost at sea, too many widows worked twice as hard to support their families.

But not only adults never returned from their journeys, also children from the age of 12. An age you were supposed to work and help the fish and money getting in. You left school and life educated you.
John was one of these boys.  But John wanted more from life.
He loved the sea, he loved the trade of many generations before him, he never wanted to anything else than being a fisherman.
But he wanted to learn to write and read properly. Not just what he learned at school.
The headmaster recognized his intelligence but his parents said he could not be missed at the boat. There were too many mouths to be fed, every hand, even at the age of 12, was needed.

This night the sound of the arriving storm, straight from the ocean, outvoted the sound of the high waves battering the coast and that of the window shutters, rattling a tune of fear and danger.

The wind blew down the chimney, the flames of the open fire danced fanatically round the kettle with the stew. The delicious smell reached John's nose but not his stomach.
He survived a severe storm, one of the very lucky few that night. He knew about the fear, the struggle, the will to survive.
A stirring feeling in his stomach told him somewhere out there people were in danger. He was extremely restless and when the church bells rang later that night, he could not even remember what he ate. He rushed outside in his rain coat, hat and wellies and joined the other villages on their way to the beach.

The following day the bright sun revealed the debris of what was once a beautiful small boat. The only survivor, a young woman, was taken to the doctor. She was heavily traumatised and only mentioned one name 'William'. They assumed it had to be her husband who was never going to be found. The woman, they called her Mary, stayed in the village, never spoke, never smiled.
But she helped families, cleaned houses, looked after the small children and cooked meals.
Also for John and during the months following the shipwrecking, John developed feelings for her he never experienced before".

The sailor paused, his hand rested on mine and I folded my fingers around his. He tightened his grip as if my hand was an anchor. An anchor for his emotions. He raised my hand and held it against his wet cheek, it was only then that I noticed my own tears.

     "Although Mary did not speak, John noticed that she was aware of his feelings for her. He knew he could not rush her, he needed to be patient, to show her to trust him. He wanted to protect her, shelter her, to reach her heart which he realised, still belonged to William. His love for her got stronger and stronger.
One night, when he could not sleep, he heard her footsteps, the sound stopped in front of his bedroom door. He imagined hearing her breath, he listened, not sure if he wanted her to go away or to open the door to let her in. But she did not walk away. John got out of bed and opened the door.
The look of her slim body, her long hair and her dark brown eyes, made his heart stop beating for a second. He took her in his arms and carried her to his bed.

He woke up by the sound of the thunderstorm. The lightning illuminated the bedroom, the wind blew the rain through the open window, the curtains waved. He reached out for Mary, knowing she would be frightened but she was not there. He called her name but she did not answer.
He went out of bed and went to her room but it was empty. He looked downstairs but could not find her.
Like the night of the storm where she was found at the beach, he put on his rain suit and went outside to look for her. Once in a while he stopped to shout her name. He went down to the beach and walked and walked, desperately calling 'Mary!!!' until the thunder storm calmed down and the rain stopped. The sun tried to warm him but he remained cold. Without Mary he would never feel warm again.

A few days later, someone knocked on his door. John knew instantly that the body of Mary was found. They had taken her to the mortuary and begged John not to go and see her. But no one could stop him. The crowd parted when he approached the mortuary and the villagers stood in silence when he closed the door behind him. But they stayed, to comfort him afterwards.

John was never the same again, he occasionally smiled but never laughed. He drank his weekly beer in the Pub but never joined the group of fisherman. His bright eyes turned hazy grey. Although still attractive to the unmarried women in the village, he never married.

John passed away at the age of 76 and was laid to rest beside Mary. Nobody realised it was the same date of the shipwrecking 35 years before; March 26, 1819.
That very same evening, a shivering cry was heard from the mortuary. The voice of a woman begging William for forgiveness because she betrayed him. The sound sent shivers down the spine of everyone who heard her. The grief ended with a whisper: "John....."

The mortuary was never used again. No one was near it on this particular date in the following years.

Photo:@yorkshire_womble (Instagram) @

Tourists or people passing by, laughed about the fear of the villagers. No one really believed the story. But no one was brave enough to stay for the truth."

His pipe fell in the sand, he was still holding my hand but loosened the grip, his other hand touched my face: "You returned, I have been waiting for you, Mary. Follow me." I did not ask him how he knew my name, I did not question the recognition earlier tonight. Instead I followed him and together we entered the mortuary. It's rusty hinges, etched by the salt of the ocean, obeyed without any resistance. The moist smell faded and a light glowed when the door closed behind us.

A police officer who passed by, noticed a soft light behind the broken windows of the mortuary and drove his car up the hill, got out of his car and checked the large wooden doors of the derelict building. They were firmly closed by two rusty locks.
He climbed on top of a few crates against the eastern wall to look through the broken windows but the soft light was gone. He used his torch to explore the interior but did not see anything alarming, just an empty building with a strong smell of decay.
Just as he wanted to step off the crates, he heard soft whispers and gentle laughs of happiness.
He wrote in his report it were definitely the voices of a man and a woman but there was no one in the premisses. Signed: constable Wilson. Date March 26, 2019.

 

Word of thanks: the photo of @yorkshire_womble (Instagram) inspired me to write this story and I was given permission to use it as an illustration for which I am very grateful. Thank you so much Ali, luv yah Lass X

Links: please visit the beautiful Instagram account of @yorkshire_womble

Note: the story is pure fiction! A figment of my imagination!

Helen

Love beyond Time, a Christmas story

   It is extremely cold and I ask myself why I gave in to my own hideous plan to explore the house in the middle of the forest.

   Of course I am dressed properly: a thick warm coat, warm boots with thermo-socks, gloves, a comfortable hood to keep my ears from freezing and even my photo bag is protected against the icy cold. Hopefully my camera isn't going to freeze. I know from experience that an empty abandoned villa is colder inside than the temperature outside indicates.

   I often thought about this phenomenon and the only answer I can think of, is that there is not only no heating but also the souls of the former inhabitants are gone. Even if there are warm memories, you can't feel it any more.

   This is my first visit to the house, I discovered it accidentally and are still surprised nobody ever mentioned it, nor have I ever seen photo's taken by fellow explorers. I am, to say the least, very curious.

  The first time I saw the house, the weather was more friendly, no snow. But I did not have the time to go inside after I discovered a door from the the stables to a hall. I hope the door from the hall to the house is unlocked, we'll see.

   At some places the snow is thick and comes above my boots but I continue my way to the villa. Meanwhile I admire the beautiful surroundings. Nothing is as quiet as a snowy forest absorbing every sound. Only occasionally you hear the quick flutter of a bird but most are gone to warmer areas. There is no wind to clear the heavy branches, sometimes you hear a soft cracking noise as if the weight of the snow is too much for the trees. But apart from that and my breathing causing little clouds, there is silence.

   Sooner then expected the house appears from between the trees, it's roof hardly visible under the weight of the snow. I do not dare to think what is going to happen when the temperatures rise, the roof must leak.
There are no footprints; I know I am on my own and for the first time since I started the expedition, I wonder if this is safe. Too late; I have to be careful and cross my fingers.
I walk to the back, enter the stables that once housed horses and carriages but now the old decaying hay and straw are the only witnesses of a more glorious time.
   The door to the hallway is still unlocked as is the door to the house. It makes a squeaking noise and in a reflex I stand still to listen. There are no other sounds, it is even too cold for the mice and rats.
I push the door further open and enter a large country style kitchen, covered in dust and cob webs but still fully equipped. Actually it looks like if the cook is going to return any moment, complaining the fires are not burning and dinner will not be ready in time. I imagine to smell the pies and cakes.
   Standing still makes me aware of this strange cold and I wrap my arms around my body. Before I am going to take photo's, I first want to explore the house. Everything will still be the same on my way back. And if the whole house is like the kitchen, I am ready for a few surprises, I can't wait.

   From the kitchen I enter a long, long hallway with many doors and I hesitate for a moment choosing one. I open the third at my right and enter a beautiful drawing room with high ceilings and large windows. The ingenious ornaments of the ceiling let go their paint although obviously reluctant to do so but the damp wins its nasty game. The grand curtains which must have cost a fortune, still wait to be closed to keep the cold out but there are no hands any more to do so. Cob webs hang down from the corners, catching flies although they too left the house.

   I walk slowly through the majestic room; the little clouds of my warm breath follow me as if they are reluctant to solve in the cold air.
The furniture is impressive and the dust can not hide the colours of the expensive upholstery and the once lovingly polished wood. The thick carpets muffle the sound of my footsteps. Despite all the glamour and beauty, the room does not look like it was used too often. At least not for cosy family gatherings.
   The enormous fireplace is black and in between the old ash from previous fires and the dirt let go by the large chimney now blocked by crow nests, there are still large logs. I feel tempted to lit them but know I will most likely set the house on fire.
In the panelling I notice a door that looks so small but is actually of a very normal size. I find it difficult to resist doors and walk towards it. The brass handle moves smoothly when I press it and the door swings open like it had been oiled yesterday. I enter a much smaller room and what I see takes my breath.

   Nothing here is dusty, I don't smell decay. On the contrary, I smell roses and a perfume that has not lost its strength. Strangely I am not frightened, it feels like coming home and although I do not understand this completely unexpected feeling, I give in to it and relax.

   The fireplace in this room is much smaller and the chimney looks very clean. I can't resist the feeling that I have been here before. Or that I belong here but decide not to think about this. The logs for the fire are stacked in a very large basket and in a reflex I put some in the hearth and light them with the matches on a small table next to a very comfortable sofa. I don't ask myself if I am doing the wrong thing or if someone outside will see the smoke coming from the chimney, there is something in this room that will protect me, I can feel this very clearly.

   It does not take long before the cold disappears, much sooner than expected it feels comfortable and warm. I take off my coat and hood and settle on the sofa, snuggled up between soft cushions that release the same scent of roses I smelled entering the room. I smile, a broad happy smile and think: “Why did it take me so long to come home?”

   I watch the flames dancing and spreading their welcoming heat and I feel my cheeks turning red. My whole body begins to glow; I take off my warm sweater; my blouse lighted by the flames. The atmosphere makes me sleepy and I doze off.

   When I open my eyes (I must have slept for only a few minutes because the fire is still burning as it did) I notice the little Christmas lights on top of the stone mantle. I am surprised but do not ask any questions. Instead I watch their soft glow in between the needles of the fresh branches of a pine-tree.

   The smell of pine is getting stronger and competes with that of the roses. I turn my head and see a beautiful very large Victorian style decorated Christmas tree which reflection in the large mirror above the mantle, had escaped my attention. Or wasn't it there before? I don't know. Everything in this room is not as I expected and I refuse to question my observations.

  
   Instead I give in to the wonderful feelings that overwhelm me. Feelings of being wanted, coming home, being loved beyond physical attraction. Never in my live have I felt so comfortable as today.

Photo: Helen Varras

   While sitting on the sofa, feeling the heat of the fire, I watch every detail of the room and everything in here is so familiar. I know the titles of all the books, I know the date of the whiskey in the crystal bottle. I know the feel of the soft materials of the cushions and curtains as if I had chosen them myself from a large variate of beautiful samples. I know how they feel against my cheek. I even know the name of the roses that spread their eternal smell and close my eyes again.

   Then I hear that beautiful voice I have been waiting for all my life; deep and warm, surrounding me, touching every nerve in my body, making me tremble. I feel the strong hands that hold me, their warmth reaches my skin through my clothes. I smell the masculine scent that matches so perfectly with that of my favourite roses.

   While I hide in the loving arms that surround me, I kiss the lips that tell me how much I am loved, that smile when they say: “What took you so long my love?”.

I smile too but do not answer, I do not need to; you read my feelings as you have always done over the past centuries. I am home, not only for Christmas but forever.

Helen

Floating Silence

   The little twigs crushed by his hasty feet, made a cracking noise that did not disturb the wildlife; the inhabitants of the forest were used to this man who lived here most of his life. His smell and posture were as familiar as the trees and large boulders. During the harsh winters there was always food near the red barn of which the white panelling glowed bright in the afternoon sun.

    The deer raised her head; it was unusual to see the man running. Her brown eyes watched him disappearing between the trees before she shook her head to chase the flies and continued eating.

    He did not slow down, he knew there was something wrong. His heartbeat went up, in pace with his breathing. His heart ached and not because of physical strain although it felt like wading through a swamp, facing a nightmare.

He heard stories about people who relived their lives in the last few seconds before they died; flashbacks. Of happy times is what he wanted, reliving the happy times. The face of the woman he loved with his whole heart, suddenly appeared in front of his eyes.

    A bruised face with hollow cheeks and eyes so tired that they remembered him of chased animals. She stood in a corner of his veranda when he woke up to watch the sun rise. She did not move but stood there, her eyes fixed at his face, her chin high, her arms down her side and her back straight. It shocked him and not because he did not expect any human being at his door. No, it shocked him because here was a woman that went through horrible times. Not an accident but brutal violence made her look the way she did.

   At the same time he felt a deep admiration for her courage because there was no fear in her eyes. Her whole body displayed courage and her eyes challenged him not to ask any questions.

   He invited her in and made sure he was not walking behind her and not blocking the doorway. He saw her looking at the breakfast table and in an impulse, licking her lips. His hand invited her to sit down but she remained where she was and stroke her hair. Although she did not say a word, he knew that her pride made her do this and he went to the stove to boil water so she could tidy herself up.

When it boiled, he left his house and walked to the shore of the lake to give her time and space.

    He lost track of time but returned from his deep thoughts about the mysterious woman when he heard footsteps. When he turned his head she stood next to him, dressed in one of his trousers and shirts held together with a string of rope. She carried two cups of hot coffee. He took both so she was able to sit down. She choose the boulder next to him but not close enough for physical contact. He returned one cup of coffee. She folded her hands with the broken nails round the cup and both listened to the sound of the lake, forest and wind.

Like he, she seemed at ease with nature and he wondered where she came from but knew he could not ask.

   In fact he never asked anything about her past after that day. She stayed and did not speak for two weeks. It was only when her bruisings healed that she spoke for the very fist time. Her voice was music to his ears. Not light and high as he expected with a young woman with blond hair and grey, almost transparent eyes that never failed to observe her surroundings, but deep and warm, a voice he could listen to for hours.

    She did not speak much, only when something needed the attention of both which was not often the case as she knew her way around the house perfectly well.

    The first nights of her stay, she slept in his bed and he on the couch. She slept for hours and hours but when she felt better again, she gave him back his bed and insisted to sleep on the couch.

   She was always up early, even before him and he knew she first walked to the lake to sit there taking in the peaceful silence that also healed her mental wounds.

She cooked his meals, washed his clothes, kept the house clean, milked the cow and fed the pigs and chickens while he worked in the forest and sold the timber like he already did for many years.

    He never thought he could live with someone else in his house; he was on his own since he left his parents when he was a young man and this was 20 years ago. He always felt at ease with no other company, he did not need people to entertain him. He was never bored; his hands were always busy.

   But this woman, he did not even know here name, was never in his way. She never disturbed him and never asked questions. She respected him for who he was and also never asked for a favour or for help.

   When he finally realized all this, it was too late for his heart that now not only belonged to him but also to her. It came as a shock that he was in love with her. It turned all his emotions upside down which made him feel slightly uncomfortable in her presence and he did not know how to handle this.

    She did not show any sings of other feelings than taking care of his household and looking after him.

Until the day he came home earlier than usually. He was very restless and wanted to be with her. He wanted to brake the silence regardless what the consequences were going to be. He could not go on like this. At the same time he was very afraid she was going to leave him when he told her about his feelings but it was a risk he had to take. It would brake his heart if she indeed left and his life would never be the same again, still....

   When he arrived home his feet guided him to the lake where she waded through the water, her long blond hair drifting on the surface. He stood still absorbing the view.

She must have felt his presence because she turned her head in his direction. He could only see her naked shoulders which took his breath. She did not move nor did she call him but her eyes showed an emotion he understood.

He did not hesitate, took his boots off and walked in her direction without caring about his clothes.

   When he stood in front of her, she raised her hand and unbuttoned his shirt and trousers. He did nothing to help her. He did not notice his clothes floating away with the hardly visible waves caused by her moves.

Then he lifted her in his arms until she folded her legs around his waist.

    All this crossed his mind when he ran even faster. Four years passed by, four years of love and intimacy. Years that were so very precious that he could not believe her when she said she knew she was going to die. Of course he noticed she lost weight but she never complained and when she finally mentioned it, it was too late. And now he was so afraid, so very afraid of coming home too late.

    He found her near the lake at their favourite spot. He noticed her smile but also saw how much energy this took of her. He kneeled behind her and held her in his arms. She leaned against his warm strong body, her lips touched the soft skin just under his ear and he felt more than he heard “I love you so much....”.

He continued where she stopped: “....beyond my life”.

  His cry of grief was answered by a crow and bounced against the trees, floated above the lake until it died at the shore at the other side.

He raised with her closely in his arms and walked to the lake. He did not stop but walked and walked until the last wave disappeared, leaving a perfectly smooth surface.

Photo: @pekamkinen (Instagram)

The visitor of this forgotten forest stood near the lake and watched the water reflecting the sky, wondering why someone abandoned the wooden cottage behind him. It was obvious it stood empty for a long time but it was left as if the owners could return any moment.

   Suddenly a cloud appeared above the water surface and stayed there. He did not know where it came from and could not take his eyes of it.

His heartbeat changed by the loud desperate scream of a crow and he watched the cloud coming down to be dissolved by the lake.

Word of thanks: the photo of @pekamkinen (Instagram) inspired me to write this story and I was given permission to use the photo as an illustration for which I am very grateful. Thank you Pekka!

Links: please visit the Instagram account of Pekka Mäkinen to view his beautiful black and white photo's!

Note: the story is pure fiction! A figment of my imagination!

Helen

Last Performance (short story)

   His body moved passionately with every note, absorbing the music.
His fingers kissed the ivory and ebony keys in changing tempo's. The violins in complete harmony; tender and loving.... energetic and impressive. Or in total silence, listening to the careful touches, waiting to join in.

   Beethoven was always his favourite composer, particularly No. 3 in C Minor, Opus 1, no 3:IV, Finale, Prestissimo. It was the first music he heard as a little boy of only 2 years old, during a concert at home, organized by his parents. He sat in a little chair in the corridor upstairs, looking down at all the guests in their beautiful clothes. Jewellery shone in the light of hundreds of candles which sent their warmth and the scents of all the different perfumes his way. It did not bother him, with his eyes wide open he listened and listened.
His little hands mimicked the hands of the pianist in the black suit. His head moved in the same rhythm, his blond and silky hair waved. His little body relaxed when the music was slow but straightened by a higher tempo. Although he was too young to describe his own feelings, he knew that he had never heard something as beautiful as this.
   His governess watched him, thinking she needed to talk to his parent. This beautiful child was born to play the piano and the lessons needed to start at a young age.
She did not notice the tears at her wrinkly cheeks. Tears because she knew the childhood of this lovely little boy was going to be different than that of other children. But how could she keep it away from him? Look at his face with the soft cheeks that coloured red by the emotions he felt.

   She was right, this evening changed his life.
His parents were delighted to learn about the musical gift of their child and looked for someone to teach the boy piano lessons. Their choice was Monsieur Augustin Joguet, a Frenchman famous for tutoring gifted pupils.
But M. Joguet never met a child as young as the little boy who was even at the age of almost 3, also very stubborn. A child that heard music in his head, music his hands wanted to play on the beautiful grand piano in the music room. His young attitude drove M. Joguet almost insane by the look of his behaviour; next to the child (the poor boy was never called by his name) he made little jumps on his chair, raised his white hands with the long pointy fingers in the air, dramatically shouting: "Mais non, non non!!! Ze child first needs to learn ze scales!! 'E can not play Beet'oven at once!!" Then shook his head, spreading desperate little drops of sweat.
   Arguments about his payment, patience and to his great annoyance also his competence, followed.
The little child did not understand what was said, he did not even hear it. His head was full of beautiful almost heavenly music where dissonance was not allowed; he closed his ears for the ugly music produced by the adult voices. Instead he let his little wide spread fingers search for the right tones of the performance he heard during that  beautiful evening. In his head the violins.

   M. Joguet resigned; thinking he might be too old for this which worried him far more than the future of this gifted child who played the piano in unawareness. Parents and governess wondered if he had even noticed his teacher left for good.
   A new teacher arrived. And another one, and another one until the very young pianist that understood the music in the child's head and the connection between these tones and his fingers performing an excellent translation.
Of course there were other lessons to follow and as long as the child knew the piano was waiting for him, he obediently listened to his governess and made his homework.

   At the age of five he had his first performance for the guests of his parents.
The sight of his little innocent body sitting on the chair, his back turned to the guests, was very touching and many ladies could not hold their tears.
The child's teacher sat next to the piano, his hands folded, his eyes fixed on the boy as if he read the notes inside that little head. There were no music pages to turn, the boy knew it all by heart.
   The evening was very successful although more realistic people agreed that this child should climb trees or play cricket instead. Though the parents were very proud.

   The years went by, he became very famous, his parents added extra space to the music room to entertain more guests because the only problem was that the child, a man by now, never wanted to leave the house. The sound of the outside world confused him, too many notes that did  not make sense, notes causing agony and disorder. He once described the sounds outside the walls of their stately home as 'ugly' and the way he pronounced it, left no doubt.
   A situation causing great concern with everyone involved, not in the least his parents. They shook their grey and wrinkly heads but could not avoid leaving this world when old and tired; like the guests. The younger generation the man wasn't familiar with, developed a different taste for music.
He wasn't aware of it and as long as people looked after him, he played and played until his body also bent for physical decay; his back round and aching, his knuckles swollen in pain. He did not want to give up, did not want to stop. He could not stop, there was so much music in his head.

   Still came the day of his very last performance.
The sight of his shrunken lean body sitting on the chair, his back turned to the non existing guests, was very touching and angels above could not hold their tears.

Photo: @glory.of.disrepair (Instagram)

The translucent posture of his long gone teacher was seen next to the piano, his eyes fixed on the man. There were no pages to turn, the fading fingers of the man found their way without thinking. Beethoven's No. 3 in C Minor, Opus 1, no 3:IV, Prestissimo was the man's personal Finale; he played with all the energy that was left. The tones echoed against the walls and ceiling, made the structure move; tearing the plaster apart until the tones slowly drifted away when the teacher reached out for the man who allowed the elements to take care of his beloved grand piano. His music travelled with him to never be heard again.


Word of thanks: the photo of @glory.of.disrepair (Instagram) inspired me to write this story and I was given permission to use the photo as an illustration for which I am very grateful. Thank you Mathias!

Link: please visit the beautiful Instagram account of @glory.of.disrepair

Note: the story is pure fiction! A figment of my imagination!

Helen

Wind of Seasons (short story)

The edge of the cliff. A dangerous place to be, she knew that, was born here.

   But an indefinable feeling that made her body tremble, drove her from the cottage to this edge of her world. She was so much a child of the beautiful Northern Irish landscape where the many shades of green competed  with the grey and blue colours of the sky. Where the wind waved the grass or tortured the scarce trees that bravely survived the storms with bowed backs like old men.

   She was born in a heavy storm in April and named Aibreann. Her paternal grandmother predicted a strong and determined will, always prepared to fight storms in her life and even looking for them.
Aibreann did not disappoint her grandmother with whom she had a close relationship. Both women had a wild almost earthly edge to their character. Both inherited the free will and combativeness from the Vikings that once ruled Northern Ireland. Add a little blood from the Cromwell's soldiers and a generation of brave women was born. 

   Strong women needed strong men at their side; it wasn't an easy task for the parents to find the right one. Most men were easily either discouraged or too impressed and Aibreann was very seldom impressed by the men who dared to try to approach her.
Her mother shook her head and believed her daughter was never going to marry. Her father laughed and said that the man who could handle his daughter was out there somewhere to turn up when Aibreann was ready for it.

   Watching the wild sea beneath her, Aibreann smiled. Yes, she was 24 and yes, there was a man - Lorcan - she liked but her heart still belonged to the seasons and not to him although she admired his tenacity. The first man that seemed not too impressed with that wild side of her. Still....
   She straightened her back even more, raised her head, her chin pointing forwards, her eyes wide open. She opened her arms and welcomed the wind that gained in strength, trying to subject her to his power.
Aibreann did not give in and laughed, the wind swirled her laugh over the fields towards a man on his horse.

   The man sat high on his tall dark brown horse, his left hand on his knee; the wind blew the manes round his right hand that loosely held the bridles.  He looked at the woman at the edge of the cliff and could not take his eyes of her, feeling a sensation of which he thought he lost it long ago.
   To an ordinary spectator it might have looked if she was going to jump but he knew that she stood their to embrace the wind. She was too far away to hear her laughing still the sound resonated in his chest. Man and horse did not move and stood like a statue in the middle of the green field defined by large ferns that obeyed the law of Autumn by fading into yellow and brown.

   At the same moment the man guided his horse to the cliff, Aibreann knew someone was watching her. She turned around and the wind blew her hair forwards; her hands held her hair back to watch the magnificent combination of strength and solidarity of the man and his horse.

   She was alone but not afraid. Her chin still up, she waited; her eyes fixed on the man's face until she could see his eyes grey as the smoke from the chimneys.
   She raised her hand and laid it on the nostrils of the beautiful horse who nodded a few times to approve with her touch. She did not look at the horse, she looked at the man who's emotions were clearly visible in his eyes; the grey turned from bright to dark but he did not blink.
   She lost track of time, the world around her stood still. The wind got hold of her heart and blood, raced through her body and she knew that the man felt the same. She knew she found her equal and she knew she needed to fight for him; he was the main storm in her life and nothing that followed later in life would cause similar sensations.

~

   Aibreann smiled and thought she was indeed an old sentimental fool. A forgotten tear dripped on the letter in her hand. One of the many the man wrote to her. Letters in which he told her about the storm in his heart the moment he saw her. That incredible sensation that raced through his blood. The recognition of equal souls; creations of the wind.
   Their secret relationship was not meant to last, they both knew that, but until it ended it was fiercely, unruly. Their passion grew with the Autumn winds, raw and reckless. The rain washed the tears they did not want to cry, their time together was too short.
   The storm inside her held on for months after he left but then came the day she calmed down and accepted the proposal of  Lorcan.

   Poor Lorcan who was good to her, who loved her and kissed the ground she was walking on. She was loyal to him, never betrayed him with another man but also never told him about the letters of her wild and passionate lover from long ago. A lover she never met again but who's letters she received though never replied to, until the announcement of his death 60 years later, long after Lorcan passed away.

   After she read the final letter from the stranger that told her about the death of her friend ("we found your address in his agenda"), she walked to the cliff but instead of looking at the sea, she looked in the opposite direction, the wind in her back, searching for the contours of man and horse but they were gone. 

Photo: @beautifully_derelict_ni (Instagram)

   All what was left was a case full of letters, carefully preserved in the attic and never to be read twice or found by anyone. Until now after she towed the case downstairs. Sitting in her chair in front if the peat fire, she opened them one by one before she laid them back in the case.   She read for days and days, forgot to eat, forgot to drink. The peat fire stopped burning but she did not feel the cold; she felt the heat of the fire that burned with the same flame in two bodies, enkindled by the storm.

   Aibreann too died long ago but the heritage of her character and the unlimited love for the seasons once united in the only man on earth that understood her, still remains. Exposed in her little home in front of a cold hearth until the elements destroy what is left of the abandoned cottage, allowing the storm to blow the written memories towards the wild sea.

 

Word of thanks: the photo of @beautifully_derelict_ni (Instagram) inspired me to write this story and I was given permission to use the photo as an illustration for which I am very grateful. Thank you Jules!!

 
Link: please visit the beautiful Instagram account of Jules

Note: the story is pure fiction! A figment of my imagination. 

Helen 

Roses (short story)

    The music she heard was composed by the sea.
Its whispering sound louder when the waves born at the horizon, grew on their way to the beach to die at the wet sand. After their temporary death there was a moment of silence and the sand beneath her feet moved as if it called her to the dark water where a lost moonbeam- disturbed by black clouds flying through the sky - lighted the splashing froth on top of the rolling waves.

   She listened to the music, her arms folded around her body. The wind played a game with her long white dress that could not decide to fly with the wind or to protect her.
From a distance she looked like a ghost, floating above the shore. But there was no one to watch her.
She was alone with her memories which went back a long time. Happy memories that made her smile and forget about the wind.
   Instead of the cold wind, she felt the warm sunshine at her skin. Of course she had a beautiful lace parasol that protected her. A lady was supposed to have a pale complexion, a tanned skin was for the girls working on the fields. But she loved the sun so much and did not understand why a tanned skin was not fashionable.

   She heard the voice of her little brother running after his beach ball of which the coloured stripes whirled in the Summer light. It was warm and the sand in her elegant white button boots was sharp. She wished there were no other people so she could walk bare feet. What a shock this would cause!

 She envied the farmers daughters with their rolled up sleeves, not tormented by the many rules for Victorian girls, pardon... ladies!

   She remembered her mother sitting on a white chair sipping tea form a porcelain cup and eating delicate sandwiches; a large parasol planted in the sand. Her mother's large hat with the ribbons and flowers moved softly in the wind from sea. The warm sun did not seem to bother her mother who looked relaxed, with a cool attitude that never left her, regardless the circumstances, emotions or weather.

   Being young, she had secret thoughts about the love life of her parents but did not dare to ask about it of course. This was so not done! Like her mother never talked about the intimate details to her daughter. She sighed and knew she had to rely on the stories from her friends who heard their stories from other friends and so on. And not all stories were romantic!
   Or maybe she would know intuitive when the right man was there. From all the men that were interested in her as a future well brought up and beautiful wife there was not even one she considered to be the lover who was going to show her the secrets of love. Hopeless situation if money was more important than love.

   But it was that day at the beach that she met Anthony, the love of her life who also received, and this she always treasured, the approval from her parents. He was from an excellent family and rich with good perspectives for a future together.

  And he was very handsome! Tall and slim, beautiful intelligent hazelnut eyes above a straight nose, a masculine mouth partly covered by a fashionable moustache. She never understood why he set eyes on her, she did not think of herself as exceptional beautiful nor ladylike as expected. Deep down her heart she felt locked up within the boundaries of her upbringing.

   Right now, a life time ahead, she knew that it was this part of her that he recognized. It answered her question why he wasn't married, regardless the suitable young ladies his parents approved on before he met her.
   While she watched her little brother playing at the beach, she knew she was observed but although she loved to turn her head, she did not and waited. It did not take long before the tall young man walked by, raising his hat to greet her mother who replied with a slight nod of her head.

   The following days he was there when they were at the beach. He took his time to approach them for a sociable talk but from there he spent more time with them and met her father who joined his family for the weekend.
As soon as his parents arrived, he introduced them to her family and both parties knew there was love in the air.
   They were never left alone until that particular warm evening when she walked on her own in the garden of the Hotel. Candlelight lit the dark trees but did not reach the corners where secret whispers reached her ears. She felt lonely and wondered where Anthony was and if he felt lonely too. Did she occupy his thoughts as much as he did hers? She learned to recognise the twinkle in his eyes, to appreciate his sense of humour. Or his love for books, nature and travelling. She knew he had a good and well paid position at his father's company and how contentious he was about his future.

   But she also learned the wicked and naughty side of his character; seen in his eyes and the expression of his mouth.

   At that very moment, the man of her dreams stood in front of her and called her by her name. He did not frighten her, her heart expected him. He took her by her hand and walked from the garden to the beach where he guided her to a dark corner behind a dune. He spread his jacket and helped her to sit down.

They looked each other in the eyes but did not speak. The air around them vibrated, the voices from strollers faded away as did the sound of the waves when he laid his right hand in her neck, softly stroking her skin. And when he lowered his head, she was not afraid of the very first kiss.

When his lips touched hers, she opened her mouth and welcomed him; this is what she had been waiting for. His kiss was so familiar still so exiting. His hand moved from her neck to the back of her head and with his left arm he pulled her softly against his warm and longing body.

   Never had she forgotten about this moment where both knew that their lives were for ever connected.

She also never forgot the first roses he gave her. Not as flowers in a vase but as leaves, soft as velvet, scattered throughout the house as a delicate path up the stairs to their bedroom.
Making love surrounded by the scent of roses, leaves touching their skin, was a sensation forever locked in her heart. Even now, after he had to leave her; not in tears but in memories.

She laid in his old and wrinkly arms, her hand on his now skinny chest, feeling the rising of his ribs until he was silent. She stayed with him till the next morning when it was time to inform the family.

Photo: @soul_mining (Instagram)

   And now it was time for her to go. She was old and stiff and would never be young again.

Before she walked to the beach, she scattered all the preserved rose leaves through the house and on top of her diaries which were the witnesses of a life as happy as she had never imagined.

   While she obeyed the call of the moving sand under her feet, her mind and heart left her house; it was not important who was going to find her life and intimate thoughts.

The darkness dissolved her old body, the retrieving waves her shadow in the sand.

Word of thanks: the photo of @soul_mining (Instagram) inspired me to write this story and I was given permission to use the photo as an illustration for which I am very grateful. Thank you Dan!

Link: please visit the beautiful Instagram account of @soul_mining

Note: the story is pure fiction! A figment of my imagination!

Helen

The Letter (short story)

 'My Love,

My hands can not hold a pen any more. The red knuckles are swollen like marbles and my fingers grow in the wrong directions.
Do you remember when we were still children with elastic muscles that we crossed our fingers, one over the other? That is how my hands look now. I am glad you can't see this, it would have upset you.
The pink and ring finger are the worst but my fore finger is the best of all and allows me to type a letter to you. It is a slow process as you will understand but you have all the time of the world to read it.

I am in a strange mood. I thought I got used to my solitary existence but strangely enough I didn't. My thoughts often wander off to the old days when we still lived together. Married as in 'happily ever after'.
Have we been happy? Yes. We were childhood lovers, we knew each other so very well, our marriage couldn't go wrong. How wrong we were but let not dwell on this right now.
I still remember our wedding day with all the love and laughters, all the expectations for the future; our future.
We did not have a great income but you were determined to climb the social ladder and I was more than willing to hold that ladder, to support you where ever I could. I promised to do so and I kept my promise. You asked me to support you and that is what I did...... till death did us part.

Do you remember how we loved to curl up on the sofa? Or in bed? We became great lovers and memories of our intimacy still cause that special warm feeling. Or our arms wrapped around each other, talking about our dreams. Your dreams were more demanding than mine. You wanted a family, a job with status and an appropriate  income, a bigger house, being a member of The Lions and the Golf club. And, not to forget, a perfect and elegant, good looking wife to impress your colleagues and friends to be.
My wish list was a family home, children, a house and a garden, hugs and love, a dog. Could I ever dream that the only wish we had in common was children....
Maybe the house too but mine was cosy and big enough for our family. Yours was to impress, pompous and in my humble opinion, horrible.
You were generous and  promised me on forehand a house keeper, a nanny and a gardener. Well, I thought it was generous but I learned otherwise.

You ticked almost all the boxes on your wish list, almost. The children box was never ticked. At first you blamed yourself but soon you blamed me, not openly, I did not even notice it in the beginning. I did not recognize the early signs of mental abuse. I have to admit that you were very, very good at that. I am not going to repeat all the details, you know exactly what you have done to me. But what you did not know was that you forced me to play my own game. I had to to survive, to stay close to me. And when I finally, after so many years, saw through you, I became even better in playing mental games than you.

You never found out did you, that I became the best actress ever and that I only acted like the manipulated wife you created. Created in your mind my love, not in real!
You hated your sudden hair loss, you were so proud of the dark curly hair you inherited from your mother. You had never been ill before so you hated the so called influenza that caused stomach and belly pains and vomiting. Not long after you recovered but within half a year it started all over again. The doctor said you were stressed. The demanding job, the long hours, a holiday would do you good. And it did. A year after, the same thing happened again but you felt worse than ever. Strong as you were, you recovered again. But my love, you were not smart enough to know it wasn't a influenza! And it was not due to stress! Not at all, but I played my game so very well that no one was surprised when you finally died. They spoke beautiful words at your grave. Your business partner mentioned he had never seen a man before who was so dedicated to his work.

And I? I played the grieving widow. And I played it very, very well. I almost believed my own grief, I almost felt the pain for your loss. I played it so well that people never noticed the joy in my heart. The joy about my freedom and most of all the joy because I won the game you started!

Photo: Forgotten Heritage

Did you notice the Crow who watched your funeral? He and I became very good friends. He knows my moods and when my mood is as dark as his deep purple and black feathers, he talks to me. His hoarsely voice causes great fear with people who don't know him but not with me. He waits for me to finish the letter and to take it to your grave. This will also be my goodbye to my feathered friend. I have done what I wanted to do. I have enjoyed my victory long enough and it is time to go.
All that will be left is the two cups with the residue of what ended our lives. They lay next to the type writer and your portrait, guarded by the Crow who will be faithful to me until his own death.
Goodbye my love......'

Word of thanks: the photo of @forgottenheritage (Instagram) inspired me to write this story and I was given permission to use the photo as an illustration for which I am very grateful. Thank you Matt!

Link: the beautiful book Forgotten Heritage by Matthew Emmett

Note: the story is pure fiction!A figment of my imagination!

Helen

My relationship with James

James is special, very special. I love him to bits.
No, he is not the love of my life but my feelings for James are.... eehhmmm... special to say the least.

He is always there for me, is patient, not afraid of trying new things, warm hearted, easy to handle (although sometimes I need gloves and no, James a not an animal), he is not demanding, he is a money saver and best of all, he cooks me lovely meals.
I can't tell James that his cooking skills are the only reason I love him. It would break his heart so please keep this between us
.
Yes, my cooking skills are at the bottom of my skill list. My mother (an excellent cook) tried hard to teach me cooking but never managed to be successful. It often smells delicious but doesn't taste good.
I love baking cakes and quiches and are very good in that but here it ends. Well, you can't do everything right, can you. My late husband was an excellent cook like a good friend in Spain but both could and can not bake cakes.

The problem with cooking is that you have to know in what order you need to prepare and cook, it feels like juggling with pots and pans. And here it is where it goes wrong for me.
Plus, when I write my book, I tend to forget the time. As soon as the dogs ask for food, I know it is half past 5 and always too late to cook a good meal.

That is how James came into my life. He saved me by taking care of my meals. Healthy meals.
Around 6 (Dutch dinner time) the only thing I have to do is laying the table. Nothing more and nothing less. James has taken care of the rest.

But (I can hear you asking) who is James exactly, how does he look like. Is he handsome, tall?
No, he isn't. He is (depending which James we are talking about) appr. 20 - 25 cm. 'tall'. James comes in Aluminium, Black or Red. James is either hand operated or digital. My James is Red and looks terrific in my kitchen. His favourite place is on the work top, always accessible.

James is his surname, Andrew his first name.
My James is Andrew James. My James is a Slow Cooker!

Bon Apetit.

Andrew James at 'De Slowcookery'

Helen