Wind-Borne Sister. Melinda Holland

      The larks skim the sky overhead, arcing, dancing in the morning light. I want to be one of them, free with that breathtaking acrobatic ease. Gravity and grief weigh me down like this old wool cloak, cumbersome, careworn. The road leads down to the sea, a narrow winding way with shadow-patterns and cobblestones and the echo of memory. My footsteps mar the silence. My presence is unwelcome. Children stare at me out of dusty doorways, admiring and yet distrusting my scarlet shawl. Their sleepy eyes speak truth and distance: “You are not one of us.”

      I smile at them because they are beautiful. They do not know this, so their beauty is worn lightly, not yet cage or tool. They do not smile back. So early the young can be taught to hate. I do not blame them for their fear.

      About halfway down the hill a cart takes up most of the roadway, and I must edge past. A corner of my shawl catches and tears against the ragged wood. It is no matter, for long ago my shawl ceased to be lovely. I make sure not to leave threads behind, however; I do not need evidence of my passing beyond the stories of the small.

      I had hoped for a gray day to mirror my soul. Yet the sun is bent on playfulness today, running in and out among clouds just as my little sister used to scamper among the haystacks of our fields. I still see her face, with a sense of wonder and joy shining in her eyes as her last ragged breath caught in her throat. No money for medicine, no hope for the young. I buried her myself. I wonder now what she saw with those eyes that looked past this life; I know it was something more lovely than our poor life had ever shown her.

      My hand slides of its own accord into my pocket, fingering the small pewter cross. Anna found it at the seashore one day, and we threaded narrow twine through its loop to fashion a necklace for her. It was her one treasure. Perhaps I should have buried it with her. Instead I carry it always, a link to her and to that vision of her last breath. I carry it, or perhaps it carries me.

      Suddenly a man reels drunkenly out of a doorway, shouting epithets at the occupants within. He is large and dangerous, anyone can see that; I also see with my spirit that he is dark-souled and intent on harm. I cannot go back the way I have come. I need to get to the sea. If I cower, he will bully. If I speak, he will hurl his dirty speech at me. But the way is narrow. I stop and wait and watch from a deep place within. He was wounded long ago, a whip striking repeatedly across his shoulders and neck. I see it in my mind’s eye: a lad of five, punished for stealing apples. His drunken father nearly killed him. A wind makes its way past us, and the hair on the back of his neck lifts; still the deep scars remain. I focus my compassion on the wounds: balm, peace, a little sacred space of hope. He takes a deep breath, rubs his neck in a puzzled way, then stoops to tie his lacings. He does not look my way. Swiftly but not hurriedly I make my way by him and away.

      I do not know what to call that which I do. Some call me a healer, but I have no schooling in those ways. Some call me a witch, but I seek only power for good. I know that it started the day Anna died, the day I put the cross in my apron pocket. But it isn’t the cross that makes it happen; I know that much. Maybe it’s my love for Anna and my love for the Lord, along with the grounding and closeness I feel to each of them when I finger the pewter outline that focuses the strength. I don’t know. I do know that it changes things. And it means that I must go away.

      Down the hill I go, step by step, a blur of children’s watchful glances, closed doors, murmured voices within. Finally, I reach the turning of the way, and before me the sea reaches welcoming arms. We are friends, the sea and I. By the sea road I will journey to find my future.

      Perhaps I should have left before sunrise, yet my leaving is not a secret. Most do not wish me ill; they just wish me not here, not muddling their lives with misunderstood moments of light and sight. My one former friend counseled me to turn off the seeing, to let go of this reaching touch of love, of hope. But it has become like breathing. It is woven into the fabric of my self and spirit. And so I journey on.

      I prepared the boat last evening, storing provisions and water enough for several days’ journey from this town, with dried provisions for longer. I can trust that it still lies undisturbed; people are superstitious here and do not touch what belongs to me. In the same way I know that our little home and its one outbuilding will not be occupied or damaged, even if I am gone long years. No one will go in. Nevertheless, I do hope the nearest neighbor will work the land. Though a small plot, the soil is flat and rich and fertile. It would bless them to have the extra crop.

      What little money I have is tucked in a pouch beneath my cloak, and I clutch it to myself as I reach the boat. I stoop to clear away the few leaves that have fallen overnight. As I collect them my eye is caught by a small bit of parchment. It is nearly hidden under the seat, secured by a stone. In a strong, slanting style are the words: “Peace to you. May God guide your way.” There is no signature. I do not know the hand.

      I glance around, but of course no one is there. I did not imagine