The Soul No Longer Hurts or Weeps

The ache in my soul had finally subsided, and the tears had dried.

When my husband Arthur met his tragic end, I could no longer bear the sight of the town that kept reminding me of him. Eight short years had passed since his death, and I was left with only my son Thomas. One cold evening I told my two close friends, who were visiting, that I intended to abandon everything and move to a country village.

The old family house is empty now; my parents have long since gone, I said. I cannot walk these streets or stay in that flat. Arthur seems to linger in every shadow, and sometimes I swear I glimpse a dark figure at the edge of my vision, only to find nothing there. What does it mean?

Molly doubted me. Im not sure you could manage life in a village. You grew up here, and everything is set up for you.

Agnes was more encouraging. Theres a school in the village; you could teach there, I replied with resolve. Then youll visit us often, she added, and we all laughed.

For the next five years I lived with Thomas in a modest cottage on the edge of the village, right by the woods. I took a post at the local school, and the villagers, respecting that I was one of their own, welcomed me.

That winter was especially harsh; the first half of December brought snow and a fierce gale. With New Years just a week away, a blizzard rolled in one late night, rattling the shutters while the hearth kept the interior warm. Thomas and I loved such evenings, sipping herbal tea as the storm raged outside.

Mum, I think someones knocking, Thomas whispered.

Its just the wind, I called out, but a faint rap did echo from the door. I stepped into the hallway and asked, Whos there?

A hoarse voice answered, Please, open the door.

Fear did not seize me, yet I could not understand why anyone would brave such weather to come to our remote cottage. When I opened the door, a man staggered in, halfburied in snow, collapsing onto the floor. I shouted for Thomas.

Perhaps hes drunk, I thought briefly, but we cant let him freeze.

Together we hauled him inside. He lay on the floor, grimacing with each breath. His hunting coat lay torn, and his rifle was missing.

I was no medic, and in the midst of a blizzard no ambulance could be summoned. After a few minutes the man turned onto his back, his eyes opening to reveal a painful wound on his right thigh, bleeding profusely.

What happened to you? I asked softly.

Forgive me, he croaked. We quickly peeled off his wet outerwear; his blue eyes pleaded for help, and my heart tightened.

I examined his leg. Thankfully there was no fracture, only a deep cut. I could at least dress it, which eased my mind a little. We settled him near the stove, propping him against the wall. He managed a faint smile as he glanced at his own leg.

My name is Proctor, he said weakly. Im sorry to intrude upon your home.

I introduced him to Thomas. Im Eleanor, and this is my son, Thomas.

Proctor, a former army doctor, assured us that his wound was not fatal, merely drained of strength and blood. Relief washed over me; a doctor could tend to himself.

After cleaning and bandaging the injury, Proctor sat at the table, sipping steaming tea flavored with thyme and sage, a dollop of raspberry jam on the side. The warmth of the brew loosened his tongue, and he began to speak of his life.

Im fortythree, he said. I spent many years as a military physician, serving abroad in rough conditions. The constant movement broke my marriage; my wife left with our daughter for the city, where her parents lived. She later remarried and settled there. I bear no ill willfew women can endure such a nomadic life.

I asked, But what of love, joy, sorrow?

He sighed. Not every woman can bear the burden I placed on her when we were young. I promised her more than I could give, so I understand her leaving.

We talked long into the night. At last Proctor asked, Are you married?

I answered, My husband died tragically; I fled the town five years ago. This is my familys old home, the place where my spirit finally thawed. I feared Thomas would miss the village, having been born in the city, but hes adapted well, made friends, and feels at home here.

Do you ever long for the city? he inquired.

No, I said. I cherish the quiet, teach at the school, and find peace. He smiled, revealing a line of teeth.

I left the army at forty, after my mother fell gravely ill, he explained. I tended to her as a forest ranger, but she passed away. I then moved back to the city, opened a chemists shop, and am now planning a second. Lately, however, a lingering dread haunts meperhaps the loss of my mother, perhaps something else. My soul aches.

I nodded. The death of a loved one leaves a deep scar on the heart.

He admitted, Friends urge me to see a psychiatrist, but I scoff at the idea. Thats why I came to these woods, to hunt and clear my mind. While hunting as a ranger, I lost my car, ran into a boar herd, and one of them struck my leg. I shot it, though Im not sure if I hit the animal. At least the herd fled, and I made it to your doorstep, abandoning my rifle by the porch.

I offered him a bed by the fire and wished him a good night.

The next morning Proctor ran a high fever; the wound on his leg had not healed. The storm had finally calmed, and Thomas and I discovered the abandoned car, half buried in snow not far from the cottage.

Ill have to tend to myself, Proctor said, my kit is in the car. Ill bring the medicines over.

Well dig the car out and fetch the kit, Thomas volunteered, bringing the medical supplies safely to Proctor.

For several days Proctor recovered, playing chess with Thomas each evening. When he felt stronger, he announced his intention to return to the cityonly three days before New Years.

I asked him, Is your soul still hurting?

He packed his bag, looked straight into my eyes, and replied, Now it weeps. He slipped into his jeep and drove away.

After his departure the house fell silent. I sensed a void, realizing how much I had grown fond of Proctor, a steady, reliable man. Yet I held no expectations.

The blizzard lingered, though milder, and the wind occasionally gusted. I told myself, Its for the best; his stay was brief, making it easier to let go. He never called, despite promising to phone once he reached the city. I concluded, He has his own affairs now; our brief adventure together simply passed.

On the thirtyfirst of December, I took my aging car into town, bought provisions and sweets for a weeks worth of New Years feasting. Though it was only Thomas and me, we kept the tradition alive, decorating the tree with care.

That evening another storm rolled in, but I was glad Id shopped before it began. Thomas set the table, strung fairy lights on the pine, and when he heard a knock he asked, Mum, is someone at the door?

Its just the wind, I replied, yet I listened. A soft rap answered us.

Standing on the doorstep was a radiant Proctor, arms full of parcels.

May I come in? he said, stepping straight into the hallway.

Thomas shouted with delight, Hooray! Uncle Proctor!

Hold on, Thomas, let me take these, he said, then turned to me, May I kiss you, Eleanor?

He approached me, his heart beating loudly, his nerves evident as a boys.

Thomas, Eleanor, I may be rushing things, but Ive realized my life cannot be joyous without you both, he declared, pulling a small box from his coat pocket. Eleanor, will you marry me?

Did you travel all this way for this? I asked, a smile spreading across my face as I nodded.

Thomas watched, hopeful, as I returned his gaze and gave a quiet assent.

Ill stay, Proctor laughed. I like this place, and the rangers work will keep me busy. Ill still run my business in the city, but Ill be here too. I rested my cheek against his shoulder, words left unsaid.

Time passed. Thomas, now ten, studied at the local college, while I and Proctor built a larger home together. His soul no longer ached; it was filled with love and laughter, and the quiet English countryside embraced us all.