Ruminations

Rumours

There will be rumours, unease in the quiet rural area where you live. A feeling of disquiet at dusk. Strange noises after dark, a stray footstep, the quiet snick of a gate in late night silence, the rattle of a dog chain through gloved fingers. Do you still have a dog? If not, I wonder how you manage to patrol secret corners at the dead of night, drawn like a moth, to lighted windows, hoping that curtains don’t quite meet.
         No-one will recall that this dis-ease dates back to your incoming to the village. It will have crept inexorably into the air, trickling here and there, hovering and moving on. There will be no one place that can be said to be haunted, or dangerous. No particular lane for lone walkers to avoid, no single path for children to be forbidden to use.
         It will be the topic of lively discussion in the one local pub on summer evenings, related with humour to amuse the tourists, passed off as local folklore, added colour to entice another round of drinks from gullible visitors, flattered to feel included in this area of mist, myth and multi-syllable, unpronounceable ancient language. They may climb the ancient staircase to their rooms with a delicious chill at their back, not thinking of the need for care, the need to close their curtains tight. They will see knotholes in ancient boards, not spy holes. The soft footfall and sigh of breath in their ears as they prepare for bed, tipsy and glowing with the warmth of hospitality, will be ignored as imagination, or thought to be the retiring of an ancient building to rest for the night.
Summer visitors leave. That is what keeps them safe. Hopefully they only carry with them rum tales from a wild landscape. Though there will be some, a few who took a glance too far, who sought adventure, and found it, not recognising that the price must be paid. And yet, they too serve their purpose, for their bruises will fade, their memories are brief and make great dinner talk of dangers faced, monsters vanquished, and no-one cares that the balance is massaged in the telling, and candlelight hides the fleck of fear that will never quite disappear. They will heed the warning, and more, they ease the burden of those who cannot leave that place.
The out of season bar is a darker place, though the lights still shine, the log fire is lit, community is shared, lilting language songs sung of valleys and mountains, love and dragons, the green grass of home, the beautiful, unconscious harmony masking the disharmony and ugliness that lurks in their midst. Which side of the bar do you sit I wonder? Who will it be tonight? Maybe no one. Maybe tonight your appetite can range no further than the wife in your bed, the children in theirs. No, surely no. Your ancient mother in hers must be safe. Not even you would do that, would you?
Is your wife’s hand shaking as she pours, washes, wipes. Or is she sighing in relief as she sees your eyes light, ice cold, on another. Or is she just blind. Exhausted and blind. Does she know yet, do they? Maybe she is too firmly cocooned in the daily toil of children, mother-in-law and the provision of hostelry. Does she know yet to toe-tip carefully around the sudden outburst of frustrated temper, or is she still brave enough to face it down, match cruel words with accusations, flying fists with kicking feet? Has she associated late night walks with whispers? Do her scars show yet? And them. I hope they still think that hide and seek is a game, stalking is the way to creep up on shy wildlife, that secrets are meant to be shared.
I can spare them little, these victims I only imagine. Precious little was left afterwards and all I have I need, to wrap around myself and mine. But this I promise. If ever I know for sure, if ever I hear that it has gone too far, as one day it must, as far as death I think. Then I will talk. I will tell. I will accuse. I will find the words.


Sallyj