“The thing you long for summons you away from the self.”
The thing you long for… she reflected. I long for something. No, I long for someone. Someone whose name I don’t know, whose face is blank, and whatever history we have is just a big void. How could I long for a stranger? Enough to draw me away from myself, from how I used to be? Enough to change me?
“Hope deferred maketh the heart sick”, she quoted to herself, “But when the desire comes, it is a tree of life.” Desire. Longing.
Longing for God summons one away from oneself… we have an inborn sense of longing for God, because we miss the relationship we were made for with Him. We miss God. And I miss… someone… so there must be a relationship there.
How could I feel he was missing unless I know him?
Do I miss him? Do I know him? Do I have a relationship with him?
Do I love him?
Violet sat as if frozen. Her heart leaped dangerously into that void, longing for and loving everything that was absent and dark, and expectant, with every fiber, of that love mirrored invisibly. There was a void left by whoever was missing. And all the shape of that void was the center and nexus of her desire and longing.
“I love him.” She murmured it out loud, without realizing. Someone looked at her questioningly, and she jumped up from the lounge couch, throwing the book in her bag.
She nearly ran across campus to the trail into the woods. It was a sparkling fall day. Many days had passed since her first visit, and a floor of loose yellow leaves had replaced the dun carpet by the stream. She arrived, panting, and turned around to see that she was alone.
“I love him!!” she shouted into the trees. “I miss him, I need him, I want him! Who is he? Tell me!!” Her eyes blurred, but she was not crying, she was angry. Whether at God, at the forest, the indifferent breeze that indolently tugged a yellow leaf here, then there, and sent it dancing to the ground; or whether at the someone she missed, she was unsure, and didn’t care, for the moment. Her voice rang back from the tree trunks.
Even as she said the words, she sensed that void in her, where someone should be; where her love and vitality drained away into nothingness. It was not in itself cold, nor dark, nor empty—it was inverted, like a black hole. It had weight and gravity that pulled at her.
The sense of lethargy returned and she sank to her knees in the dry duff. Her mind settled to blankness, in spite of the energy of a moment ago.
She heard the murmuring of the brook, and it reminded her of Blackbirch River. It was just past noon, and the sun shone on her skin, but she couldn’t feel it, it did not penetrate. There was cold darkness inside her. She looked at her fingers through the blur in her eyes, and the sun shone redly through the tips, but they were ice.
This is not me. I am alive.
And I love someone. And immediately following that affirmation, she stated this resolution: And I will fight for him. I will find him, or…
Or I will die, came a thought unbidden. In her lethargy, fighting seemed beyond reach, even living seemed impossible. Win, or die. Love, or death. The two seemed intertwined.
Death is more possible, came again an unbidden thought. Just breathing is an effort. Her breath seemed fragmented and heavy, like the weight of centuries of fallen trees, fallen snow and leaves and fallen birds. All that desire and all that death, laying it down in the end.
So still she sat by the stream, that a movement a few yards away startled her from her reverie. It was a chipmunk, scrabbling in the leaf litter for something to eat. When she lifted her head to look at him, he regarded her, anxious and still for a few moments, but Violet held herself quiet and after a few moments the chipmunk continued about his business.
A sparrow hopped and scratched for insects nearby. The light glinted on its feathers, gilding it momentarily before it flew off, a flash of silver in the sun. The chipmunk also scampered away. Violet arose.
“But there is life.” She spoke out loud to the stream, to the trees, to whoever was listening. There is life before the laying down. God did not give me life to give it up so easy… or love, to give up on so easy.
How could I love someone—and not know them? It was more than not knowing his name. It was not as if she did not know him, she realized—but that her knowledge of him was somehow blocked from her. It was not just him that was missing, it was time and experience shared that had led to their intimacy. She knew herself, she realized, well enough to know that ‘it’ could not have just happened. But it had happened. It was a puzzle that wouldn’t fit together. There were missing pieces.
She gasped: missing pages. In her journals…
There had been love in some of those pages. Young, infatuated teenage love, but later pages had been torn out. All of them had one thing in common— camping in Blackbirch Woods.
It was there that maybe she would find answers. And it was Friday, and she didn’t have to be in class until Monday morning.
Before she turned away from the trees, she made an announcement, to the trees as much as to her unknown lover.
“You whom I love—I will find a way.”
REMEMBRANCE
The drive from Springfield College to Wentham was almost five hours long. It was evening when she arrived in the picturesque village. The sun was going down early and the lights were on in Christ the King Church.
For what she faced, she knew she needed prayer. Her family worshipped here when they were on camping trips, and she knew the pastor was a kind man who would gladly pray with her, even if she did not know him well.
The parking lot was nearly empty so she parked by the stone foyer and went inside. A few people were in the sanctuary, vacuuming the carpet, washing windows, and wiping the dusty scrollwork on the worn pews. They were laughing companionably about something when she came in feeling desperate and out-of-place among the old friends whose lives seemed to be all figured out.
Somewhere in another room, a choir cheerfully practiced with an out-of-tune piano. A couple of young children ran laughing up and down the outer aisles. The Communion table stood at the front of the sanctuary, and a short, white haired lady was running her polishing rag over the carved words: IN REMEMBRANCE OF ME. Violet stared at the words for a moment before the polishing lady turned to see who was at the door.
Violet remembered the tiny, homely woman with a wonderful smile and soft, warm hands that always enfolded hers.
“Violet! How nice to see you.”
“Hi, Vera. How are you?”
“Oh, you know. I’m just fine, dear. Is the family here?”
“Just me. Is Reverend Peterson around?”
“He’s back in his office right now.” She waved a lemon-oil scented rag at the door to the back of the sanctuary.
“Thanks.”
She went through the hall and saw that there was an open door with a light on. She saw the Reverend inside, talking with a man whose name she couldn’t remember. She glanced at a window and saw the dying light. The man was leaving the office and nodded at her on the way by.
She went to the doorway. “Hi, Reverend Peterson.”
“Violet, come inside.” He stood and opened a file drawer and pulled a manila envelope out. “I’m glad to see you, young lady, because I have something for you.” He handed the envelope to her, and sat back down at his desk. He looked at her expectantly.
The front of the envelope said in bold marker: GIVE TO VIOLET AUBREY.
“What is this?”
“I’m not really sure. It’s my doing, though, I know that much from the handwriting. It was on my desk one morning after the last time you were here, last summer. You remember that I came out to your campsite to check on you, because of the windstorm?”
He was looking at her questioningly.
She stared at him.
“Reverend, what exactly happened that night?”
“I was hoping you could tell me. Because I don’t remember much either, and it’s been bugging me, like I had a major senior moment on so
mething real important. Why don’t you open the envelope?”
She sat down and tore the gummed top open and pulled out the contents.
A birth certificate for one Elijah Williams Gray. She had heard the name before…
A Social Security Card for the same person.
A marriage license, signed by Reverend Peterson, for Elijah Williams Gray and—Violet caught her breath—Violet Constance Aubrey. Reverend Peterson had signed them, but no one else. And the date was left blank.
A certificate of marriage, with her name and Elijah Williams Gray written in, but not dated or signed.
She spread them on his desk, and he looked them over. He looked as mystified as she felt.
There was one more item in the manila envelope—a sealed white envelope marked CONFIDENTIAL FOR VIOLET AUBREY.
She tore that one open as well. Inside was a single sheet of paper and it said:
WILLIS WOOD
Violet jumped up with a cry. An avalanche of memories and emotions ambushed her from the dark place inside her. Overcome, she almost fell back into the chair. She bowed her head, and held the paper out for the minister. Tears fell on the knees of her jeans. “Will. Willis. Oh, God, Willis. I’m coming for you,” she whispered.
When she lifted her head, Father Peterson was looking pale. He smoothed his thin, gray hair back on his head. For a moment, there was nothing to say, and they regarded each other. The choir trolled on invisibly. Then he held out a tissue box toward her, and she took it.
“We need to pray, Violet. And if I did the wrong thing, put you in any kind of jeopardy or caused you pain, I am truly sorry, young lady. I’ve known Willis for fifty years. I just wanted to see that boy have a life… anyway what’s done is done. All I can do now, is say, forgive me.”
Violet regarded the old man.
“Reverend, thank you for caring about him.” She dabbed her eyes with a tissue, struggling for control of her voice. “And there is nothing for me to forgive, as far as I’m concerned. In fact, without your help… you’ve given us a chance for life together. Forgive me, because I was a silly girl who fell in love with a boy who needed rescuing and I thought love would be enough.”
“Violet, it’s not that love isn’t enough. Love that redeems, costs. And, it’s worth it in a way that easy love can never be.”
There didn’t seem anything more that needed saying. Reverend Peterson bowed his head. Violet clasped her hands and bowed as well.
“Father in Heaven, Lord, we are calling out to you. Lord, you created Willis and Violet both, and it seems that you have brought them together for a purpose. Lord, we don’t understand all that goes on here on earth. We know that there are spiritual things that are beyond our experience. So we ask that you would give Violet the wisdom she needs to do whatever must be done so that Willis can be free from the curse he’s been under for so long.
“Lord, you said that we wrestle not against flesh and blood, but against spiritual forces of wickedness in the unseen realms. We also know that you give us spiritual armor: the breastplate of righteousness, the shield of faith, the belt of truth, the sword of the Spirit which is the word of truth—Lord, we ask that you arm Violet and Willis for whatever struggle they need to go through. We know that He who is in her is greater than he that is in the world.
“Lord, we have been forgetful, but you forget nothing. Remember Willis, we pray, and do what only you can do, through us—redeem Willis from his captivity, Lord, break the curse; and make him free indeed, as you promised you would do.
“In the mighty name of Jesus we ask all these things. Amen.”
“Amen.”
They were silent for a few moments.
“Do you want me to go down there with you?”
Violet shook her head. “Whatever I have to go through, I don’t think you can help by being there. Just… just pray for me, Reverend.”
“You got it, young lady. In fact I’ll write myself a note right now, to check on you tomorrow morning early.”
“Every time I wrote things down about Willis, Reverend, well, they just didn’t make sense to me later. Somehow any time I wrote his name, the pen skipped, or I wrote on a section of my journal that had an illustration by mistake, or something. I can’t believe I’ve known Willis since I was a child and never managed to remember in the day, unless I stayed awake. As soon as I fell asleep…”
“Violet, I’ve had that walking stick, the one leaning in the corner, for fifty years. And a thousand times I had to ask myself, where did that come from again? And I was never entirely sure. He carved that for me the night we met.”
Wind rattled the panes of the old church building.
“Sounds like those night people are expecting you, Violet,” he remarked.
SURROUNDED
Violet drove her car to the Cronin’s—they were not at home—and left it there. Her small bag and sleeping bag were light. She almost ran, with her twilight energy, down the farm lane to the camping place. Dry leaves shuffled underfoot, not yet settled by rain.
She wanted to call out his name, but when she opened her throat to call him, she laughed out loud with joy instead. And nervousness. She loped to the place by the river and threw down her things.
The pine boughs still lay in their place, but were brown and dry. Perfect. She dragged them to the fireplace and lit them with the lighter she had brought for lighting candles. They flared, bright and satisfying with heat and light.
She felt his approach and while her heart leapt from her chest to meet him, she stood frozen, biting her lip. But when he emerged from the dark of the woods into the circle of firelight, it was like long-denied sunshine falling on her skin. A little cry escaped her throat as she moved to meet him, and then his arms were around her.
“Willis… Willis…” She tried to explain, she wanted him to understand, but she couldn’t speak, couldn’t pull him close enough.
“I know, Violet, I know. Shhh.” He just held her, but she could feel the tension, the desire in his limbs, the
way his fingers clutched her, making a palpable effort not to bruise her bird-like thinness. Then he steeled himself.
“Violet,” he whispered, and kissed her hair. Then, deliberately, her forehead, and her cheek. “I love you.” His touch was calming, as if two centuries of waiting were stored in his sinews. She leaned, almost with a sob, against him. All the dark places, all the missing and the longing and the empty, were lit and answered by him.
With one hand he brushed stray hair from her cheek, and his lips hovered just a breath away from hers.
“I won’t leave you, Will, ever again. I’m so sorry I-”
His kiss silenced her. His tears mingled with hers. He pressed her to his chest and felt her heart beating through the linen of his shirt.
They felt more than heard the wind beginning. Far to the west, circling south, then east, and finally from the north it came swooping into the glade by the river. Bare branches creaked and clawed at the night sky.
Violet’s tears soaked into his shirt and dried. Her eyes were closed, her forehead on his collarbone. She turned her head and opened her eyes to the strange light shimmering among the trees. She gasped.
“Willis,” Violet whispered, “We’re surrounded by angels.”
GRAY LADY
“Beware, Violet. These are the night people.”
Beings of light wafted through the trees. Shadows of branches played across each other, weaving and crossing. Faces formed, smiled shyly, and turned to waft and dance beyond tree trunks and to intertwine with bare twigs. Here an evanescent, gentle doe stepped gracefully, its dark glance fleeting and fey; there a silent owl took breathless flight among the highest limbs. A flight of doves streamed silver in their wake. Even fish-forms darted among the trunks, iridescent scales flashing in unison along their midlines. Moths flickered in and out of the trees.
A child ran by, then another. One paused and looked back at Violet. Its smile implied that they shared some delicious secret. The
n it ran, laughing like tiny bells. Violet realized that there was so much beauty in the night people, the silver ones. They danced and flew burdenless among trees and stars, skimming the surfaces of rivers and secretive tarns among the forested hills. Even the stars burned brighter in their presence. Their radiance settled like holiness on Violet’s own skin. Their music struck chords in secret places in Violet’s soul.
There was a change, as though one movement of a symphony cadenced, and a second began. It began with flakes of radiance like snow drifting through the silver-
limned trees. Where they touched the ground, the fallen leaves were edged as though with frost. After some time, the flakes began to spiral in a great wheel as they fell. The silver beings began to look toward the axis, to move just a step closer, as if with yearning. The spiraling snow was joined by bright wisps and the beings in the woods all around now moved deliberately, longingly toward the vortex.
They began to sing with the symphony, to revel in the wheeling dance, to be drawn inward and upward. Frost and snow and bright wisps and stars converged at the center in a beckoning glow towards which all the bright beings moved.
Violet was drawn as well.
Her gaze was transfixed by beauty and brightness. All possible dances and songs and laughter seemed to call her into the bright vortex with the beautiful ones. They called her to lightness, to flight, to joy. And her heart flew with them of its own accord.
But her fingers clung to the linen of Willis’s sleeves.
The symphony changed again. The beauty of it pained her. Sweet faces turned to her now, beautiful hands beckoned, and dark-eyed doves appeared anxious and poised for flight. Love and pleading were poured out on her and her heart broke with longing for the lovely children, the pale doves, the fawns. All the surge of her emotions and desires threatened to sweep her along with them. Each minute that passed pulled on her.
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