Winter's Regret

by Matt Sinclair

  So the little wind kept the man company through the jungle, keeping still, that the movement of air barely whispered. On the plains the little wind raced around the man, trying to keep the tricks of the older, crueler winds at bay.

  When the man entered the sharp wood, the little wind would have followed too, but the oldest wind had forbidden anyone from entering while the man was within. Instead, the little wind circled the edges, watching to see what might happen. The little wind waited, and listened, but all was silent. The edges of the sharp wood felt different—something had changed.

  Magic seeped from the center of the world, more than the little wind had ever felt before. A fiery light shone, glinting off the edges of the wood. The trees sparkled, and the little wind felt an invisible wind pass through the air. It made the air glow too, a different kind of glow. The little wind tried to capture the feeling, for what kind of magic had just been wrought tasted different in the air—like hope.

  The winds were quiet when the man emerged from the sharp wood, watching. The little wind curled around his shoulders and looked at what the man had cradled in his hands: three sharp roses—one red, one yellow, and one white—fused by the center of the world. This was what the magic had created.

  The other winds began to whisper—a bouquet of stolen echoes.

  A gift.

  The little wind didn't understand. Why would this be a gift?

  While the man journeyed back through the circles, the little wind again followed, staying close while the other winds retreated. They did not try to harm him on his path away from the center of the world. And when the little wind decided to go with the man beyond the circles, the other winds were silent.

  The world outside the circles felt different. Time moved, and the world was a much bigger circle. But the little wind tried not to notice.

  The man had wrapped his roses in fabric from his coat, but whatever comes from the center of the world cannot be dulled. The leaves cut the man, and his life dripped to the earth. The little wind wondered what it would feel like to be cut. Each time one appeared, the man looked more than sad. The little wind thought that this was what pain must be. And so, whatever help the man needed, the little wind gave: steadying him when he stumbled, pushing him on when he stopped, trying to soothe the cuts on his body. The little wind wondered if the man ever noticed.

  The season was early spring, and cold. Snow remained on the ground—not as deep as the banks of the outer circle—and it shone in the sun. When the man came to a house, the little wind was unsure of how long they had been traveling, because the feeling of time was new. But the man looked pale, and the red of his blood felt very heavy against the snow. A young woman, the first woman the little wind had ever seen, sat on the porch of the house. She was pale as the moon and barely moved.

  When she saw the man, she cried out, and her voice carried to the wind. She forced herself to her feet, and stumbled. The little wind rushed to help her stand, but the man who had been walking so long, fell without the support of the wind. He did not get up. The young woman ran as best she could, and other voices followed her from the house. The wind tried to warm them both, who had clearly been looking for each other.

  Her face was bent to his, and the little wind whispered between them listening to the words. Such beautiful words. Such sad words. The young woman grabbed his hands, which were stained with his blood—his life. The young man whispered again, and the little wind thought that this was the happiest the young man had ever looked. He smiled, and his smile made him more extraordinary.

  The young woman kissed the young man. It was the first kiss the little wind had ever seen, and it would always be the most beautiful. The young man closed his eyes, and though the young woman called to him, he didn't answer. The little wind felt the young man release his last breath. Reaching out, the wind caught up that air and pulled it to the center of itself, protecting it.

  The young woman sounded then like the winds that live only on the very edge of the world, and the little wind knew that she was sadder than any of them.

  The roses lay in the snow, spattered with white flakes and red droplets. The young woman picked them up, and they cut her hands, and her red danced on the snow too. Soon, the roses glowed, the same fiery glow the little wind had seen in the sharp wood. The blood was drawn back into herself, and her whole body consumed with a gentle, burning light. The little wind thought that she was beautiful.

  When the light died out she was no longer pale. The little wind understood then why the old winds had called it a gift. The treasure at the center of the world could not be taken for one's own use; it could only be given to someone else. The young woman let a single tear run down her face, and the little wind touched it. Then flew away, saddened by what it had seen.

  The little wind did not go back to the circles at the center of the world, wandering the greater circle of the earth instead. Years passed, and the little wind became a big wind, and after still more years an old wind, and still did not go back to the center of the world. The memories were many, and though some of them had begun to fade, the old wind still carried the breath of the young man. The first man it ever met. The old wind did not want to take it back to the place that had caused such sadness for the man.

  When another spring came and the world was beginning anew, the old wind tasted magic. Magic like had not been felt for hundreds of years. The wind followed the path of the magic, looking down on the earth and wondering why this magic felt so familiar, why it reminded of both light and sadness.

  The old wind trailed the magic to a little village, where the children talked of an old witch who looked at nothing but air, and the adults warned against the sound of her singing. The people of the village said if you fell under the spell of the wind and the witch, a great melancholy would strike your heart. The old wind passed the village, and found the way to a small house. There was singing, a woman. The old wind recognized the house.

  To call her old would have been a mistake, shriveled as she was. Her eyes covered with the film of blindness, she sat in a chair by the window and stared out. Next to her, the wind could see something that had not been seen in a very long time: roses. Three roses twined together at the stem. They were gray from age; a terrible monument to the fleeting beauty time robs of the world.

  There were other winds rioting around the woman's little house, and the old wind quieted them, wanting to hear the woman's voice. When the winds were silent, she seemed to remember the roses beside her. The wind saw what the woman could not. The roses were in tatters, moth-eaten. The woman reached out to touch a dead bloom and under her touch the plant dissolved into silvered ash.

  The old woman felt the loss and sighed, the ashes puffing up in a cloud. The old wind felt memory stir once again and drew closer. The few ashes that had floated toward the fire began to glow and turned to sparks, which spread light through the floating ashes, racing from one to the next to create a galaxy in front of the mantle. The old woman paused, sensing the change in the air. The sparks fled. With blinding speed they were pulled back into the pile, igniting all that was left of the roses. The sudden embers shone through the soil in the crystal vase and threw patterns on the old woman's face. She was lovely.

  The old wind stirred with memory for this light, had been there when it was created. The light consumed the old woman's body, and it was as though the old wind was watching time—still such a strange feeling—reverse. The light grew until the old woman shone like a star. A star that all at once went out, leaving behind the young woman.

  The old wind could see that she did not yet remember, and watched as she danced with the joy of youth, gazed at herself with amazement, laughed, and danced again. The snow around her flew up to greet her dance, and the old wind remembered how she was the first, and always the most beautiful.

  Then she saw the roses. The wind followed her into the house, waited for her to see. The roses were new with life—one red, one yellow, and one white. The young woman reach
ed out and touched them, only to be cut by the leaves. She shivered, and the old wind saw her suddenly remember. A single tear fell down her cheek.

  The old wind pulled the young man's last breath from inside itself, where it had been carried for so many years. With his breath, the old wind touched the tear on her cheek, and left.

  The old wind went back to the circles at the center of the world to tell the little winds of the young man and woman, and to stay always guarding the sharp woods. Until the roses were dead.

  Rimorso by Precy Larkins

  She first saw him on the Santi Apostoli bridge, leaning on the railing, his face lifted to catch the last golden beams of sunlight. It wasn't his heavy-lidded eyes that got her attention, or the way the light played on his hair making it appear bronze like the famous horse statues on Basilica di San Marco she had seen the day before. No, it wasn't even his lips, full and inviting, that prompted her to raise her parasol and stare at him with raw hunger.

  It was his scent. Or rather, the lack thereof.

  The gondolier who ferried her along the canals earlier that day had reeked of sewage. He was worn-out, struggling to keep his eyes open as he parted the waters of Venice with his pole. Sweat clung to his brow in numerous little beads as he murmured the words to 'O Sole Mio. He had five kids, one more on the way, and not enough jobs to feed so many mouths. He didn't tell her of these things, but she smelled his troubles on him. A rancid odor that spoke of a wife bedridden at home, her belly as ripe as the harvest moon, and little ones picking at the crumbs on the floor.

  The stench of his misery was such that she had almost forgotten to uphold her vow. To offer aid, or even sympathy, would lead to attachments. And attachments were deadly. No, she wouldn't make the same mistake as Budapest. She was here to enjoy the sights, nothing more.

  But when she glimpsed the young man sunning himself by the bridge, his manner so carefree and languid, with his lack of perceivable scent, she couldn't help herself.

  He was a dream, a momentary reprieve from torturous thoughts. It couldn't hurt to spend a few seconds with him, as long as she kept her distance. He wouldn't even know she was there on the bridge at all, or remember her after this encounter.

  She glanced at her wristwatch as she edged closer to the man, her back to the water, eyes scanning the faceless tourists hurrying across the bridge. Her pretense left room for numerous interpretations—perhaps she was waiting for her lover to show up, or perhaps, she was simply biding her time while a traveling partner endeavored to find a lavatory. Either way, she didn't want the young man to notice how his nearness made her breathless. She didn't want to scare him away.

  "Buongiorno," she said, her tongue twisting around the word, her Italian limited to the phrasebook in her purse. He nodded in acknowledgment, his pose unchanging. Good, she told herself. As long as he doesn't look at me, really look at me, everything will be all right.

  Dusk, dressed in purple-tinged hues, crept up too soon and the young man straightened to relinquish his post. Hands in pockets, he walked away without giving her so much as a glance. A pang struck her heart, regret egging her to chase after him and make his acquaintance. Already, the smells of the strangers around her began to bombard her senses with painful sadness. A girl with red-rimmed eyes who had just caught il suo amante, her lover, with someone else; a middle-aged man worrying about next month's rent; a mother who couldn't mask the odor of her bitter disappointment amid the lingering trail of baby spit, diapers, and burnt dinners that followed her. It was all too much now, especially after having spent twenty minutes in the odorless quiet of the young man's presence.

  She lost him at Calle del Pestrin because she hesitated too long to follow. One minute he was there, his black leather jacket her focal point, but gone the next, swallowed up by the crowd.

  "Scusi! Mi scusi!" People jostled past her in the narrow street, sharp elbows poking her back, her shoulders, her ribs. Scusi! Sorry! Tears threatened to blur her vision, but she swallowed back her humiliation. She'd always detested this very human display of emotional instability. It made her weak, needy. It made her want.

  She backed away from a group of chattering tourists intent on finding the Santa Maria dei Miracoli, a beautiful, marble-clad church tucked away in a corner of Cannaregio. On a different day, she would have been one of them, reading street maps and asking locals for directions in stilted Italian. The church housed I Miracoli, an image of the Virgin Mary that had performed many miracles. Secretly, she, too, had wished for a miracle, and she was almost tempted to abandon her pursuit of the young man to embark on a quest for the Virgin Mary's blessing.

  But now that she thought about it, the young man was the answer to her unspoken prayer. His untroubled air was the balm to the curse that plagued her. With him beside her, she'd be able to enjoy her own mind, untainted by the miseries of others. She'd be able to live in peace for as long as he lives.

  "Parla…parla inglese?" Do you speak English?

  She spun around to answer, but her balance was off-kilter. The young man caught her in his arms.

  "Sta bene?" he asked, a slight frown marring his brow.

  Are you okay? Was she okay? She couldn't tell. Warmth spread across her cheeks, and the glorious absence of troubled scents filled her with so much wonder she couldn't speak. This was bliss, the kind she'd never experienced before.

  A small voice in the back of her mind reminded her of Budapest and the tragic events that accompanied the memory. She had taken the vow for a reason, a vow to keep away from human attachments because of what she'd lost. If she decided to cling to him, he would be stripped of a choice. He would never learn to love anybody else but her. The spell would be complete and irreversible.

  "Sta bene?" His eyes were the color of the night.

  No, this time it was going to work, and she would finally get her happily-ever-after. Her want overpowered her resolve.

  "Yes, I speak English." She lifted her gaze to meet his.

  * * *

  They walked hand in hand along the Venetian streets, oblivious to the splendor of the palazzo façades, or to the harmonious songs of the gondoliers as they cleaved the waters with their oars. Two weeks of being able to breathe; two weeks of living. For once, she could wander down crowded streets without hurrying to get away from people. As long as he stayed by her side, she couldn't smell the sufferings of others. Or their sorrows. It was…exhilarating.

  He circled her waist with his arm. "Where do you want to go now, love?"

  "Anywhere, as long as it's with you."

  His lips touched hers, softly at first, his teeth nipping at her lower lip. The sensation made her skin tingle, her stomach twisting in impossible knots. Sono innamorato, she thought to herself. I'm in love. She didn't need the Virgin Mary's miracles after all.

  * * *

  She'd been in Venice for more than a month, and yet she couldn't remember the places she'd visited, the sights she'd wished to see. Her days melded together into one blur. Her lover had forbidden her from stepping out of the one-bedroom apartment they'd rented.

  "It's too dangerous out there," he'd protested when she went out by herself to visit the shops on Strada Nova.

  "What? Of course not." She had giggled like a school-girl, finding his remonstrations charming.

  "You haven't seen the way the men look at you. I have, and I don't like it."

  "Don't be silly. No one ever pays attention to me." His jealousy made her heart flutter.

  "Let's just stay here, you and I, forever." And she'd agreed then because it was oh so sweet and romantic the idea of a lovers' eternity. They spent their days and nights in each other's embrace, reveling in the feel of skin against skin, lost in their consuming passion. What she hadn't counted on was his interpretation of their forever.

  The only window in her prison overlooked the Canal Grande. Day after day, she stood in the same spot, arms crossed over her chest as if to ward off an imaginary chill. Sometimes she would part the flimsy gauze curtains to sta
re at the murky, grayish water slowly sinking the city. Sometimes she'd wake up in the middle of the night gasping for breath, her lover's snores filling the air in the room, suffocating her in her sleep.

  Forever was an awfully long time.

  Still, she turned the words sono innamorato into her mantra, her daily reminder. She had wanted this, hadn't she? Perhaps it was Venice's fault—the city had lost its appeal, and the tiny apartment with its bare, monotonous walls was to blame for her discontent, of course. There was no one like him—no one!—and in addition to his undying adoration, he'd also given her reprieve from the troubling smells of the world. She should be grateful.

  * * *

  The stench started out so faint she didn't immediately recognize it for what it was. She made her lover take the garbage out, scrub the bathroom tiles, and clean out the fridge of leftovers. But the next day, she smelled it again. Despite their best efforts, the stench wouldn't go away, their apartment reeking of forgotten eggs.

  "It's all in your head," he'd said, shrugging her off. "I don't smell anything."

  One day, when she couldn't stand the malodor any longer, she begged him to let her out for fresh air. Maybe they could drift down the Canal Grande, have a gondolier croon songs of love to them once more.

  "I have to find work. We can't live here forever on your money, you know," he said, slamming the door after him. As soon as he left, the stench vanished.

  They would have to move, start anew somewhere. Maybe Tuscany would be able to rejuvenate them, rekindle their romance. Fresh air and sunshine, perhaps a cottage in the countryside, near vineyards and away from people. She would make the proposal tonight over candlelight, a bottle of Merlot, and a bowl of fegato alla veneziana, his favorite dish made with liver and onions. Soft music in the background and scented candles to set the mood, and perhaps, silken rose petals strewn on their bed to complete the picture.