her hands, she reached a happiness of sorts. In the evening she sat before her fire and smoked a long clay pipe, the bowl comfortable with use. In the morning she woke under her quilt and heard what noise there was in the world. Birdsong. Snow tamping its hush down the long cut of her valley.
One morning, she woke to a different noise, one she couldn’t be sure she recognized. She tumbled from the bed so frantically she tangled the bedclothes about her waist and dragged them trailing behind her as she rushed out of the cottage, her gray hair wild. Often in the mountains, noises are deceptive. What seems near at hand fades into a murmur many ridges over; what seems impossibly distant turns out to be hidden inches away, tucked quietly under a leaf, or shrilling in the damp lee of a stone. But the source of this noise appeared precisely in the place it sounded. The woman stood on the slate doorstep her own grandfather had laid almost three lifetimes ago and stared at her husband, curled naked amongst the wild violets, pale and mewling as piteously as any newborn mammal who finds itself turned out into a world it didn’t expect.
He wouldn’t tell her exactly where he had been or how he had gotten there. He was very thin and his skin so sensitive that everywhere she touched a red weal came up in the shape of her hand. She sat him before the fire and fitted him with his own clothes which she had kept all these years at the bottom of a trunk. Blue breeches and a soft linen shirt. The green coat she had embroidered all over with knots of climbing roses because he liked the feel of their shape under his fingers. The clothes hung from him as if they had been made for a much larger man. When he moved too suddenly, flailing his hands as he told her his stories, the cloth split, purring along its seams with theexhaustion of its age. Try as she might, he could not be tempted to eat, and she couldn’t convince him, though she ran his fingers over and over her face, that it was indeed she, his wife, he was addressing.
He said he was cold, his fingers particularly cold, but when she built the fire up he claimed to be even colder and thrust his hands dangerously close to the flames. When night fell she took him into the bed with her and piled all her quilts high over them. She held onto him, trying to warm his body with her own. He ran his fingers over her back and up her legs. When he seemed not to find what he was looking for, he gripped her harder, digging his nails into her buttocks, scratching her stomach, pinching her breasts. He thrust against her side and when he came his semen spilled across the folds of her stomach and glittered there so strangely that when she held it up into the moonlight coming through the cottage’s rough window she was almost unsurprised to find herself holding a handful of diamonds, sharp and coldly shining.
The next day she sat her husband in front of the fire and watched for a long time as he carved strange, amorphous shapes out of a length of beech wood. Then she packed a small sack with some supplies, touched her husband’s fingers one more time to her cheeks and set off into the forest. For many days, the old woman traveled. She passed through her familiar lands and she passed out of them. At night she camped on the sides of strange ridges, making her fire under a ledge and watching as its smoke sooted the rock in cryptic figures. In daylight she trudged down into strange valleys—dark fens dripping with hairy creeper—and up again, always climbing higher, her pack slowly lightening on her back as she went through her food and did not bother to gather more.
At last she came to a place where the mountain ended. It was a sheer, rocky clearing, treeless and frosted with short grass. There was no shelter, no food. The wind blew in bullying gusts across the rock face but she did not build a fire or even pull her cloak closer around her neck. The old woman sat and waited. For many days she waited.
One morning, she woke to a different noise, one she couldn’t be sure she recognized. She tumbled from the bed so frantically she tangled the bedclothes about her waist and dragged them trailing behind her as she rushed out of the cottage, her gray hair wild. Often in the mountains, noises are deceptive. What seems near at hand fades into a murmur many ridges over; what seems impossibly distant turns out to be hidden inches away, tucked quietly under a leaf, or shrilling in the damp lee of a stone. But the source of this noise appeared precisely in the place it sounded. The woman stood on the slate doorstep her own grandfather had laid almost three lifetimes ago and stared at her husband, curled naked amongst the wild violets, pale and mewling as piteously as any newborn mammal who finds itself turned out into a world it didn’t expect.
He wouldn’t tell her exactly where he had been or how he had gotten there. He was very thin and his skin so sensitive that everywhere she touched a red weal came up in the shape of her hand. She sat him before the fire and fitted him with his own clothes which she had kept all these years at the bottom of a trunk. Blue breeches and a soft linen shirt. The green coat she had embroidered all over with knots of climbing roses because he liked the feel of their shape under his fingers. The clothes hung from him as if they had been made for a much larger man. When he moved too suddenly, flailing his hands as he told her his stories, the cloth split, purring along its seams with theexhaustion of its age. Try as she might, he could not be tempted to eat, and she couldn’t convince him, though she ran his fingers over and over her face, that it was indeed she, his wife, he was addressing.
He said he was cold, his fingers particularly cold, but when she built the fire up he claimed to be even colder and thrust his hands dangerously close to the flames. When night fell she took him into the bed with her and piled all her quilts high over them. She held onto him, trying to warm his body with her own. He ran his fingers over her back and up her legs. When he seemed not to find what he was looking for, he gripped her harder, digging his nails into her buttocks, scratching her stomach, pinching her breasts. He thrust against her side and when he came his semen spilled across the folds of her stomach and glittered there so strangely that when she held it up into the moonlight coming through the cottage’s rough window she was almost unsurprised to find herself holding a handful of diamonds, sharp and coldly shining.
The next day she sat her husband in front of the fire and watched for a long time as he carved strange, amorphous shapes out of a length of beech wood. Then she packed a small sack with some supplies, touched her husband’s fingers one more time to her cheeks and set off into the forest. For many days, the old woman traveled. She passed through her familiar lands and she passed out of them. At night she camped on the sides of strange ridges, making her fire under a ledge and watching as its smoke sooted the rock in cryptic figures. In daylight she trudged down into strange valleys—dark fens dripping with hairy creeper—and up again, always climbing higher, her pack slowly lightening on her back as she went through her food and did not bother to gather more.
At last she came to a place where the mountain ended. It was a sheer, rocky clearing, treeless and frosted with short grass. There was no shelter, no food. The wind blew in bullying gusts across the rock face but she did not build a fire or even pull her cloak closer around her neck. The old woman sat and waited. For many days she waited.
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