Stranger At The Crossroads

(Image from Public Domain Pictures)

“Ah, me. The day has turned out warmer than expected, Jenny, my love.” The short, white-haired woman paused on the dusty path, her donkey-companion slowing to a halt. The wrinkles around the woman’s eyes deepened as she squinted at the sun beaming down on them.

“That is a powerful smile you’re bestowing today, Father Sun. Far be it for me to grumble for you are much missed in the cold months, which will be on us soon enough.”

Giving the rope a gentle tug, she continued on her way, muttering, “Though there is no need to grin so mightily on my old head.” Despite her age, the woman walked easily, her back straight with no need for a stick to aid her.

Jenny the donkey kept walking off the wide, dusty path onto the grass until, finally, the woman dropped the rope. Uttering a soft braying note, the donkey hurried onto the field, eliciting a chuckle from her human companion.

“Well, that put a skip in your step. Maybe I should do the same.” Stepping off the road, she lifted the skirt of her linen dress slightly to allow the cool grass to brush against her bare ankles. “Never underestimate the cleverness of animals.”

As the crossroads, still some distance away, came into view, she slowed and narrowed her eyes. “Who’s that, I wonder?”

The person kept making as if to walk, first one way, then another but kept stopping and looking around.

Drawing closer, she could see it was a young man, clearly agitated. It was not her way to ignore any in need even though this one was not familiar to her.

He didn’t seem to notice her and Jenny until the woman greeted him.

“Are you lost?”

Startled, he stared at her.

She was about to repeat her question when he answered.

“Where am I?” His voice seemed to come from far away though she heard him clearly enough.

Although she tried, she couldn’t suppress her frown. “You don’t know? But how did you…” She left the question hanging as his agitation increased. Also, she’d noticed something odd. All of him, including his clothes, were a watery grey, almost without colour. The hairs on the back of her neck raised as a momentary chill shivered through her.

Gathering herself, she smiled. “Don’t be afraid. This is the Burton Crossroads.”

“Burton?”

It was the town to the east of the crossroads, the largest settlement in the area.

“Do you know it?” she asked.

“I went there once… when I was little.” He looked around again. “But, why am I here? I don’t remember…”

He looked so lost and forlorn, she almost stepped forward to enfold him in a motherly embrace.

“Is your home close?”

Although he nodded, he didn’t seem sure.

“What is the name of your village?”

“Westrow.”

“Ah yes. I know Westrow. Someone I know lives close to it… at least, she did the last time I stopped by,” she finished with a chuckle.

“I-I… don’t remember the way,” he whispered.

It was becoming a struggle to keep her expression friendly and open for she didn’t want to add to his distress.

Silence hung heavy in the air. She was aware of sweat gathering into drops, slowly rolling into the hollow of her back. But she didn’t move as she weighed her options and came to a decision. “I know the way. Shall I show you?”

“Yes, please.” His voice was no more than a breath.

“Then come. Come, Jenny.” Retrieving the rope, she led her grumbling donkey back onto the path and onto the lane that branched off in the opposite direction of Burton. “Oh, stop your moaning. You can go back on the grass, I just wanted you facing this direction.”

She turned back to the young man. He hadn’t moved, his gaze still darting about.

Holding out her hand, she said again, “Come. In the name of Mother Moon and Father Sun, all is well. No harm to me from you. No harm to you from me. Now, come.”

Hesitantly, he put his hand in hers; it felt as insubstantial as a puff of air. And stumbled onto the grass.

Smiling, keeping hold of his hand, to which he did not object, she led the way, walking on the grass alongside the dry, dusty lane.

“Why don’t I remember how I got here?” he said. “I have no memory of coming this way.”

“What is the last thing you remember?”

It took him awhile to answer. His step slowed as he gave voice to the memory. “We fought, me and Da. He wants me to be a cartwright like him. But I don’t want that. Master Ellery, he let me try smithing, said he’d teach me. That’s what I want to be, blacksmith. I tried telling Da I like the iron better. Da said it’s a dirty job. I shouted, he shouted. Ma was crying…” His voice trailed off, his gaze fixed on the horizon.

“I was home. Da was working, I think Ma had gone to see old woman Joan. I’d cut some bread. I knocked…” He frowned. “I knocked the pitcher. There was still milk in it. I grabbed it. Ma would have been upset to see milk wasted.”

Stopping, he looked down, his free hand against the inside of his thigh. His brow puckered. “I don’t know how… the knife was in my leg. I pulled it out. The blood… so much… it wouldn’t stop…” His voice was so soft, she barely heard the last words.

He lifted his head, his grey eyes meeting her button-black ones. Then he looked down at his hand in hers. “Am I…?” His brows bunched together. Raising his gaze to the sky, he whispered, “I don’t feel warmth from the sun.”

Her features softened as she gently enfolded his hand in both of hers.

Long, silent moments stole past.

“I am. Dead.”

“Yes,” was all she said, for what more can be said to the realisation that one is dead.

They remained standing as the weight of the word settled on him, the only noise coming from the steady drone of insects, and Jenny crunching through the grass.

“My last words… I made Da angry, Ma cry.” He stared at her, stricken. “They must hate me.”

“No. No, child. Don’t think–”

“Then why have I been abandoned in a strange place? Why am I far from home?”

Although she had her suspicions, she didn’t want to add to his agitation. Instead, she said, “Come. Let us ask your parents and settle this mystery.”

But he remained where he was, his arm stretched out for she still had hold of his hand and had walked ahead. “They won’t want to see me.”

A snort escaped her. “I don’t believe that. What parent wouldn’t give all they hold dear for a chance to see their lost child one more time? That you are here is, for me, proof that a matter needs to be resolved for you to rest. And I don’t believe it was pure chance you and I crossed paths,” she finished with a smile. “Come, Jenny.”

They walked in silence for some time. “It’s strange,” he said. “But this is comforting to walk like this. I haven’t been led by the hand since I was a child.”

“That is good. I’m glad you don’t object. I believe holding you helps to keep you here.”

Feeling his gaze on her, she glanced up for he was much taller than her. Then again, most people were.

“Aren’t you afraid?”

“Of what?”

“The dead, I’m dead.”

“And why should that make me afraid?” she said, laughing.

“The stories we’re told when we’re children, we’re always told to–”

“Fear the dead, yes. That may be so but you don’t make me afraid.”

“I only feel sad because I’m not with my parents. But I don’t feel angry or confused…”

Thinking he was waiting for an explanation, she shrugged. “I don’t have all the answers or understand all the ways of the mysterious unknown. Maybe some things are best left that way, eh.”

It was late afternoon when the young man’s steps slowed. In the distance, fingers of smoke drifted upward. Snatches of voices, the sounds of livestock floated on the light breeze.

“Are we near?”

He nodded but didn’t move. “I’m afraid.”

“I am with you.”

As a mother leading a reluctant child, she walked towards the village, gently pulling him along, Jenny keeping pace beside her. The people they passed slowed and greeted her cordially, but only her. As if nothing was amiss, she returned their greetings with a smile.

“Can’t they see me?”

Lowering her head slightly as if her attention was on Jenny, she whispered, “It would appear people only see what they wish to see. Quick now, your father’s name.”

“Geoffrey, the cartwright.”

Fixing her gaze on a trio of women standing to the side, one with a squirming toddler on her hip and a little girl by her skirts, the woman said, “I seek Geoffrey, the cartwright.”

“He lives by the eastern edge,” said the oldest, pointing. “Though he and his good wife keep to themselves these days.”

“I see.”

“We’ll show you.”

Before she could protest, that is, if she’d had a mind to, the women moved to lead the way with the young mother walking on the other side of Jenny.

Her toddler had stopped squirming, staring intently at the young man. He managed a smile and raised a hand as if to wave. The little one giggled and reached out.

“What are you doing?” Smiling, the boy’s mother shook her head. “Grabbing at empty air, you funny sausage.”

“He’s waving at Simon.” The little girl, walking between her mother and Jenny, was also smiling at him.

“What?” Her mother jerked to a stop, as did her companions “Edith! What a wicked–”

“The child has done no wrong,” said the old woman, her kindly gaze on Edith before glancing back. “Simon, is it? How rude of me not to have asked.” Turning her attention to the wide-eyed, slack-jawed women, she said, “Simon has come home. Now, if it’s alright with you, dear lady, I would like Edith to help me with my donkey.” She held the donkey’s reins out to the little girl who ran around and took hold of them.

“Please, Mama, say yes.”

Still staring open-mouthed, her mother barely managed a nod.

With Edith skipping ahead, leading Jenny, the woman and Simon approached Geoffrey’s house.

“Edith, child. Will you stay out here with my donkey? Her name is Jenny.”

She nodded, rubbing the donkey’s shoulder. “I’m glad you’re home, Simon.”

“Thank you, Edith.”

As they walked to the door, he said, “They can see me, the children.”

“They are more in touch with the mysteries than adults.”

She knocked. They waited. The door slowly opened to reveal a slightly stooped man. Uneven grey stubble covered his chin and hollow cheeks. His eyes spoke of the emptiness of great loss.

Feeling Simon grasp her hand with both of his, the woman refrained from speaking.

“Da.”

Geoffrey frowned before his eyes slowly widened, staring past the woman. His shaking hand came up to cover his mouth.

“Da. You can see me?”

“… My boy…” His voice was little more than a croak. “How…? You-you–”

“Master Geoffrey, may we enter?”

His gaze gradually came to rest on the old woman. Finally, he said, “Yes… yes.”

They entered the darkened room. Despite the low light, it was still possible to see the place had been neglected.

“Where’s Ma?”

“Helen.” He crossed the room to a closed door, wrenching it open. “Helen, come. You must come.” He disappeared into the room. A tearful protest sounded before he came out again, dragging a woman wearing a crumpled dress, her hair unkempt. “Look,” said Geoffrey, standing behind her, his hands on her shoulders.

“Ma…”

The old woman gently let go of his hand and stood to the side so as not to intrude.

Parents and son stared at one another before they fell in each other’s arms, weeping. Except Simon, for the dead have no tears.

They started talking, all three at once, their words falling chaotically at their feet until Simon said, “But why bury me so far from home?”

“Son.” Geoffrey gripped his shoulder. “You know that’s the way. Those who take their own life must be buried at crossroads.”

Simon stared at his father; Helen’s weeping the only sound in the house.

“But… I didn’t.” He stepped back, away from his mother’s embrace. “You think I killed myself? You think I would do that to you?”

Geoffrey looked around as if the explanation lay somewhere out of sight. “There was no one else. Only you. And the knife.”

Simon continued to shake his head.

The old woman stepped forward. “It was an accident.” She then recounted what Simon had told her.

“I knew it.” Helen grabbed her husband by the arm. “I was right. I told them. Didn’t I tell them?” She stared at Geoffrey. “My boy would never do such a thing. I told… them…” Once again, she covered her face with her hands, her body shaking.

“They wouldn’t listen to us,” said Geoffrey. “They said because we’d argued, in a moment of foolishness, you’d ended your life. Only Ellery spoke for us. Said you weren’t that sort of person. He kept saying it was a strange way to end a life, to stab yourself in the leg. Instead of hanging or…” Lowering his head, he squeezed his eyes shut. “I blamed myself. I thought you’d killed yourself because I wouldn’t listen–”

“Da, never. I would never do that.”

“It is the truth,” said the woman. “Or Simon would not have been able to leave the crossroads to return to you.”

Moments crept by as Geoffrey stared at her. Slowly straightening, he said, “What do we do?”

“Dig up his bones and rebury them here, near to you. He will know peace and so will you.”

“They will not allow it.”

Smiling, she nodded. “They will. When they see Simon.”

“But no one else can see me,” said Simon.

“Now you are anchored here with your parents in your own home, they will see you. I believe your parents’ desire is strong, that you be seen and heard.”

Geoffrey nodded as Helen, wiping her tears, said, “Yes. Yes, they will see our son. They will see that we were right about him.”

“Then let us see if what I say is true.” A small smile on her lips, the woman moved to the door and opened it.

The space outside was already filled by most of the villagers.

The family stepped out, Simon flanked by his parents. Silence was broken by cries and loud gasps; at least two women fainted.

The squat, burly man in a blacksmith’s leather apron fell to his knees. “Praise be. Simon, lad…” The rest of his words were lost in weeping.

Standing to the side of the family, the old woman quietly explained all to save the family the pain of the retelling. When she spoke of reburying his bones near his home, none protested.

Then she left them caught up in the wonder of the rare mystery. Thanking Edith, she made her way out of the village with Jenny.

Unperturbed by the gathering gloom, she glanced up at the fading rosy hue on the clouds. “That’s better, much more comfortable for walking. Come, my Jenny. Let us see if grumpy Iris is still in her cave. Why she chooses to live in that miserable hole is another mystery. But I’m in the mood for some fun. And provoking her is a pastime that has never failed to delight.”