Fiction

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In a pub on a particular night, a traveler, weary from his travels, sits down and orders his usual amber liquid. Others slop down theirs, instantly asking for more, but he simply stares at it, enjoying the way light shone on the liquid. When the bartender noticed his behavior, he leans forward, cleaning glasses, “Look here, mate, you going to drink it or stare at it all night?” Several at the bar chuckle as well, downing their spirits easily, but when they turn back to the traveler, he is still seated, quietly, staring at the drink. The bartender frowns, looking at the cup and then the traveler. “Sir, something not to yer liking?” he asks, the others shaking their heads, unsure of what to make of the silent traveler.

At that moment, the man begins to speak, not looking around to see whether or no the had an audience, but simply to speak. And the bartender and men around him never moved, listening intently on the tale of the traveler. And as he retold it, he also relived it, as he did many times in his sleep.

***

On a small slope at the edge of town, there lived a young woman who no one cared about. She was of an average build, and easy on the eyes, but with no spectacularly significant aspect about her, she remained ignored and unseen by popular society. She never minded though, for her smile carried a secretive air about her and her eyes shimmered with the notion of knowing something far greater and precious than what the rest of the world knew. She was, however, noted as ‘lovely’ by a traveler who later spoke of her in a pub in the center of town.

“Her hands, though always moving, were tanned and proved her toil and trials in the sun and through life, though delicate and careful with the delicate matters she handled. And when she spoke, her voice sounded like the wind and trees whispering to my very soul,” he added, remembering the movement of her lips, causing his very heart to still and focus on her words, though they were few, expressed what the abyss could scarcely hold.

The bartender, seeing that the man hadn’t touched his drink, continued to wipe glasses, asking, “Say, friend, you know her story then?”

The traveler shakes his head, staring at his untouched drink with half-sorrowful eyes, replying, “No, I know little of her, only that she proved the existence of angels on earth.” And he meant it, with all his heart.

The bartender smiles, setting the glasses down and leans over the counter, as if approaching the traveler in a friendly way, smirking, “Maybe once you know her story, you’ll find the reason behind her inhuman ways.” The bartender snickers as the traveler pays for his untouched drink and retires to his lodgings.

That night, the gentleness of the woman touches his heart and he is unable to sleep for many long hours. Waking only to find the sun still refusing to shine and hiding behind the mountains. How agonizing it was, but he finally surrendered to insomnia and sat at his window, waiting for the sun to rise. Looking out onto the streets, it was still dark, but he continued to watch until something moving caught his eyes. The lovely woman, carrying wildflowers, walked through the streets, placing small flowers everywhere, where most people didn’t bother to look and would kick or sweep away later during the day. And yet, she continued to walk through the streets, placing small flowers in every nook, cranny, and crack in the walls. Entranced, the traveler remained as silent as possible, and when she passed, he could hear her hum and gentle and sweet melody he found enticing.

But as she neared his window, he realized, before fully registering it, that she held a flower to him, art outstretched, reaching up to hand it to him. Her eyes, brilliantly light, reflected the smallest light the sun gave out as it peeked over the horizon, slowly climbing into the sky. Mechanically, he traveler took the flower from her and she continued on, her basket growing more and more empty as she continued to walk. Her plain clothes gave off small sparkles in the growing light, as she moved on, ignored by the early risers and shopkeepers who woke and began their daily functions.

Watching her disappear towards the slope by which she lived, the traveler made sure he had packed his belongings and left his lodgings, returning the key to the room, which witnessed the existence of so many, and yet, was merely a small room on the other side of a door, not significantly marked, nor was there any difference between this door and any other in the town. But he paid and left, without noticing nor realizing what he was doing. His thoughts remained on the woman he longed to see. The pureness of the kindness in her eyes, the hands that worked to serve, and the smile that she continually wore, even as she passed through the morning streets, when no one was around. He thought of her, and longed to see her. The longing turned his skipped steps into a job, which escalated into a run which he couldn’t control, but needn’t, for when he saw a small flower in the ugly walls of the town, he found himself able to continue, not thinking, just following. And when left the town gate, he stopped, seeing the slope where the woman sat, sorting through her wild flowers, her lips moving all the while.

When near enough, he hears her soft voice whispering, “… And watch over the baker’s family. I know his youngest had the chills and I pray that You would help them and heal them. And continue to help the old blind woman who creates the brooches. Give her plenty so that she needn’t travel far in need. Let her find my basket of bread, and I thank You for providing it…” Her prayers touch his heart as he sits down, close to her and waits for her to finish praying, but she is quiet for a moment, her eyes still closed, but her smile is gentle as she asks, “Do you need something, young traveler?”

Surprised to be noticed, the traveler removes his hat and bows his head, apologetically, “Pardon the intrusion, Ma’am. I merely wondered what you were doing, this morning and now.”

The woman looks at the flowers in her lap, rearranging them, before replying, “I was praying, sir.”

The traveler looked baffled as he asked, “For what?”

The woman smiles, replying, “For the townspeople. For the baker’s youngest who was suffering the chills last night. For the blind woman who makes the most beautiful brooches. For the city watch, who protects the city from danger and alerts the city. Everyone needs a prayer here and there,” she adds, offering him a small daisy.

The traveler takes it and smiles, looking on at the peaceful town, “I suppose everyone does. But, why do it? For they care little about you, nor really acknowledge your existence.” He stares at the small flower, which seems to smile back at him.

The woman replies, “Because He told me to, in the love letter.”

The traveler is taken aback, frowning, “Your lover tells you to?” She stands, but as she walks down the slope, he is helpless to follow, though his eyes find the strange marking that travels up her arms. “Do you live here alone?” he asks, as she settles down in front of her small cottage.

The woman smiles, “Traveler, your questions are many, but I’ve only time for a few.” She pulls out two cups and a kettle full of tea. Pouring him a glass, she offers it to him, and he takes it, without hesitation. Having no reason to doubt her intentions, he sips and finds the hot liquid reminds him of times when he would return home to see his mother’s warm smile, greeting him. She often had something hot for him to drink and as he slowly sipped the teacup, he found his thoughts travel, though the woman never said anything. She sat quietly, sorting through her flowers, herbs, and plants. When his attention returned to him, he finds that she is watching him, smiling.

Embarrassed for having lost track of his thoughts, time, and conversation, he sets the empty cup down as she refills his glass, “Tell me, Ma’am, why does your lover leave you alone? Why not move into the town, where others can watch after you. Where it’s safer,” he adds.

The woman leaves him, entering her home only to return, moments later, holding a stack of papers. Setting them on the table, she smiles, “It would, indeed, be wiser to live amongst other people and do what other people do, but I find this life much more satisfying. Perhaps you would understand after reading a bit of the letters my lover sends me.”

The traveler found it strange for this woman to be offering him the opportunity to read the private words meant to be whispered in the darkness, away from society and public, and yet, as she continued to weed her flower patch, the traveler couldn’t contain his curiosity and untied the stack of papers. Picking up the one on top, he finds no date or time written anywhere. Instead, the letter, all the letters start with, “My beloved” and are signed as, “Your Beloved.” Letter after letter, the traveler read until the sun was high in the sky and when she offered him bread, he accepted, continuing to read. He read until the sun lowered and began to fall behind the mountains. When night began to fall, he declined any food and thanked the woman. The woman ties together the papers and brings it back inside her cottage, returning outside to stare at the stars and sort through her flowers.

“Pages and pages, letter after letter,” the traveler later told the bartender, who listened intently, curiously. “It was amazing just how eloquent and brilliant the letters were. Words no longer contained vague meanings, but sent the heart and mind on a journey, through the language used, to discover horizons that have never been recorded in such a way.” Staring at the amber liquid in front of him, again untouched, the traveler’s eyes betray an open admiration for the subject he spoke of.

The bartender nods, “And the lover, the writer, what him? Where is he?” he asks, leaning over, as if the greatest secret in the world were about to be revealed.

But the traveler sighs, shaking his head slowly, “All the letters are signed as ‘Your Beloved’. There was no name, no return location, nothing that would point a finger as to who the writer is.” The bartender leans back, as the traveler continues, “But if I ever met the man, I would enjoy a good talk with him. Indeed, I would,” he adds, continuing to stare at the full cup of liquor that sat before him.

The bartender nods, “Beloved, eh? It reminds me of them Bible teachings. Something about the term, what a king calls his lover. Yeah, that’s the term, ‘Beloved’. That’s right,” he adds, continuing to clean glasses.

The traveler stares hard at the amber liquid before him but departs to his lodgings, again, not touching the liquid. As he laid himself to sleep that night, his thoughts swim back to those letters and the author. ‘How great that man must be, to have such a command over the language and words he uses to paint and create the perfect scenario,’ the traveler thought to himself. ‘With all his time, he must be a great man who has the ability to woo anyone’s heart,’ but that thought stops him as he sits up in his bed, staring at the moon. There is a moment of silence, where the traveler feels a strange sensation but he slowly lays down and falls asleep.

The sun is high when he wakes up and leaves his lodgings. He says good-bye to the bartender and leaves the city. As he nears the slope, he stops, seeing the woman. When she sees him, she smiles and waves. He takes a seat next to her on the hilltop and they remain quiet, watching people walk to and fro, in and out of the town. When the crowds pass, he asks, gently, “Please, Ma’am, when will your lover return?”

The woman blinks a few times before replying, “In the near future.” Her hands never shake, but always smooth out the flowers on her lap, her hair as radiant as the rays of sunlight.

The traveler nods and asks, “Ma’am, it may be rude and foolish of me to ask, but, can I take a letter with me?” The words just left him, for he was unable to stop them. Something deep inside, the loneliness he had always felt while traveling may have taken hold of him at that moment, and in that moment, his eyes were desperate as was his heart in reading the words on those letters. Ashamed and embarrassed, he tried to mask his desperation, but the woman merely nodded, understanding his question and left his side, only to return moments later with a sealed letter.

Handing it out to him, she smiles, “This was the first I ever received. Please, take it and cherish it.” As it touches his hand, he notices the weight was not heavy, nor would it seem to carry anything significant, but the seal is wax with a dove on it. And so, the traveler accepts it, bids the woman farewell and walks away.

Further, down the slopes, he stops, overcome with curiosity and opens the seal carefully. But the words that cover the page slide off the paper and create a doorway in the air before him. Like lines that moved on their own, the words granted him ease on the eyes, and, as always, a journey to the place he searched for.

***

The traveler stopped and remained quiet for a long time. Those around him waited, but it was the bartender who prod, “So, what happened then?” All eyes were on this traveler, none noticing the hand that caressed the pocket, where the letter surely was hidden. But no one noticed, and the traveler stood, paid for his untouched drink, and placed his hat on his head.

Only then did he raise his eyes and stare into the eyes of the bartender. His once dim eyes now shone, like no other, in the dimness of the room, like stars with dreams and purposes hidden in his mind. The bartender dropped the clean glass, which miraculously was tipped by his shoe, so it rolled on the ground without breaking. But the bartender didn’t notice, for he felt a strangeness in his gut. Something he hadn’t felt for a long time, and the traveler smiles at him, replying, “I found Him.” Nodding, he adds, “He’s more brilliant than I thought He was,” and leaves the pub, a wave of silence in his wake. The other drinkers whisper amongst themselves, but the bartender knew exactly what the traveler meant, for he saw it in his eyes. Just as the traveler had seen it in the woman’s eyes.

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