In Ruins

In Ruins

By Amy Lancaster

There was no one to blame for a tragedy of that nature, but the routine motions of everyday life that follow are a living death for many. She knew that only too well. The body responds mechanically, but the mind is elsewhere, relentlessly searching for understanding and meaning in an impossible quest. Despite the futility of it all, she couldn’t stop herself. It seemed that even if it drove her mad, she felt some strange consolation in the searching.

Somewhere in the fog of consciousness, Tillar knew the sun was beginning its descent in earnest, but there were still a few hours of good light left and she continued briskly sweeping the warped wooden porch at the front of the weathered house. When she finished, she straightened to glance across the small valley and down towards the steadily darkening forests at its edge. It would be time to go soon. Using the thick handled broom to steady herself, she went back into the house with a slight limping motion.

It had been more than six months since the earthquake, the greatest tragedy her small village had known. When it struck without warning early that spring, it left a permanent chill on the survivors. Many had died when the common buildings near the town square collapsed. Her suffering was less than others. In fact, her leg had healed pretty well since then. The ankle still gave her problems, but unless the pain was severe, she didn’t pay much attention to it. There was too much to do.

She jerked herself out of the memory of the event, shaking her head abruptly to clear it. She needed to concentrate on her work so that she could leave on time. With quiet deliberation she laid the food for her family’s evening meal on the large wooden table in the middle of the room. Tillar worked efficiently to furnish a stack of small white ironstone plates, a basket full of smooth skinned red apples intermixed with bright yellow pears, a loaf of brown bread, and a block of firm orange cheese. She added a bowlful of dried beef and covered it with a bright red cloth to keep the insects away from it. In the late afternoon sunlight, the freshly laid meal was a pleasant sight.

Tom would be back with the children soon. The walk from the town square was only a couple of miles, but they would be hungry from working there all day. It was necessary for everyone in the village to help to clear the debris and start to rebuild. Each family volunteered to go to the ruins on certain days so that the work progressed steadily. She hadn’t gone this time, because today was the six-month anniversary of the devastating event and she had something more important to attend to.

At the doorway, she put on her shawl and picked up the small bag on the floor. With her walking stick securely in hand, she turned for one last look into the kitchen. A clean, organized room withstood her critical gaze. Satisfied that her family’s needs would be met in her absence, she left the house, closing the front door firmly behind her. She walked slowly but determinedly, in the opposite direction of the town square. Her destination lay on the far edge of the village.

The woods along the edge of the path were quiet in the autumn sunshine. There was the underlying chirping of crickets and birds, but not much else. In past days, she would have described it as serene. A very slight breeze stirred the dark pines and golden aspen trees and played lightly with the wisps of her hair that had come loose during the day’s work. It was as if the breeze was calling her faintly, even kindly, trying to get her attention. She barely noticed. Very few things could draw her out of her relentless rumination about the tragedy. The meaning and purpose of her life was buried in the ruins of the buildings in the town center, and nothing was going to change that fact. When she had been carried barely conscious, from the debris of the hospital, she remembered resisting. Though weak and in terrible pain, she had desperately tried to find the strength to go back into the rubble. In the end she had been physically unable to do it, and even now, remembering that truth was unbearable because of the feeling of helplessness that accompanied it.

 Tillar continued along the path until it bent around a small rise in the terrain and the little weatherworn house disappeared from view behind her. A twinge from her injured leg made her stiffen as she tottered over the uneven surface of the roadway. She was still young enough to meet the challenge of her injury head on; and her brow lowered slightly in concentration, but she didn’t allow her pace to slacken. Within minutes, she found herself at a small turnout, graced by an iron arch mottled with rust. Hesitating at the entrance, she frowned upwards, reading the corroded inscription overhead.

‘Seorsum tamen non longe,’ –Apart yet not afar. 

Another gust of air rushed past her, cooler and stronger than the last. It was forced up over the base of the hill that she stood at, and through the stand of pines past the turnout, making a strong rustling sound in the trees as it passed.  The dead leaves stirred forebodingly, and the grass shivered in response.

This time, the chill of the wind was not lost on her. Having walked into the shadow of the hill, she also shivered and raised a trembling hand to brush the loose strands of dark hair from her eyes. A slight shudder in her breathing was the only further indication of anxiety. Her pale face was expressionless, dark eyes focused, as she passed under the arch and into the dim shadows under the pines. The rustling of her skirts imitated the whispering of the trees, as she walked through the rows of stones, sweeping decidedly past the large weathered ones near the front. The hillside made a natural boundary on her left side, but near the back, she turned to the right and followed the stones until she came to the iron fence at the border of the grounds. Here, the stones were quite new, still without lichen and easy to read.

She lowered herself unsteadily to sit on the ground next to one that was smaller and whiter than many of the others. She reached out a hand to touch it tenderly, tracing over the word ‘Finn’ etched in elegant lettering on the face of the stone.

“I’ve come back my love.” she said falteringly. “I’m here now and I’ve brought something.” Fumbling anxiously inside the bag, she withdrew a child’s thick woolen sweater and a small hand carved wooden train that bore the signs of being well used. She placed them gently near the base of the stone, patting them lovingly with her work hardened hands.

Strong sobs racked her body as the giving of the gift overwhelmed her with waves of loss and grief. Being alone in the cemetery, she felt no shame in releasing her pain. It was several minutes before she could contain her emotion again, and wiping her eyes on the edge of her shawl, she leaned over to rest her head against the stone, letting the iciness soothe her fiery cheeks.

“It should have been me.” she said hollowly. Her dark eyes closed against the truth she could not abide. She remained there motionless for some time, listening to the sound of the wind and her own breathing.

Her painful meditation was suddenly disturbed by a small rustling sound nearby. Startled, she sat upright, listening intently. After several moments, she heard it again; abrupt, short, busy, but almost blundering. She remained intently focused on the noise. To her surprise, a small blue ball rolled slowly out from underneath a nearby bush. A moment later, an even smaller hand followed, grasping clumsily for the ball.

Tillar’s eyes widened in fright at the thought of a child wandering alone in the cemetery, especially so late in the day. “Hello there!” she called out gently. “Have you lost something?” She began to rise slowly to her feet but was met by a round cherubic face, with large brown eyes and light brown curls, grinning at her happily around the side of the shrubbery. The ball had been retrieved and was now clutched firmly by the chubby fingers. She let out a cry and fell back to the ground in shock and disbelief. Before her stood her own beautiful son!  She looked with incredulity from the child to the headstone, unable to discern which was real.

Her cry, was immediately followed by the sound of running footsteps from the other side of the shrubs and more rustling noises. She looked up to see two elderly nuns, very much alarmed and peering back down at her. Seeing the toddler, one of the women pushed forward through the brush chiding gently,

“Xavier! How did you get all the way over here?” she reached out to take the child’s hand, but still grinning, he balled his fist and put it behind his back. The good sister looked tranquilly at the small boy. “Well,” she chuckled, “It seems he has other ideas.”  Turning to Tillar, she asked, “Are you all right my dear? You look as though you’ve had a fright.”

Struggling to her knees, Tillar groped blindly for words. “No! No! I don’t understand. That is my son! That is my son!” she exclaimed. “They told me he was dead! We were trapped in the hospital during the earthquake at Ashbridge!” Reaching out with both arms extended to the boy, she called frantically, “Finn! Finn! It’s mummy! Come to mummy love!” The boy looked fixedly at the nuns for a long moment without making a sound, and then turned and bolted into Tillar’s arms without hesitation. In that instant of unexpected rapture, Tillar felt she might accidently crush him with the tidal wave of emotion rushing through her. For several minutes she could only sob incoherently.

The nuns waited patiently for Tillar to compose herself before explaining that the boy had been found wandering the streets of a neighboring town, and taken in by a local family while inquiries were made to see where he had come from. When months passed and no family had been found, he had been brought to the two sisters who ran the orphanage there. It was only a chance redistribution of responsibilities that made it necessary for him to accompany them as they tended a shrine at the cemetery that day.

Tillar listened in astonishment, while Finn played happily on his mother’s lap with the small train that had been his before the accident. He seemed to remember it with delight. Tillar in turn, recounted the terrifying collapse of the hospital building during the earthquake, being trapped in the darkness, and the agony of body and mind as she lay in the ruins waiting to die. She described her horror at being rescued without Finn, and the surfacing of a peculiar pain which seemed endless. It didn’t take much further explanation for the nuns to declare that God did indeed work in mysterious ways. Satisfied that this unlucky family had been once again reunited by Providential grace, they relinquished care of the boy to his emotionally overwrought mother.

With hands trembling from unsurpassed joy, Tillar retrieved the little sweater from the base of the headstone, brushed the dirt from it, and patiently helped Finn put it on. It was rather small on him now but that was no matter. They started out for home, walking hand in hand; a strange unison of small strides and a slight limp. But they moved with the brisk pace of hearts made whole again. Tillar’s overflowing gratitude made the journey speed by this time. She completely failed to notice the pain in her leg. When she rounded the bend and saw the lights from the windows of the old house welcoming them home, she felt a surge of new strength. She turned and picked up her exhausted son, allowing the walking stick to clatter hollowly to the empty road. Tillar carried him the rest of the way.

She opened the door, to see her children gathered on the living room floor around their father’s big chair as he read to them. The firelight made the room warm and surreal. It was like walking into a dream. Little Finn, half asleep on his mother’s shoulder, raised his head full of tousled curls to look around uncertainly. The silence, as the faces of her husband and children suddenly turned towards her, was deafening. Tillar stood triumphantly in the doorway, illuminated by the rosy light and clutching her redemption, as tears streamed down her euphoric face.