Coming Home

Early Spring on the hillside. No gambolling lambs and nodding daffodils here: the bitter aftermath of winter had not fully let go its hold, and only the lower, sheltered fields of the scattered farms were occupied. Two people, oblivious to the chill, high on the lookout point, alone with their thoughts. The rocky outcrop flared green-red and purple-grey as the sun flickered through the racing clouds.

The howling wind whipped her long red-gold hair into cruel cat-o'-nine-tails, stinging her face and blocking her view. She lifted an absent-minded hand to hold it back, intent on the view below. The grass shivered in the valley ahead of the coursing wind, and the river ran fast, brown and churning towards the distant sea.

She shivered too, unconsciously echoing the land, as always in tune with its changing moods. Beside her, her companion shifted restlessly.

‘Can you see it?’ He had to shout. The wind snatched his words away and she nodded impatiently.

‘Look, down there, across the river. You can just see the chimney.’ She felt, rather than saw, his nod. Talking was hard. He touched her arm, leaning in close.

‘Are we going down now?’

‘In a minute.’

The doubts were churning inside. She had come a long way for this, such a long way, and now… should she go down to the valley again? It had changed; no one would remember her, no family or friendship pulled at her, just the old house. But the pull was strong. She couldn’t come all this way and go back without seeing it one more time.

Lithe, easy, decided, she stood up and dusted herself down, reached for his hand to pull him up, smiling.

‘What’s up, lazybones? Getting old?’

He shot her a sardonic glance and they laughed together at their private joke. Making their way downhill, stepping over rivulets and gulleys, jumping like children from the unforgiving boulders that intruded into the path, united in their single-mindedness. A stand of silver birches shielded them as they passed through, all silver and greens in the racing cloud-shadows, the trees bending in graceful dance to the wind’s tune, flickering the light and giving momentary relief from the chill air..

The girl and her companion moved more slowly now as they entered the valley floor. No one noticed them – a few sheep lifted their heads in stone-walled fields as they passed, glanced round, then returned to the serious business of eating. A distant tractor on the lower slopes trundled like a toy across grey-green shadows now creeping from their daytime lairs, gathering strength as the sun slid away.

It didn’t take long to reach the village, and even less time to pass through it. Her companion gazed in interest at the rows of cottages, built two centuries before by grim, hard men to live their grim, hard lives. The houses had outlived their owners, and now showed the passage of time in their updated, modernised forms: extensions on the back, pastel walls replacing the original whitewashed uniformity, anchored by power lines to unsightly poles that marched beside the kerb in ugly symmetry. She was oblivious to it all, her eyes always fixed ahead, so she stumbled on loose slates that carpeted the roadside, and he had to steady her. She murmured thanks and hurried on; he stopped and watched her fondly, smiled and shook his head, then lengthened stride to catch her up.

‘What’s the plan, Gin? You do have a plan, I suppose? Or are we just sight-seeing? You’re not intending to do it up, I hope?’

She stopped dead, swung to face him, and he reached to steady her again. Her expression shocked him. Wild eyes stared, almost feral, like a fox in the headlights. Tangled hair tossed back, uncaring, and her breathing came fast, skin pale and taut over her beautiful bones. In that moment, he loved her as much as ever he had, ached to make this easier for her, wanted to wrap his arms round her, warm her, soothe her – and knew he could do nothing but follow, be there when he was needed, and that was enough. She saw his concern, pitied him, and a small rueful smile flickered and was gone. She turned and raced on, her focus only on the house. They ran together up and over the little bridge, gathering speed on the down slope. Easing down to a walk round the last bend. Nearly there now.

Tangled trees faced them, neglected for years and stunted by the punishing wind as it twisted them into cruel deformity. And suddenly, there was the house. A gaunt black chimney stubbornly refusing to give way to time. Massive, hand-cut stones, drowning in ivy but holding true to their cause, supporting the chimney like a wedge of soldiers locked together in a shield-wall. Cavernous window spaces sprouting brambles and saplings…but behind this screen, she knew, the walls were protected, strong, sprawling out in testimony to the centuries of its existence. This was the outward face, but it was all still there, if you knew how to look. Villagers saw an abandoned house; but…They breathed deeply, more slowly, as the familiar light began to shimmer and dance around them while they stood motionless, as rooted to the earth as the hillside all around. Eyes closed, they let the light, the roaring sounds, the sensations, pass over them and suck them in, taking them back…

He was first to stir; more practical and less intuitive. She still breathed in deeply, eyes closed, letting the old magic work as it always did. He waited patiently. Long minutes passed. Finally, her green eyes blinked open and she looked around, as if awakening. Silently, he raised his eyebrows in question, and she laughed, free and untroubled at last.

‘It’s fine, Art, everything’s fine. The trees are looking after it for us. They…’ she flicked her head at the village,’ don’t know it exists. It will still be here when we come next time.’

She held out her hand to him and they began to walk away, his long dark hair and her red-gold close together. Behind them, the shimmer of light faded as Camelot slipped back into obscurity. Arthur and Guinevere were just checking in.