Cliff Cottage

Silently dusk invades the room, claiming the corners before slithering up walls. It washes the yellows with sepia. It bruises the blues and darkens the reds into dried blood. The chest of drawers heaves one last sigh before it snuggles against the wall, leaving shiny handles as so many glimmering eyes. The fading sunlight caress the slender green bottle on the table and shows that it is half empty.

Soon enough the moon, using tree branches as puppets, will create Wayang shows on the colorless walls and floors. The last sunbeam scratches against the sharp facets of the cut-crystal glass and bleeds into the ruby wine.

Across from me is a woman. In the twilight, her once sable hair is the foam of a waterfall. Her dark eyes, though bright, snuggle in lavender pillows that contrast with the creased parchment of her skin. The rose of her full lips has faded, and the years of laughter and pain weight on the corners of her mouth. The joints of the hand that holds her glass are swollen and stiff.

I know her well. She is the me who has selflessly absorbed our years and our pain.

The sharp scent of the wine tickles my nose as I lift the glass. The rich nuttiness rolls over my tongue. The first glass has already done its job and taken her pain. The second glass has reached into our memory of that long ago day. We smile at each other and allow the third glass to take us back to that time when we were one and young and ran headlong into magic.

*~*~*

On that long ago day, the bus dropped me off in the center of the village. As I turned to look around, I bumped into a woman. We apologized and stepped around each other. Before she passed me, she stopped and spoke to me.

Have you come to rent Cliff Cottage? She asked, her gaze steady on my face.

Yes, I have. Why?

She smiled reassuringly. No, it's good. Take that lane. Can't miss it. It's the last one on the top of the crag.

I thanked her and slipped into the small store to buy a few basics before taking the path up the hill.

You're new here, then. The woman at the checkout observed.

Yes, I'm renting Cliff Cottage. I nodded, realizing there wouldn’t be any secrets in a village this small.

Are you, now? She tallied my few items on a scratch pad.

You know it is haunted, don't you? Another customer informed me.

Is that so? I handed my money to the shopkeeper.

Oh, yes. The customer added emphatically. And the people who have lived there have all disappeared.

Vanished. The proprietress added, watching me stuff the food in my carry-on bag.

Well, thank you for the warning. I smiled and left the shop.

The click-clack from my suitcase followed me, till the cobble stones gave way to a hard-packed dirt path. The last cottage on the top of the cliff with its white plaster walls and red tiled roof, half hidden behind a vine covered stone wall, looked innocent and inviting.

The front door was unlocked and opened onto a single large room. The rough-hewn ceiling beams were blackened by more than a century of smoke. Though not luxurious, the cottage had everything I needed. From the generous fireplace with the well-worn cozy chairs. To a full-sized bed hidden behind heavy drapes. A small kitchen with a potbelly stove. The door next to the kitchen opens to a welcome modern addition with a bathroom, water heater and washing machine.

This was decades before wi-fi or internet or mobile signals. Just the same, there was no television or a land line. But since I came here to paint, I was grateful for the lack of distractions.

A few days later, the woman I had bumped into when I got off the bus, walked up from the village. She brought a gift of home-made short bread and introduced herself as Maud. As we settled at the little table in front of the window, waiting for the tea to properly steep, she told me she owned a small sheep farm in the valley. She was proud to say that she used the wool to weave cloth. Maud looked around the room and smiled, having assured herself that nothing had changed.

Och, Haven’t I spent many happy hours here. It sometimes feels as if I have spent half my life in this cottage. She nodded. I’m glad you have moved here. It has stood empty for far too long. For this is a special place. I want to tell you why.

She scoffed and shook her head.

Thought, I’m sure by now, you’ve heard that the place is haunted. Psah!

Maud took the steaming tea mug and wrapped her work-roughened, dye-stained hands around the cup.

Ever since I was a child, I had been warned to stay away from this place. The woman who lived here was said to be daft, a witch. We were told she would turn our heads with fanciful tales of magic and ghosts. Whispers were that she could make people disappear.

She smiled and shook her head at the memory.

Yes. Most heeded the warnings, but my Gran told me not to listen to village gossip. She told me that this cottage was a place of love and passion. She said that she had known two women who had found love here. She knew that the one who had just moved here would be as fortunate. But Gran was too old to come traipse up the cliff.

Maud dropped her voice, as if not to be overheard, though we were the only two people for at least a mile around.

Before she passed, Gran whispered to me to go meet her. She made me promise to learn as much as I could from her and pass it on to the next one who’d come.

She turned and smiled at me, nodding.

So, I set out to meet the woman.

Chuckling softly at the memory of her youthful audacity, she took a careful sip of her tea.

I was barely old enough for school when I first met Heather. She would walk the lanes and the fields or beach every day, rain, or shine, warm or cold. She would climb over the walls and styles with the agility of a child. And I’d follow her. She would tell me stories and the history of the land and the ancient people who had lived here before us. Though at the time I did not know how she knew these stories, I hung on every word.

A quick chuff of self-mockery.

Heather would laugh when she felt the wind in her hair and the sea spray or rain on her face. She said it was nature’s way of letting her know that she was alive and well. On the rare occasion that the weather was too severe, she’d whisper that it was nature reminding her who was in charge. Most days I’d accompany her, though I never took to getting soaked, myself.

A brief shudder and a smile as Maud stared out to sea through the small window. She appeared happily lost in her own thoughts and memories.

She was a generous person, always had a smile and a kind word for anyone she’d meet on her walks, even when they averted their eyes or crossed the street. She’d still smile and greet them pleasantly. Heather said she knew that people are wary of what they don’t understand.

Maud paused to sip her tea,

I was often asked about her by busybodies, even the priest. And then scolded, sometimes punished for my answers.

She shrugged and continued.

I merely learned not to talk about her. For Heather was always ready to help anyone when asked. Many a woman would come here after dark and ask about her herbs and roots, to help with women troubles and childbirth or other ailments.

She turned to me.

She’s the one who patiently taught me how to treat the wool and weave the most beautiful and intricate patterns. She’s also taught me the names and uses of all the plants in her garden.

I heard respect and pride in her voice.

I’ll be glad to teach you what I know.

She nodded at me as if to convince me of the sincerity of her offer. I assured her that I’d be excited to learn what she could teach me. Maud turned back to the window, once again becoming lost in her thoughts. A faraway look in her eyes.

When I was old enough to understand, Heather told me of her nightly visitor. A tall, strong, man with long flowing golden hair, a warm laugh and dancing blue eyes, she told me. It was he who had told her of the ancient people who lived here long ago. Och and wouldn’t her face glow when she talked about him and the passion they shared each night.

She lifted her teacup once again.

She confessed to me that she had asked him to take her with him each morning. He’d promise that someday he would and asked her to trust him and wait.

Still staring out to sea, she absentmindedly blew over her cup, though surely the tea had grown cold by now.

It wasn’t until much later that I realized that while I had grown up, Heather had never grown old. It was as if time stood still for her.

Maud frowned pensively. Shaking her head, as if still in wondering after all these years.

Her long auburn hair never greyed. Her body remained straight, strong and agile. Her smile, her face was as youthful on the last day I saw her as the first time I’d met her.

She nodded in disbelief once again.

Heather claimed that being loved often and thoroughly had kept her young. I don’t know… Maybe the rumors were right, maybe there is magic here ...

She drank some of her tea and looked at me, smiling wistfully.

As the years passed, she told me that if, in the end, she would only have his nightly love, she would still have had more than most. But she was convinced that someday he would come and take her to his home.

Her voice cracked. She coughed to clear her throat.

He must have, for one day, nigh on a years ago, she was gone. Disappeared without a trace. Took nothing with her.

She swallowed, took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Silently she stared toward the sea and sighed. Finally, Maud turned to me, a warm smile on her face.

I hope you will find the same peace and bliss she, and all those before her have found here.

Nodding, agreeing with herself that she had come to the end of her story, she took a last swallow of her tea and bade me good day.

I watched Maud as she slowly walked back to the village and smiled knowing that when night fell, he’d come to me.

Every night I have known his presence, felt his warmth and strength. Let his golden hair flow through my fingers, recognized his unique scent and drank from his lips. I have basked in his whispers of praise and promise.

I have gripped his arms, stroked his back and marveled at the controlled strength beneath my fingers. Arching my back, I have silently begged him to touch, caress and claim me as his. Impatiently, I have rubbed my sensitive skin against the texture of his thighs. Nightly we have shared our love, shuddered and come undone, mingling our cries of passion.

Sated, I have slept in his arms.

At dawn, before he’d slip away, stirred by his kiss, I’d beg him to stay or take me with him. When it is time, my love. he’d promise. Wait for me. And I would be alone again.

*~*~*

Now, decades later, dusk has given way to night. The wine is almost gone. My old self and I smile at each other and raise our glasses for the last time before she fades into the mirror.

Come my love. Come with me.

I take his hand and feel his strength and protection wrap around me as he spirits me away.