The Free Wind

#shortstory 

It was the rippling of particles in the wind that awakened Oliver's attention. The west wind that was strengthening.
In his current state, the concentration he could achieve was low, but it was enough for him to feel the hand spreading the flowers and to smell a gentle woman's scent. He gathered his conscience around him and crossed the darkness to be able to grasp the eyes, the oval of the face and the color of the hair. He also picked up the vibrations of her voice.
A pity… neglected… here…
It seemed to him that what he previously called years had never passed.

"What a pity that everything is so neglected here ..."
Margaret had spoken aloud as she deposited the wildflowers, hit by a gust of cold wind.
She was thinking about Jordan. She could see him sitting in the leather armchair of the London office, with the loose knot of his tie, with a sign of Dior number 57 at the corner of his lips. He had already stopped smiling, had taken on his professional air, just to entrust her with that task.
"Begin from the beginning, Margie."
He had ordered her to speak to old people, to desperate wives, to frightened children. He was great at his craft. He knew how to find the news even where there was nothing to tell. He knew how to build a whole world around it.
Now he wanted, indeed he demanded, an article on the occupation of the Crescent mine. The miners had rebelled against the boss, they were fighting for wages, for more bearable shifts. But that didn't interest Jordan. He wanted a bad chronicle, fabricated on people's pain, without humanity, without respect, without compassion. He was hoping for a confrontation with the police, shooting and blood.
Jordan was not only her lover but also her employer and she had thrown a couple of clothes in her backpack and got into the car reluctantly. Highway to the north, then country lanes, surrounded by manicured lawns and fences.
Inside, a sense of nausea that wasn't just the fault of the curves.
Shee should have gone straight to the mine, but behind her bed and breakfast she had seen a river, with a willow on the bank and swans sailing on the surface. Near the river there was a church and next to the church nine tombstones covered with damp moss. She had collected wildflowers and entered the small cemetery. She didn't know why, but giving flowers to forgotten graves made her feel good.
Jordan had long ago stopped sending her flowers, and even talking about marriage.


Because he wasn't ready.
Because his children weren't ready.
Because his wife was depressed.
And you, Margie, I mean, your personality ... It is so unusual ...
It meant she was incapable of following the rules, she was rebellious, anarchist. Like the Crescent miners, like the hero buried under the tombstone in front of which she stood at that moment.

Oliver savored that subtle scent of damp leaves that came from the woman. Through the mists of time, her voice carried him back to Magdalen.
Magdalen had a stronger body, more tied to their land, and her hair was thicker and blacker.
He saw her again in the summer, at sunset, picking up their baby, which she had placed to sleep on the hay, while the two of them worked in the fields. He saw her naked among the hot stubble at noon, with her arms strong and proud, her thighs sweaty and shameless.
Magdalen had refused the blindfold and had not screamed when a rose of blood had burst on her corset, at heart level.

Margaret looked at her watch. It was colder because of the wind, but the darkness was still far away. It was that particular time, just before sunset, when the colors fade and the last birds take off.
She had to call the office, sort things out in the hotel, take a shower. She had to organize the work for the next day.
Instead she sat on the hero's tombstone, clutched his backpack between her knees, breathed.
What is life, she wondered. Life is living, Jordan would say, then immediately change the subject.

Magdalen had not screamed but Oliver had, frozen at the idea of having killed his woman, because he had not been able to tolerate the yoke that others instead endured. Magdalen loved him, shared his desire for freedom, was ready to follow him to death.
Forgive me, he had screamed before they fired again, but she was already dead and she hadn't had time to forgive him.
They had separated them. Magdalen buried in the north, in the highlands where she was born. Him here. Their child missing, lost.
Now there was this woman nearby who smelled of leaves and vibrated in the ether like Magdalen, this kind woman who had brought flowers.
He felt the cut stems already begin to die, he felt the light turn pale in the evening, he felt the weight on the woman's heart.
Maybe Magdalen was there, she had returned to tell him that she forgave him.


Margaret stood up, settling her backpack on her shoulder. She picked up a flower that had been blown away by the wind and placed it next to the inscription on the old tombstone.


Oliver Conroy
Shot
On November 11th
the year 1892
Rebel


"Rebel," Margaret murmured, "another rebel." She tried to hold back her hair from a flurry.
The next day, she decided, she would interview the miners, collect their protests, talk to the mayor, the pastor and the owner of the mine. She would never publish a scandalous photo, she would never write a single gossip again.
And when she got back, she would tell Jordan that she didn't care about marrying him either.
As she walked through the creaking gate, she wondered again what life was to her. "Life is the west wind that freezes my face", she told himself, "the free wind".