The Free Wind

What awakened Oliver’s attention was the rippling of particles in the wind. The west wind that was strengthening.

In his current state, the concentration he could achieve was little, 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 the voice.

A pity… neglected… here…

He felt that what he used to call 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 of Jordan. She could see him sitting in the leather armchair of the London office, with the loose knot of his tie, with a mustache of her Dior number 57 at the corner of his lips. He had already stopped smiling, he had assumed his professional air, precisely to entrust her with that task.

“Begin from the beginning, Margie.”

He had ordered her to talk to old people, to desperate wives, to frightened children. He was great at his trade. He knew how to find the news even where there was nothing to tell. He knew how to build a whole world around it.

He now wanted, indeed 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 Jordan didn’t care. 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, for shooting and blood.

Jordan, as well as her lover, was also her employer and she had reluctantly thrown a couple of clothes in her backpack and got into the car. 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.

She 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 distributing 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 that 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 again 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 the height of her heart.

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 her backpack between her knees, breathed.

What is life, she wondered. Life is living, Jordan would say, then he would immediately change the subject.

Magdalen hadn’t screamed but Oliver had, chilled at the idea of ​​having killed his woman, because he hadn’t been able to tolerate the yoke that others instead endured. Magdalen loved him, she shared his desire for freedom, she was ready to follow him until death.

Forgive me, he had screamed before they shot 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 was 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.

Perhaps 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 carried away by the wind and placed it near the inscription on the old tombstone.

Oliver Conroy

Shot

On November 11th

of 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 wouldn’t post not even 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 herself, “the free wind”.