Until My Dying Day
by Lesley Bungay
She wanders on the clifftop, lingering near the crumbling schoolhouse. Deserted now for fear of the advancing ocean. Their place. Safe. Far from prying eyes and prejudice.
She senses movement, turns to speak his name. But no answer returns, no figure emerges. Only ethereal shadows of children play, their muffled tones echo amongst the ruins. A muted bell tolls. Their voices fall silent. Memories haunt. A life so different then. Simple. Innocent. A life before he came.
She pictures his hand rise from the shore, hears his promise resound in the air – I will return for you.
She approaches the cliff edge. The winter wind, so often relentless and raw, is now restrained. Standing alone in the bleakness, at one with the withering gorse. With no breeze to help resist the gathering frost, they cling together and bow, like glistening angels, in reverence towards the hushed sea.
The cold pierces her skin and sears her cracked lips. The vowed words freeze on her breath – I will wait for you…
Her eyes scan the horizon, glimpsing the mainland across the bay. Charcoal peaks rise above the mist, silhouetted against the grey. No movement on the calm water. No boat returns him to her. The sea swells steadily onward, like a pool of spilled ink, it floods the shore in its ebony flow.
She seeks a sign in the fading light, longing for his familiar frame amongst the jagged edges of rocks below, blurring before her weary eyes as daylight withdraws its relief once more. The sea and sky weave together in a seamless, silvery haze that draws a veil across the scene.
Still she remains, listening for the splash of an oar drawing through the water, for his voice repeating her name. But only the lapping waves murmur their apology to the silence. Her hope fades. The moon fails her, hiding behind lifeless clouds as the vision vanishes and blackness claims her world.
The cold penetrates her soul, mocking the woollen shawl grasped tight to her chest as the deepening draw of the ebbing current rouses her. The tide has turned.
His words rise in her mind with the dawning light – Only death will keep me from you.
A golden orb breaks the surface of the sea, splitting the earth and sky apart. A shimmer of morning light touches the jagged rocks, strives to awaken her hollow eyes, to warm her marble cheek, but she no longer feels the cold.
WENSUM 