Wayfarers In Winter

March 26, 2010 by Linda Bergeron.

Fiction By Linda Bergeron
For whatever reason, they were wayfarers in winter, a group of people headed somewhere, landing for the cold evening, at dusk, in a town of hopeless barrenness – really a short row of house-huts along a wide dirt road, facing a boundless steppe, but backed by a thin break of forest.

For whatever reason, a large quiet man and a woman fell to sleeping in a hut together. She took the bed, deep with quilts and blankets, and he took a place by the small hearth.

She awoke in the night, hours before dawn, to see him huddled at the stone cold hearth with no fire. She knew right away that she could not have the warm bed only; he was suffering from the cold, crouched and shivering.

“Come,” she said with sudden authority. “Come into the bed.” He roused and did as she told. He crawled over the foot end and found his way in.

“The wood was wet and would not burn.”

She quickly swung the covers away from her curled back, saying “Lay against me. You must get warm.”

So he did. She felt his massive body slowly relax then soon fall into a slumber of even breaths. It was unwieldy for one to be so close without an arm across the other’s body, her body that he leaned into.

“It’s alright. I am covered. Throw your arm across. It’s alright.”

She fell asleep in the rhythm of his breath, with his arm innocently across her hip.

She would half-awaken, feeling his breath, his warmth, remembering that he was there. And fall to sleep again.

When she was aware he was laying there, awaking as she was awaking, his fingers felt her skin. She smiled to herself: his hand had found the only inch of break in the cloth on her body, and unconsciously did little affectionate touches like a sleeping child would caress its mother.

When she was fully awake, eyes closed, laying in the warmth of this bed, their two bodies close, she realized her toes were playing footsie with each other, something she noticed that she did in her years of lonesomeness.

Her touched her, and why would she shirk? It felt good. He thanked her for inviting him to the bed. “I had to,” she said.

He said soft words, and began a little exploring of her body. She responded in little moans. He found her breast and played with the touch of it. She was turning toward him, eyes closed, accepting his lips on her mouth, feeling her own strong response, taking in the smell of him, the ease of his actions, his no rush reaches, even the moments of stillness, deep in morning warmth together.

After she had thrown back the bedcovers, exposing herself, after she had reached for his haired erection after his invitation, they were very very close. He was patient, they kissed, they were a man and woman fully together.

For some reason, they did not talk much at first. He suggested, knowing they would be leaving the hut and joining the others and continuing the journey, “We should say we are married.”

This worried her, and he saw her thinking hard. “I…I am not divorced from my husband. He has been gone eight years. I do not know if he is alive or dead.”

“What do you feel?”

“I think he’s alive,” she offered. “I am strong. He does not bother me.”

They were quiet together.

“We do not know each other,” she said.

“We know plenty. You were very good to offer me the bed when it was so cold.”

“You were so cold. I had to.”

“No, you did not have to. You did. You are a good person.”

“Will you protect me?” she asked. It was strange to ask. It was not what she meant.

“Are you in danger?” she queried. “Are there things I should know about you?”

She remembered that he spoke evenly with the other men, that he always had good suggestions. He was a man that was as a nation to himself.

“No, I don’t harbor enemies. I would not endanger you. But,” and he thought here carefully, imagining what he might do in unexpected circumstances, “if something came up and it would not be safe for you to know me, I would deny our relationship…so you could not be hurt….”

He felt her stiffen a little.

“…by a nod or a glance, something to tell you, but no one else, to warn you.”

She was thoughtful. They were perfectly at ease with one another. This was rough territory. There were desperate people around, men who would sell anything to their own advantage; people who were aimless, or broken. It would be good to feel his protection, to be allied with one such as him. She had no trouble imagining them traveling a long time together.

“Maybe,” she offered, and it was a thought that came suddenly to her, “maybe you could give something away, like carry a coin in your pocket and if a time should come, offer it to the person of doubt, put it on the table, be sure that I can see.”

He nodded, still close to her body, unworried.

“People grow old together and then one of them dies,” she revealed her fear.

“People are ready by then. So, they enjoy each other while they can.”

“Do you drink?” she asked.

“Sure, I drink.”

“One? Or two?”

“Sure, sometimes two or more. I enjoy drinking now and then.”

“I can’t tolerate drunkenness at all.”

“That’s okay,” he said.

“You know,” he said to her, looking her strong in the face, “we are married. God married us. You did the right thing. We have been perfectly comfortable with one another, no fears, no pretense.”

She knew he was right. ~ L.W. Bergeron

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