Waiting

Here's something different today. An excerpt from a story I hope to some day write when I have the time. Enjoy!

    As I approached the lake, I saw a man, withered with age. He was sitting on a bench, watching the water churn, leaning forward under the weight of his years. Never had I seen such a sad creature in all my travels, and I felt compelled to speak with him. At first I sat, and a heaviness was upon me. I looked out across the water and saw there what his gaze held. A castle, many spired, glorious in all its grandeur. This was the first I had seen of it, and it made my heart soar.

   For a moment.

   But then the heaviness settled in again, and I looked over at a wrinkled face, aged by the sun, and deep, sad eyes. He didn't look at me. Not even for a moment did his gaze leave that beautiful sight. His breaths came slow and heavy, and I felt an expectancy.

   “Where are you going?” I asked, though it seemed an odd question.

   “There,” he said with a slight smile and a nod to the castle. “But how did you know I was going someplace?”

   I shrugged. “You look as though you are waiting to leave.”

   Again he nodded, but his face fell into a grimace.

   “Do you know about the ferry?” he asked.

   “I don't.”

   He raised an old arm, and I saw how it shook with the effort, as if it had not been lifted in many years, and he pointed across the water.

   “At the end it comes to take us to the castle.”

   I understood. It was almost his time. He would go there, to that beautiful palace, to be with our king, the one I sought. Of all the stories I had heard of his love for his people, his benevolence, I too longed to meet him.

   “I will go soon,” he said, a smile creeping over his face.

   “I'm going to meet him too,” I said, my joy overwhelming. I could hear it in my voice, see it in my reflection, the un-containable smile.

   “Oh,” he said softly, patting my arm with his aged hand. “Wait with me?”

   “Until you go?”

   At last he turned his eyes on me, and they were hollow. Something in them was missing. Some fire that had once burned.

   “How long?” I mumbled, fighting fear as I spat the words out, “How long have you waited?”

   “Fifty years,” he said calmly.

   My heart sank.

   “If you stay, the ferry will come for you,” he continued.

   “I-I'm taking the long road,” I stammered, “Around the lake.”

   He shook his head, “It's a hard road. You will suffer much.”

   Suddenly he pushed himself forward, and I could see he was trying to stand. Again, I felt compelled, and I helped him up, pulling with all my strength, and we hobbled to the shore. He dipped his feet in the water, cool and clear, and I could see his strength returning.

   “Do you see it!?” he cried.

   I gazed across the water, and I heard, like a fading memory, the sound of a whistle, but I saw nothing.

   “The ferry comes! It's coming at last!”

   His face erupted into joy, and my heart grew light, I saw him skip off into the water, and then he was gone, vanished into the mist.

   Suddenly the dark of the twilit evening enveloped me, and the heaviness sunk in once more. He was not wrong. My journey was hard, and it would be nice to rest, to wait for this ferry. I fell to my knees on the sand and I wept as the cold water licked at my thighs like icy tongues. I wept until I felt I could breathe no more, and then I saw a light, and I gazed up. There beside me was the Messenger, holding a lantern, peering out over the lake.

   “Why do you weep?” he asked.

   “My road is hard,” I replied. “And my strength is spent.”

   “And you wish to wait?”

   I nodded.

   “If you do, the ferry will come for you.”

   I thought of that man, skipping off into the water, the mirth and lightness of his soul. The Messenger held out a hand to me, and I took it, and standing, I walked to the bench.

   “It will take me to the castle?”

   “Yes,” he said softly, but there was great sadness in his voice.

   “He said he waited fifty years.”

   He nodded.

   Without another word, he let my hand go, and he began to turn.

   “Wait!” I cried. “He told me I would suffer on the long road. Did he avoid the pain by sitting here?”

   “Some.”

   I steeled my resolve, looking back at the lonely bench, the years of emptiness I would endure sitting on it.

   “But he still suffered?” I asked.

   “Much. Life is never without pain.”

   He was leaving now, I could sense it without looking at him. He was heading to the road. I had one last chance, for a single question burned in my mind.

   “What did he miss?” I asked.

   He turned with a gentle smile. I had asked the right question.