SEAGULLS IN THE STORM
My granddaughter was pouring my apple tea when he came to our door for the first time. I had just lit the last pipe I allow myself after twilight and was cradling the tea cup in both hands, savoring the warmth, as she poured from the tiny pot. The knock was crisp, neither timid nor aggressive, just loud enough to clearly signal his presence. I put down my pipe and deferring my first sip of tea, always the most delicious, handed the cup to my granddaughter. When I opened the door to him, he took in the room with a glance and smiled at me and my granddaughter. We were surprised by the warmth of his tone and that he spoke – attempted to speak – our difficult language. He introduced himself and apologized for his appearance. He needn’t have; to us, he looked the same as the others who had recently come to our village. Their apparel, like his, was full of straps, pockets, and paraphernalia. Like the rest of them, the legs of his pants flared where they were tucked into the top of his dusty boots. He held his cap and other gear close to his side, cupped in the crook of his arm. We knew he was coming. The village authorities had assigned him to our house, which was mostly undamaged. I suppose that was the reason: he was the leader and appearances were important, even in our hamlet. My granddaughter and I remained silent. He thanked me for providing accommodations – “quarters” – he called them when he couldn’t find a word that would translate. He said he regretted adding inconvenience to our lives. He was looking forward to meeting the people in the village, and he thought he and his friends could find ways to make things better. When after a pause my granddaughter and I still said nothing, he smiled in a bemused way and said: “I understand. Thank you for letting me share your home. Now, if I may, I’d like to warm my hands by your fire; then, if you will show me to my room, I will not trouble you further tonight.” For the first of many times, he rubbed his hands for a few moments over the coals in our brazier. When he stood, I pointed him to the door of the small space that adjoined the single room where my granddaughter and I lived. We seldom saw him during the day; even though my granddaughter and I were early risers he was gone by the time we awoke. When he came in at night, it became a ritual with him that he would first go immediately to the brazier to warm his hands, speaking to us while he crouched by the fire those few minutes. Then he would stand, bid us goodnight, and adjourn to his room. “There is so much that can be done here,” he said to us as he rubbed his hands together over the fire one night soon after his arrival, “so much that we will do together.” For several minutes – much longer than he usually talked – he spoke about plans and prospects for our village. “So much to be done,” he repeated. Then, perhaps embarrassed that he had opened so much of himself to us, he stood quickly, said “Goodnight,” and went to his room. My granddaughter and I never spoke to him, of course. Although everyone knew the village leaders had sent him to our house, we could not take so big a risk. There are people with good hearts in our tiny community, but the fractures are ancient and run close to the surface. Some hear God speaking directly in their ears. They say he guides the thrusts of their knives and the sights on their rifles. God in His wisdom has never spoken so plainly to me. In His silence, perhaps He is content to let an old man embrace his evening pipe, sip his apple tea, and enjoy his granddaughter’s company. Still, one could take no chances. Sometimes by arrangement neighbors or friends of my granddaughter came to our house at the time he usually returned for the night. They could see that we extended no extra comforts or courtesies to him. No matter who was at our house, his routine was always the same. He would warm his hands by the fire, speak to his mute audience for a few moments, and then bid us goodnight. Although our guest sometimes repeated his apology for inconveniencing us, the general pattern of our lives was not much changed by his presence. There are only the two of us, my granddaughter and me, so even before our visitor arrived our days were mostly spent together. I am the one blessed by this circumstance: my granddaughter is considerate of my feebleness, tends my pipe and tea, and confides in me with a wisdom far beyond her years. The common view of our parched land is one of bright sunshine and searing heat. Those things are true of course, but in the winter and early spring the evenings are quite chilly. Our visitor took special pleasure in the warmth of the brazier. “You have a beautiful country,” he told us once in the early weeks as he moved his hands above the coals. “The job will take longer than I thought at first, but there are so many possibilities …” Then, lost in his thoughts for a moment, he stood, said goodnight, and retired to his room. After the door closed to his chamber every evening, we seldom heard or saw him for the rest of the night. Sometimes in the early hours when I awoke to make sure the blanket had not slipped from the settee where my granddaughter slept, I could see a light spilling from beneath the door of his silent room. My granddaughter sometimes mentioned the stillness also, and once when he was away I found her peeking through the contents of his room. I scolded her for her impertinence, although I was as fascinated as she and looked at them also. There were books – dozens of them that he had carried to his small sanctuary. Some were in our flowing script; others were in that incomprehensible printing of his own tongue. My granddaughter – far more learned than me – explained that they were about the history of our people and our language and customs. She even showed me one thin volume that described our village. It was difficult for me to imagine that someone had taken the time to write something down about our tiny place. My granddaughter loves books, so I had to shoo her away lest our visitor return and shame us by catching us looking at his belongings. My granddaughter left the room reluctantly, but with her usual smile for my scolding and anxiety. My granddaughter’s curiosity had undoubtedly left the appearance of his room in modest, but obvious, disarray. He seemed not to notice. Instead, when he took his place by the fire that night, he said the day had been an important one because electricity had been restored for the town’s few street lights, and soon he hoped to begin pumping water. The routine of warming his hands completed, he stood, said “Goodnight,” and with a final nod to me and my granddaughter, walked to his room. When my granddaughter and I awoke the next morning, the book about our small village was on the table close to where she slept. And so the winter went on. Encased in our conduct, my granddaughter and I never spoke to our guest. His routine remained consistent also: kneeling by the coals, he would warm his hands while telling us of the day’s activities and his hopes for the next day and the time after. Most evenings found me wrapped in my shawl – for it was chillier than usual for us – finishing my pipe and sipping the apple tea that my granddaughter poured for me. Usually it was at this time, as I was anticipating the soft moments when the tea would begin loosening the coils of the day, that our visitor would knock on our door. On those evenings when he was late or did not return, my granddaughter and I made a pretense – I will admit it now – that we did not notice his absence or miss his presence by the fire. One night as we waited, his knock on the door came much later than usual. There was a grimness to his manner that we had not seen before. As always, he strode straight to the fire. This night was different, though, and he waited several moments before speaking to us. There was a problem, he finally said. The lines carrying the town’s electricity had been brought down in several places. Still, he was hopeful. These last words came after an uncharacteristic pause. There was so much promise, he said, so many opportunities: it was difficult for him to believe that someone would try to ransom the future of people like those in the village. He paused again as he held his hands palms flat, just above the embers. Then he quickly stood, nodding to me and then, as he had in recent days, glanced a final time in the direction of my granddaughter before saying goodnight and closing the door to his room. During the quiet days that followed, our guest often arrived late, pleased that homes in some parts of our town were again receiving electricity for a few hours a day. “A seagull in the storm,” he said one night as he finished his ablutions by the fire. “That’s what your country is like.” He explained that even though the place he had grown up in the middle of his immense country was far from any ocean, seagulls were often seen there. During planting season they followed the ploughs as furrows were turned over and sometimes they would stay through the winter. Once during his childhood he had been fascinated by the sight of seagulls trying to break through a winter storm, swooping and circling, only to be beaten back by the wind and driving snow. The gulls kept circling, trying to get high enough to make it through the blizzard. “They were beaten down many times,” he said, “but finally the storm abated … and they soared away. That is what your country is like: those seagulls in the snow. Someday the storm will be over,” he said as he reached for the door to his room. Then, nodding to me and for a moment holding the eyes of my granddaughter, he said goodnight. Thus our lives continued, my granddaughter and I maintaining our silence, waiting but seeming not to wait for his return at the end of the day. One evening the knock on the door, usually so crisp, came muted, almost unsure. When I sat down my teacup and opened the latch, our guest stood in the doorway as if he were reluctant to come in. Framed for a moment in the lamp light escaping from the room, he finally stepped in and moved as always to toward the fire. I saw the concern in my granddaughter’s eyes as he walked hesitantly to the brazier, so different from the sure stride we were accustomed to. On this night, he warmed his hands almost abstractly and said nothing for a long time. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and strained: “Something terrible has happened.” The words were from a soul in distress. In a town not far from ours, some people had been horribly abused by colleagues who wore clothing like his. “You must not judge us by what happened today,” he began. “We are not like that … not all of us. You must know that we are different than that …” He said that he hoped we could find a way to somehow move beyond this horror. Then he was silent. He remained for a time by the fire, hands not moving above the coals, his thoughts far outside the small room. Perhaps in other times my granddaughter and I would have responded to his torment: we are after all a courteous people who would have offered words of solace or understanding. But of course we could not. My granddaughter caught my glance dissuading her from comment or gesture. Eventually, he arose. Eyes downcast, he nodded in my direction and although that night he did not look toward my granddaughter, it seemed somehow that his “Goodnight” was intended for her. I was finishing the last of my tea as I watched him walk to his room and close the door. Possibly it was his anguish that made his youth so apparent to me that night. Always before, in his other evenings by our fire, he had seemed so confident, so assured, so capable. I berated myself, wondering if the comfort of my pipe and the pleasure of my tea had diminished my faculties, for I had imputed seasons to his life simply because of those qualities – characteristics so often acquired only from long experience and shown by people whom others held in high esteem. That night, my tea did not work its restful magic. Long into the morning hours, I pondered the circumstances that had brought us all together. Our visitor was so young to have been given the responsibility for such important work and for so many people. Nothing like that could happen among the people in my village. I found myself wondering about the jumble of his day. Other than his time with us in the evening, were there other places where he could warm his hands and, even if only for a few minutes, set aside the burdens that were always with him? Had he also come to savor those few moments by the fire? Almost overnight spring came fully upon us. The weather warmed quickly and took much of the coolness from the air. My granddaughter continued to light the brazier at night. I did not chide her. The coals were an invitation to continue the ritual that had come to flavor our lives. My granddaughter and I welcomed our guest’s arrival each night, but attended it in silence. The embers allowed him to say a few words to us as he pretended to warm his hands, and to bid us goodnight. The sound when it reached us was unmistakable: a horrific thunderclap that knocked my pipe from the edge of the table and rattled the teacups in our small cupboard. The explosions that followed seemed interminable, close at times then further away, then close again; single bursts followed by avalanches of noise that obliterated all other senses and profaned the glory of a spring morning. When at last there was merciful silence my granddaughter and I peered outside to see what remained of our village. That night when my granddaughter poured tea in my favorite cup, we found that it was cracked. My granddaughter continued to light the coals in the brazier in the evenings, but our guest did not return that night or for many nights thereafter. The two of us wondered – worried – about his absence, listening without seeming to for the familiar knock on the door. When it finally came, crisp and sure, after many days, the sound startled me. With shaking hands, I set down the cup of tea that my granddaughter had just poured for me and went to unlatch the door. Our guest stood in the doorway for a moment, taking in the room as he had on that first evening a few months ago when winter was just coming on us. On this night, he did not move to the fire. Instead, he stopped only a step or two inside the door. He spoke softly, in fragments, as the words in our language came to him. He had not come back to our house after the fighting, he began. Many lives had been lost. People on both sides. Several from the village had been killed. He had led his group during the battle. Everyone knew that. There might be repercussions … I was certain now that old age had hampered my reasoning. In his elliptical way he was suggesting to us that his continued presence in our house might place my granddaughter and me in danger. He did not want that to happen. His words, and my anticipation of what must surely come next, distracted me for a moment and I glanced across the room to where my granddaughter, mute as always, stood pale and unmoving. After a moment, he continued. For that reason, and others, he had asked to be sent elsewhere – transferred – was the word he used. He named another killing field far distant from us where the blood will water the plants in the ground for years to come. He was leaving that night. He would not return. Inside the room all was still, only the small sounds made by the teapot on the brazier discernible as if from a great distance. We stood, rigid, each of us prisoners chained to our own separate space. Then, for the first time, he stepped towards my granddaughter and stood directly in front of her. He waited there, his eyes fixed on her lovely face, intense, riveted, absorbing every feature. “Goodbye,” he said. After a moment, she lifted her downcast eyes and held his gaze. Softly, my granddaughter answered, “Goodbye.”