A cold mountain breeze carrying the taste of winter stung his face. His eyes began to tear.
The promise speaks to those who listen, but oftentimes, the message is
muddled and conveyed in phrases and subtleties rather than in sentences and absolutes. He thought it odd that he should recall the joys of Christmasses past and the strength of his father’s hand and the voices of his family.
Completely absent from the promise’s call were the faces and sounds of Trinity Jane and his children.
There was but one face seared into his mind’s eye, and a solitary voice that called out to him. He did not question the rightness of the visions and sounds. They simply were.
The why mattered not at all.
From the escarpment, he could see for miles through the rising mist. When the sun peaked through Thompson’s Gap, he was able to distinguish the silhouette of the Blue Ridge. Macy’s Peak, Cormak’s Pass, Clingman’s Dome, Rocky Top, Potowa Trail, peaks and passes he had scampered along as a child, hiked as a young man—alone and with friends—for as long as he could remember. Of these times, the hours hiking alone were the ones he most cherished, and the ones he most terribly missed.
He loved the morning hours, the newness of dawn enveloping all that is with the promise of the day. The land encased in a diamond
shroud of hoarfrost and dew would whisper to him when he alone shared the solitude with the dawn—and listened for the promise.
It was different when others were there. The secrets weren’t shared. Often, the whispered promise lost in idle chatter went unrevealed, unshared, and unkept.
But the message was never silenced by the serenity of the awakening woods. Alone, he could listen. In the silence, he heard. In solitude, he understood.
It was silent now. And he knew.
To keep her alive—he had let her go.
His life was full, but he was empty without her.
He turned to face the great oak.
And took the first step to find her.
The End
H.L. Grandin
Author Bio
H.L. Grandin grew up in the shadow of history near Mt Vernon, Virginia. As a boy he spent many hours exploring the hills, valleys and waterways throughout Virginia, which nurtured a deep appreciation for nature and its forces. Those adventures became the inspiration for
The Legend of Tyoga Weathersby.
For the last twenty-five years, H.L. has lived on a small farm in western Maryland where he and his wife raised three daughters and a passel of animals.