The longest night

"How far we all come.
How far we all come away from ourselves...
You can never go home again."
-James Agee

*** *** ***

Yule, 1994 -- Manchester House

God rest ye merry gentlemen...

The carolers, bundled up in their cream and crimson and ever-green, crowded the front stoop of the Manchester house, filling its foyer with songs of good will and harmonies of peace on Earth. Tidings of comfort and joy. Their voices carried up the heavy wood staircase, down the plaster-walled hall, and through the double doors of the room where the dark haired child slept. Her small body was overrun with fever. Stray strands of her hair clung to her sweat-beaded brow.

Outside, the night was peaceful. The moon had lost only a sliver of its fullness and the moonlight cast long shadows across the roads.

Oh, tidings of comfort and joy

*** *** ***

Yule, 2009 -- Chicago, Illinois

Emily's hands shook as she tried to fit her key into the ignition.  Like threading a needle, the operation seemed impossible while she cried.  But she wasn't... crying that was.  An unopened card sat on the passenger seat beside her, her name written elegantly across the envelope, and the twinkle-lights of holiday cheer pushed in through the windscreen, the windows, the mirrors.

I'm leaving, she had said.  Not going.  Leaving.
I should be back by...  Not will.  Should.

(I'm already gone.)

Finally she fit the key into the block and thankfully the car rumbled to life when she turned over the starter.  She didn't (couldn't) look back before driving away, but she couldn't shake the feeling that she had left something (important) behind.

Again.

*** *** ***

Christmas Eve, 2007 -- Stephanskirche, Wien

Stille Nacht, heilige Nacht
Alles schläft, einsam wacht

Rain fell steadily down into the Stephansplatz, down onto the new roof of Stephanskirche, washed over the gargoyles and spires, washed over the street.  The doors of the cathedral stood open, inviting, as she emerged from the underground station.  Emily ducked her head and hurried across the Platz, using one hand to shelter her face from the rain.

She shuffled inside, stopping in the foyer long enough to wrap a scarf around her head and shoulders.  She mumbled her Happy Christmas!es (Fröhliche Weihnacthen!) and Excuse Me!s (Entschuldige!) as she made her way to an unpopulated pew near the North Choir.  Candlelight filled the ancient space, flickered, gave life to the shadows that danced and stretched up sagging stained glass.  The voices of the Boys' Choir filled the space, reverberated off each hard (cold) detail, and echoed without amplification.

Emily knelt, waiting for the warmth (surety) of Faith and the timeless Truth of the place to fill her.  To save her.  She took up the small silver locket in her fingers... and prayed.

Schlaf in himmlischer Ruh!

*** *** ***

New Year's Day, 2002 -- Roma, Italia

Emily's fingertips toyed with the rim of her teacup, as she leaned in slightly, laughing at something the (beautiful) brown-eyed boy had said.  It was a good sound, happy and free, that welled up from the base of her ribcage and brightened her eyes.  They were people watching from a cafe on the edge of the piazza, annoying the proprietor by over-staying their espresso (his) and oolong (hers) by over an hour.  

She had pulled her chair around the table, a little, just to be nearer.  He had leaned in, as if he was going to tell her a secret.  Their eyes met and Emily's breath caught in her chest, cutting off the laughter and stilling the mirth in her eyes.

"Don't..." she said softly, cautioning, looking down and away.

"Why?" he asked, still close enough to whisper.

Emily pulled back a little, recaptured her carefree smile and almost smirking.  "If you kiss me," she said, with an odd lilt to her muddled accent, "I'll just end up leaving."

He laughed, shook his head a little, and replied.  "I don't believe you."

"It's true."

"Oh? Prove it."

Before she could pick up her teacup, or shift away, or do something else to formalize the space (safety) between them, he had kissed her.  And Emily found herself kissing back.  Because this time, maybe, she'd be around long enough to kiss him (someone) more than once.

*** *** ***

June 3, 2003 -- Somewhere in Eastern Europe

Summer.  It was a hot day, hot and humid with no signs of breaking, letting up, raining down or otherwise abating.  The sun was middlingly high, just low enough to cast shadows while still getting into everyone's eyes.  The lanky girl had stopped at the corner and was carefully studying a city map, matching strangely shaped letters to street signs.  (Lost.)  She was clearly foreign-born, presumably American.

A man stepped out of the space between two buildings, motioned to her and pointed at his wrist.  His face held a question but his words were lost on Emily, who wandered closer even as she apologized for not knowing the language.  Again he pointed, and she looked down.

He's asking after the time! she realized, and hastily tucked her map under her arm.  She held her left arm so he could read the time, moving closer to him yet.  He smelled of old oil, grime, refuse.

It was a hot summer day, in the early afternoon, on a backroad street, in the middle of nowhere, where she'd stopped to be friendly (helpful, even) and to find her feet.  But the man didn't want to see her watch, something Emily realized too late.  After his fingers wrapped around her arm, after the shadow of the building darkened their path, after the rancid smell of oil turned to a sharper note: fear.

*** *** ***

Yule, 1994 -- Manchester House

O, come, all ye faithful...

He pressed the cold stone beads into her palm, and helped her to close tiny, nimble fingers around them. The child barely opened her eyes to watch him as he knelt beside her bed. She was so tired, she could barely move her head. His fingers were impossibly cold against her skin; hers hand burned like fire, threatening to wipe away his very fingerprints.

"Pray with me, Emily," he said, in a voice that was still and expansive. Like a quiet lake. Still water, running deep. She willed her mind to focus on the peacefulness of his voice, the drone of his syllables, and soon the sounds were lost in an overwhelming sense of rest. Emily let go, and fell further into sleeping.

*** *** ***

December 14, 2009 -- Tekakwitha Woods, Illinois

Each footstep took her farther from the corner of the woods where the cold-thick water met the black-earth ground and the fallen kings kept court with the early Winter winds.  Farther from the place where the path traveled by her rowan-haired Other kissed the path that Emily traveled.  Where they met, consulted briefly, then diverted once more.

The ground was brown-black, dark with the dampness of melted snow, and the tiny star she wore around her neck bounced against her sternum with every step, calling out: Home, Home, Home.

The woods around her were heavy with possibilities and Emily's head was filled with the Song of Everything (Truth).  It rang in her unhearing ears, calling up all manner of memories (Hope).  The girl with a name like a trap had given her back something long forgotten, something left in a city far away.

The trail opened, dumping back into its trailhead by the parking lot where she'd left her car and Emily stepped out of the woods and back into the world.  With her eyes wide open.

*** *** ***

June 6, 2003 -- Somewhere in Eastern Europe

There was a dripping pipe in the back of the cellar, and Emily focused on that steady sound like a lifeline.  As if the plink, plink, plink could push away the feeling of his stale breath curling against her skin, the sandpaper stubble against her cheek, the fire and ache of every. fucking. breath she took.

He was yelling again, and if she hadn't already earned two broken ribs Emily would have been yelling back.  Yelling because she was tired of crying, and crying got her nowhere.  Yelling, because she wasn't strong enough to push him away and there was nothing left to throw.

His face was so close that she could see that the dirt that had collected in the crevices of his wrinkles was darker, thicker than the general coating of dirt that covered him from head to toe.  A second skin, inconsistently thick.  She could smell the vinegar from his lunch, feel him tense in anger.

She lost track of the dripping sound when his hand closed around her neck (again), clamping tightly as she scratched at his hands, pressing her into the wall (again) as she clawed at his ugly face to let her go.  Her throat burned like wildfire, and she could taste nothing but her own (stale) dry mouth as her vision tunneled.  Faded.  Went altogether dark.

She was grateful, in those last moments, that she didn't speak a word of his native tongue.

*** *** ***

Yule, 1998 -- Holyrood Abbey, Edinburgh

The stone was rough beneath her fingertips, worn by too many centuries of exposure to the elements, but the column still stood.  It rose toward the heavens, towering over her.  Emily tipped her head back and looked up, up, up to where the broken top met the grey sky, where the light moss covering the north side broke from view and there was only the firmament above.  Her gaze swept the arches that stretched toward the long-fallen roof and the whorls above a low garden gate with equal curiousity.  Awe.

This end of the Mile was quiet, in the middle of the shortest day of the year.  Her breath formed tiny clouds that rose, shattered into wisps and dissipated quickly.  Emily breathed in Winter, and breathed out Wonder.

Cedric stood a little behind her, his feet planted firmly in the gravel of the Abbey floor.  The Song of Creation rang in his ears as he watched the rapt wonder on the child's face.  He had hopes for her, hopes and also prayers.  

After a long silence, she asked, "Is this what God hears when He closes His eyes?"

*** *** ***

Christmas Eve, 2009 -- O'Hare International Airport

With one hand holding fast to the strap of her messenger bag, Emily beat out a steady (impatient) tattoo against her leg with her passport.  She tipped her head from side to side, trying to release the tension in her shoulders.  Of all the minor annoyances in international travel, Emily loathed queuing the most.

In each new line she found herself mulling over the recent additions to her vocabulary, oddly capitalized words, strange turns of phrase.  The large man in front of her stopped to dig his passport out of his carryon (For the love of... [Be nice. It's Christmas!]) and Emily felt her blood pressure rise.  It was good that she was getting away for awhile, going back to things that seemed more familiar.

When she reached the podium, Emily absent-mindedly handed the attendant her ticket and passport, open to the proper page.  It was the wrong color, with the wrong watermarks, so the kind-eyed gentleman turned it over in his hands and took rather too long to read her name off the pages.

"Thank you, Ms. Littleton," he said, handing the maroon booklet back to her.  "Enjoy your flight."

Not long thereafter, Emily settled into her seat.  Tucked in her earplugs.  Leaned her head against the window and tried to fall asleep.

*** *** ***

Yule, 1994 -- Manchester House

An elder woman, with wide argent swaths to her salt-and-pepper hair, stood at the end of the bed, long delicate fingers wrapped around a small, silver ovoid that called out Home, Home, Home in the same voice as the very floorboards of the old house. She watched the sleeping child with worried eyes, grey like overhead clouds, troubled.

"Let her rest, Eleanor," he said, with the same quiet-calm voice. The rosary was tucked into one pocket, now, but the restful calm had not abated. The room thrummed with a protective warmth. "This is not Emily's time."

He led her from the room, pulling the doubled doors shut behind them. Outside the snow had just begun to fall.

*** *** ***

Christmas, 2009 -- Thirty thousand feet

You are the place my mind runs to today
Wherever it wanders, it finds you

She had been staring at the envelope for half an hour--intermittently pondering how strange it was that she could have translated that timespan into miles if she'd only known their average ground speed.  Twice, she'd tucked a finger under the flap and started to loosen the seal.  Twice, she'd thought the better of it and tucked the envelope back into the seat-back pocket.

The woman beside her was sleeping, now, and Emily was grateful for the privacy.  They were zooming over some nameless stretch of land or sea at an unknowable time of night.  Emily was neither here (Chicago) nor there (Taipei).  It seemed fitting, now, to open the card Jarod had given her.  Safe.

Emily drew a careful breath, told herself that reading this wouldn't change a damned thing, and opened the note.  In the neither-here-nor-there of thirty thousand feet she wouldn't have to explain to anyone who it was from, how she knew him, what their relationship (what relationship?) to one another was.

...this isn't for you
I told myself, it wasn't for you.

What she couldn't quite admit to herself, not just yet (possibly [probably] never), was the flicker of anticipation (hope) at the corner of her mind as she looked over what he'd written.