The Widow Walks

Word Count: 872          

The Widow Walks



                High above the rocky coast, perched precariously on the edge of a cliff, the house had stood, silent and stoic, for over two hundred years.  It had been built by a whaling captain, as a wedding gift for his bride.  They wed and after an all too brief honeymoon, he sailed away. She made the house a home as she prepared for the birth of their child. Her son was born and began walking.  He had never seen his father.  Every two years or so, the captain would would return long enough to meet his children and impregnate his patient wife before he sailed away again. 

         He was very good at finding whales, and became richer and richer as the years progressed.  This was a good thing, as his family had grown to a prodigious size.  He had produced six sons before he and his good wife were blessed with twin girls.  And as soon as the boys were old enough, he would take them away with him.  First as cabin boys, and gradually moving their way up the ranks of his crew. 

         Verity, for that was his long-suffering wife’s name, dutifully saw them off at the beginning of each voyage, eventually joined by Faith and Hope.  Time passed.  The girls started school.  The maple trees, planted when the house was new, grew and gave up their sweet sap.  And Verity’s hair began to gray.

         But neither the captain or his ship returned.  Two years stretched to three, then four, and nothing.  But luckily, Verity had Faith and Hope.  The three waited patiently.

                They tended their garden spring, to summer through to fall.  And spent the winter stitching intricate needlework.  Piece by piece, each girl’s trousseau grew—just as they themselves did.

         Six years turned to eight, then nine and Verity began to assume the worst.  Each time she saw the white sails of a ship glide into the harbor, she and the twins would scurry down to the wharf in search of news.  But there was none.

         Eventually, the girls married and moved away, leaving their mother alone in the house as high as an eagle' aerie.  For poor Verity, without Faith and Hope, grew morose and refused to leave her home.  And it fell on her girls to bring her whatever she needed.  But what she wanted was her family—or at least some news of her husband and her sons.

         Alas.  Even though whalers came and went, nothing was ever heard of her men.  And as she became more dispirited, more despondent, she began to sit in the highest bedroom, with a candle, looking out over the endless ocean.

         One day the Hope’s daughter came with food for her grandmother, and found her in her rocking chair.  She looked as if she was in a fitful sleep.  But like the gutted candle on the table beside her, her life had gone out.

         They buried her below one of the maple trees that ringed the house.  And went back their own families, their own responsibilities.  But no one wanted the house.  The children hated it.  It was cold even in summer.  The harsh winter wind whistled eerily and none of them would live there.

         The woods invaded the once groomed lawns and gardens.  The once yellow house faded to a dingy gray.  And each year another shingle or two slid silently from the roof. 

         Time passed.  Whale oil wasn’t needed any more.  The day of the whaling ships was over.  The town and its harbor fell more and more in disrepair—just as Verity’s house looming over it had done.

         There were times of war and times of peace, just as there were times of famine and times of plenty.  The town would grow for a time, and then would recede again.  And still no one would go to the house.

         Children were told stories about the old woman that had lived there.  But they would go, knowing they shouldn’t, and touch the door, or throw a stone at one of the few remaining windows.  And in turn, they would tell their children the stories meant to keep them away, and sometimes of their own childish pranks. 

         After many, many years the white sails of a ship appeared on the horizon.  The whaler was old news in the town—already swelled with movie technicians and actors.  But another soul noticed—a lonely, long-suffering soul—a soul long dead. 

         After scores of years, Verity had found her hope and faith again. She dutifully took up her post at the top of the house.  And still there was no husband, no sons and no news of what had happened to them. 

But her long slumber had allowed her to dream, and she had a plan.  It had been wrong for her to retreat into her pain and sorrow.  She should have never allowed her body to die—allow her to be separated from her house.

She would never leave her house again.  She would watch with unseeing eyes.  Soon the townies began to whisper of how in a dark house, a lonely light burned.  The newcomers thought this was just the locals’ attempt at native color.  But the townspeople knew the truth.  Perhaps, because they knew where to look, they could see.

         For now, each night the glow of a single candle shone from the tiny room, at the top of the house, overlooking the cliff—set apart from the world.

         And there, Verity still waits.