Sweet Thunder
“You’ll suffer the flames of hell for your wickedness,“ he told her. Every day he reminded her of her dreadful sin. “ God will cast you down into the fiery furnace. On the wicked he will rain coals of fire and brimstone.”
With her husband’s words echoing in her mind, Clara Wakeford mounted the narrow stairs to the little room under the eaves. She had done all in her power to make amends, tried so hard to be a good wife, but nothing made any difference. He was determined to punish her, even now, after all these years. Sometimes she thought she detected a touch of madness in his composition, but at other moments she wondered about her own sanity; when the voices whispered, telling her what she must do.
She hesitated with her hand on the thumb-latch of the plain wooden door. Why was she so frightened to go inside? It would have to be cleaned before the girl arrived and there wasn’t so much to do. Jonas had cleared the room of its belongings years ago; burnt them in a pile behind the barn. She had watched the bonfire’s blue smoke rise like a dirty cloud into the sky.
But he couldn’t burn the memories. No, he could never take those precious memories away. She took a deep breath and before she could change her mind, pushed open the door.
It was empty now, save for the narrow bed with its horsehair mattress and a wooden chair, but as she stood in the open doorway she saw the room as it had once been. She didn’t smell the stale air or see where the rain had soaked through the roof to leave cloud-like stains on the sagging slope of the ceiling. She saw the books, a picture of the Queen, a coat hanging on the opposite wall and muslin curtains at the tiny casement window. How well she remembered their fluttering in the soft night air.
“Clara, Clara, my own sweet love….” His voice came to her then, echoing down the years. Tilting her head back she closed her eyes and listened to the honey-sweet crooning, felt his fingers in her hair.
Outside, the boy called the cows as he took them out to the field. ‘Come on, Flossy, there’s a good girl…Git on, Beauty, git, git…’ The sound of his voice jerked her cruelly back from her reverie.
Gone. Everything gone. Clara Wakeford covered her face with her hands and wept.
* * *
