Courage by Jacinta Meredith
Dying embers in the western sky cast a glow over the young woman seated on an old wooden porch, squinting at a slim volume in her hand.
They heard her singing her last song,
The Lady of Shallot.
She flipped on a dim lamp before picking up a pile of unopened mail and thumbing through it. Electricity bills. Phone bills. Another bill from the funeral home. A sharp pain pierced her heart as unwelcome memories invaded. Her father, wasting away in his bed before the cancer finished its deadly job, preferring his cabin and only daughter to a hospital ward full of impatient nurses. The night he died, he’d held her tightly.
“I love you, my girl,” he’d whispered, stroking her cheek with his withered hand. “Our merciful God will look after you. Life will get better.” He’d squeezed her hand. “Marry that soldier boy of yours and be happy.” By morning he was gone.
Swallowing, she shook away the memory, setting the bill aside, and picked up a letter. She frowned as she looked at the unfamiliar return address. Opening it, she pulled out a small piece of dirty paper.
You don’t know me, but I knew your fiancée. By now you’ll have received news of his death. I’m so sorry. Your fiancée was one of the best men I ever knew. I enlisted in the army early to escape home, and he took me under his wing. It was through him that I learned there were still good men in the world. He was the first man I met who spoke encouragement instead of criticism, of a God who gave grace and mercy. And of you. He always talked about you. He looked at me right before he died, telling me, ‘I don’t regret it. I’ll die to protect my country and my love. Tell her I’ll always love her.’ So, this is me, telling you. He loved you to the end. I’m only glad I was able to do one last thing for him.
Your servant,
R—”
She drew in a sharp breath, staring down at the letter. Then she crumpled it into a ball. As if she needed to be reminded of what she’d lost. She jerked up and marched over to the fireplace, tossing it in and reaching to the mantle for a match. Instead, her hand fell on the telegram. Still sitting there with its stark words, where she’d dropped it the day of her father’s funeral. Her chest tightened so much, that she thought it might break. How she wished that she, like the Lady of Shallot, could lie in a boat and die peacefully, with no more reminders.
Her shoulders slumped and she released the telegram, weary eyes traversing the empty cabin, with its memory-infested rooms. She saw her father rocking next to the fire. The love of her life kissing her in the kitchen. She smelled fresh bread coming out of the oven and heard the three of them sitting around the table, offering thanks for their bounty. The veil she’d been embroidering still hung on its stand in the corner. The cold in the cabin steeped into her soul as she realized this was all that remained. A cabin of unfulfilled hope.
She shuddered and went to the door, still half-open, looking out. The soft shadows from the moon fell onto the deceptively gentle-looking river. The water moved ever so softly. Ever so temptingly.
The broad stream bore her far away,
The Lady of Shalott.
Lifting her chin, she drew a breath and walked out of the house without a backwards glance, moving down the path until she stood at the end of the dock, staring into the water. She knelt. Leaned over. Let her hand run through the soft, cold moisture and feel the compelling strength of the current. Numbness. Despair. Above all, weariness. She stood again, moving to the very edge of the dock and—
Wait. Her hand clung to the post. Into her mind flew the last lines of Tennyson’s poem.
God in His mercy lend her grace,
The Lady of Shallot.
She froze. Mercy. Her father had mentioned mercy. Her fiancée’s friend had mentioned mercy. And now Tennyson. Mercy. What mercy? God had no mercy. Not for her. There was a moment of struggle as she bid her stubborn hand to release the dock post.
"I am here..." The words seemed to be whispered in the breeze and something in her crumpled.
“No! No, you aren’t! You’ve taken everything from me!” She shook her free fist at the heavens, her voice ringing loud through the night, breaking the spell that lingered over the waters. She stumbled back. Her breath came in gasps as starlight ripped through the darkness. She fell to her knees. “Oh, God. Oh, God.” It was all she could offer as she sobbed.
The moon’s light shifted over the lake, falling on the figure of the weeping girl as she let herself feel the full extent of her pain. As the first strokes of light appeared on the eastern horizon, her sobs quieted and her head rose. A bird swooped down from the sky, skimmed the water, and went back into the air.
With a kernel of hope, she gathered her courage and stood to walk back up the path, the sun’s rays slowly rising to light her way.
Jacinta Meredith is a full-time writer living in the suburbs of Washington, D.C. She loves writing stories that show readers how to find hope in difficult circumstances and spends her free time devouring as many books as possible. She can be found on Twitter, Instagram, or Facebook through the username @forestidylls or at www.jacintameredith.com.