Winter Serenade to the Sea

Winter Serenades to the Sea
Two figures wandered through the forest, along a trail well worn beneath the undisturbed morning snow. They left a trail of shadows behind them, ankle deep and in two sizes. The larger prints had a wide and even gait between them, paying exact attention to the curve and bow of the path and followed it reverently, like an usher guiding an old tradition to its home. The smaller pair twisted and slalomed along the path, leaving the trail and returning, prancing an excited and unguided path that would inspire newborn fowls in a few month’s time.

Acres and acres of forest followed the curve of the frigid coast, and he and she aimed to follow it, as they had for years. They had grown with the town, coming to the forest in the spring as children to play and grant their parents some reprieve. Now, with the hustle and bustle of the ever-expanding town souring the once quiet soundscape they had both grown to enjoy, they had taken to coming to the forest in the autumn and winter months, when the season’s dutiful chill had hushed the forest of its summer routines. It was as quiet as it had been before.

The quiet of winter is always disturbed by the gentle snoring sound of the winter breeze, a powerful subconscious state of sound that magnifies delicate, measured sounds into harsh exclamations spread across the empty soundscape with great haste. A step in the virgin snow sounded a distant relative to the hair-raising cacophony of a stone being hurled through a pane of glass, dulled only by the addition of another in its wake. A voice surged through the silence, carrying a warm, optimistic singing cadence through the air, sometimes carrying the song off key for a few notes in good fun. She bounced from the path to the rocks next to them as she sang, like a child in her manner and movement.

He watched her sing and buzz around him like a bee, out of season. It made him smile, as it had for years. He never felt like joining in, and she didn’t mind. They both knew that she loved to sing, no matter how it sounded, and he loved to listen, no matter how it sounded. It made the walk pleasant, and that was good enough. Old folk songs, songs that had been with the town for years, a few popular songs from a year or two ago. Hymns, drinking songs she heard from the miners in the tavern, small tunes she heard working at the post office. After they passed the third stream, she fell silent as she weaved back and forth across the path, keeping the distance between them short and intimate.

Silence filled the void left by her singing and brought the winter’s chill along with it. A few minutes passed before he asked her if she was going to sing another song. She turned to him and her face softened into a smile, walking backward with measured exaggeration. A bird sings for all until its songs are sung, she said with a shrug. He smiled, rolling the wisdom in his mind like a fine wine.

They continued walking. The sun found the smallest holes in the clouds and faints rays would cast glowing patterns along the ground between the mourning limbs of the trees. Why was this time different? He felt drawn to sing as she did: without care for tone and tempo, to sing however felt fun and right. There was one song in particular. The boss had bought a radio for the company, finding one of the few technicians who worked with the new devices to find a way to play it on speakers for the entire workhouse to enjoy. It was wonderful hearing so many new songs coming from foreign lands. One song seemed very popular, a song of love by a man with a rich velvet voice. When it came on he felt a deep connection to it, for reasons he had yet to understand and he found himself joining the other workers in singing,  but only to himself. He watched her, still wandering between trail and trailside and took in a deep breath.

Somewhere...

His own voice startled him, a baritone voice coming in just as off-key and unpracticed as he had expected.

...beyond the sea…

She perked up, like a jackrabbit come springtime, before turning to stare at him with eyes full of wonder. How he wished he had the voice of the man on the radio, just for her.

Somewhere waiting for me...

Her face twisted into a wide smile, barely containing whatever torrent of glee and pride was held down as he continued singing. When he finished, she asked him where he learned the song. He told her about the radio and she nodded. They arrived at the small cliff that overlooked the grand river and stopped to soak in the view, thick forests and the sharp weave in the river a 10 minute walk from where they stood, if they could scale the near vertical climb downriver. The sound of the breeze and the flow of the winter river brought them peace and memories, as it had for years.

He felt her hand take his as she leaned into his shoulder. He could feel the gentle grip of her weathered hands through her glove, playing the finely-tuned string that traveled from his hand to his heart, and he squeezed in response. His voice was wonderful, she doted. He scoffed, his voice was terrible and nothing like the man on the radio. She laughed, true she said. It was off-key, far removed from rhythm, and that didn’t matter. She turned her head and smiled wide, and he sang it special for her despite all of it. She turned back to the river, pausing for gravity as she said that the last part was what made it more special than anything the man on the radio could sing.

His stoic face broke with a bashful, embarrassed smile. Her heart sang a chorus in her chest as his words stumbled over each other trying to modestly deny her statement. The sun seemed to shine brighter, the breeze seemed to warm, and the river’s melody sounded sweeter. For the first time.