But still the clever north wind was not satisfied. It spoke to Vianne of towns yet to be visited, friends in need yet to be discovered, battles yet to be fought…
Chocolat
All is quiet at 3am as we wait for the storm. The hum of the central heating. The sigh as the dog shifts in his sleep. There is little to batten down in sleepy Hertfordshire. The wind beats at the windows, trying to get in, and rumbles through the trees with an aching moan. A flag flaps in the distance with a crack like gunshots. There is the soft, pitter-patter of rain on the conservatory roof. The moon is hidden, as the sky is broods behind the clouds. By lunchtime, the fence panels will have come down and be skittering drunkenly across the garden.
It takes me this way, sometimes. A bone-deep sadness I cannot shake, and which keeps me awake at night. The kind of sadness that comes after the trains of anger and anxiety have rattled through the station, leaving you hollow. It leaves you nothing but a restless emptiness, wandering through dark rooms in the wee hours and listening to the rain. Someone once said that my great gift was my joie de vivre; it seems like a long time ago. I simply cannot stir up that curiosity, the magic and wonder anymore.
It’s time to go, you see. The winds have changed. The road is calling. I dream of running barefoot on rain lashed highways. Forgetting my own name. Feeling the sun warmed earth on my naked skin. Living for the joy of it. Following my heart without fear. I am tired of being afraid. Tired of the kind of cold, damp terror that sits in the pit of my stomach and turns even home into a dangerous place.
The road is calling. This time, perhaps I won’t come back.
When the wind picks up, it does not moan but it bellows. It tears down fence panels. Rips up trees. It sends plant pots into a manic waltz across the lawn. I stand outside with bare arms and feet to feel alive, to listen. The wind is full of voices. A thousand stories, one from every place it has grazed the land. And it always tells the truth.
The wind is the persuasive whisper that plucks at your legs, urging, “run, run”. It is vengeful, angry for you. It teases you with scents of other places, visions of warm sands, pine scented mountains. It is the sweetness of change, the scourge of healing, and the siren song of a new adventure.
