Short Story: The Man That Couldn't Cry

Short Story: The Man That Couldn't Cry

Seated on the northern foreshore, fishing, contemplating the movement of wind over water and putting things to rights in his mind. He had placed a distance between himself and the woman, not that he didn’t care for her; he simply wanted space to be alone. Would she understand? He doubted that she would. She never saw sense in time or space, demanding closeness, wanting the certainty of presence and the known. What could any of us know when it was possible to be assailed with doubt at any moment? He was not a religious man but searching the wide open skies he felt able to believe in God. Not the lies, or the dogma of organised religion, or the tantric obedience of praying to plaster idols or living by laws thousands of years long in the tooth. A tug on the line brought him back to the present as he caught a glimpse of silver rise in the water before it sank out of sight. A good sized fish had taken the bait, dragging on the line in an effort to escape as he fought to draw back the darting creature before allowing the line to slacken and then reel in the fish. His view on death coloured by the need to remain alive, and with the light slowly fading on the far off horizon was grateful for this catch. Rain threatened, and as he settled back on his stool contemplated the heavy cloud rolling in. In the far distance a tall peak shone with ice and snow, caught by a stray beam of light escaping the dull canopy, reminding him of four years previously when his best friend Will had died of exposure on the lower slopes after becoming lost. The search had taken two days before he was discovered folded up foetal like and huddled into sleep. All the way down the mountain it was uncertain if his friend remained alive or dead, and it was only after the paramedics convinced him there was no point piling on another blanket he understood. At the time he was unable to cry; in fact he hadn’t cried from that day to this. It was why he sought the silence and serenity this kind of country was able to provide, and why he wrapped himself into his sleeping bag inside the tent when the sun went down, watching the fire dwindle as he allowed his mind to wander unrestrained. He never knew where his thoughts would lead him as sometimes faces were revealed from a long ago past, often family members dead and gone. He greeted them warmly, remembering better times, and never tried to hold onto them if they preferred to fade and die. To his mind it was a form of spiritual re-encountering after which he slept soundly and was able to spring lightly from his slumber the following morning. Philosophy was never a subject that troubled him unduly except he held to a particular belief he knew others might find contentious, that people we have known during past existences follow us into the present and are our constant companions, to take on roles as friend or foe, and one thing he felt to be true was that ancient enemies come against us constantly in a variety of guises. It was why some people can be sensitive to others in a strange way that induces a feeling of deja vu or a sense of having met before in a spiritual realm. It’s why also we may be drawn to some and repelled by others. His view was entirely his own but he felt entirely comfortable with whatever implications it held for the relationships he formed. At times he had considered moving out of the city but knew she wouldn’t leave. She was city bred; city savvy with all her instincts centred on a life lived within the perimeters of a large conurbation. The nail bar was her personal sanctuary, and wine bars and lounges the domain in which to meet women friends who rose tall on heels that made them totter skittishly. He wasn’t opposed to what they represented, considering them an alternative breed. Their antics made him smile, and he felt an affinity with a way of life that complimented his own. Although her vision of the future lay at odds with his own, he sometimes wondered what kept them together - if it wasn’t solely the disparity of their existence. She assured him she loved him and he told her he loved her too, but many times wondered if words alone would be strong enough to hold them when the chips were down. Neither suggested the age old ritual of marriage and that was mainly because they both fought against convention and trivia with more vigour than they sometimes stood up for one another. He was still trying to discover a message in this, wondering if she was out to ambush when least expected. He consoled himself it was a form of paranoia that sprang from watching too many movies; real life was far more complex. He baited the hook and cast out his line; the day was fresh and bright with promise. What could be wrong with living the simple life? His thoughts went back to pioneers carving a passage into the wilderness, and the many that may not have survived to tell their tale. Whatever it cost he knew he could ill afford to give up this way of life. Two days of paradise remained before the long drive home, and while he was away there was no desk, no third floor three room apartment, no bills or debts to be paid, no appointments at the clinic, no need for speech or for explanation, and anything that was owed – was owed solely to himself. This was true freedom – the way a man was meant to live. He breathed a sigh. God, he had found the perfect means to escape the constraints of time. He settled onto his stool to watch the skies; watched the wind moving over water and felt content. Nothing could touch him; nothing stood in the way.