Three Heart Echo

Chapter Three - Iona

He stares back at me, those narrowed green eyes stripping away every shred of truth. A blocky jaw covered in a thick and overgrown beard flexes. Every muscle in his body seems poised to snap me, and he could. There's no doubt about that.

I'm afraid.

Afraid of what he might do to me, this strange man who occupies an abandoned town.

But he's my only option.

"Who was it?" he asks. His voice is low, gruff. As tried and tired as the stones behind the church.

"My fiancé," I breathe. Ice crackles in my lungs as I let the words escape. Tender cracks splinter just a little wider across every surface of my insides.

Three beats become seven and eight. On ten, something lifts in his eyes, just as it falls at the same time, reflecting a broken and wild spirit.

On thirteen he pulls the door open just wide enough for my body to fit through. I don't hesitate, don't give him a second to change his mind.

I step inside, and my eyes have to take a moment to adjust to the darkness.

Dirty stained glass windows don't allow much of any light to filter into the large space. Dirt lines the walls, blown up against the pews that are semi-organized in rows, some askew, some broken. Cobwebs cling to the lanterns that hang from the walls, next to the windows.

But my eyes are instantly drawn to the majestic beast that lines the wall straight ahead.

Massive pipes and thin, tiny ones are lined up against the wall. Ornate carvings enhance their brass beauty. A keyboard and bench line up in the center of it all. I don't know much about musical instruments, but this organ is one of the most beautiful things I've ever seen.

And it's set among so much decay and ruin.

"You should know that the dead are not always happy to be brought back into our fallen and depressed world," the man says as he watches me. He stands with his thick arms folded over his massive chest.

I turn to look back at him, instinctually shying away from him, just as the lamb shies away from the wolf.

A set of heavy and thick brown boots cover his big feet. A pair of dirty and stained jeans hug his legs. A thick green Army-style jacket clings to his obviously heavily muscled body.

Distrust shades his jaded eyes. Long hair reaches past his shoulders and down a good portion of his back. It hangs unruly and uncombed in brown locks, a slightly lighter hue of brown than my own. Small sections of it are braided, seemingly at random, and are tied back, somewhat keeping it out of his face. His beard is just as wild, nearly touching his chest.

"He'll want to talk to me," I force out around the vice in my throat. "He loved me. I know he'll talk to me."

Three seconds stretch into twelve. He just stares at me.

"Not today," he finally says. "The dead have bothered me enough this day."

He raises his thumb up to his mouth and he sucks the blood away as he turns from me. His footsteps echo through the cool and damp room. Down the aisle, around the alter, making a direct line for the door to the left of the organ. I follow him, darting across the chapel.

Something crunches underneath my boot. I look down to find a tiny skeleton, it's head now only a pile of ash beneath my weight.

"What do you mean, not today?" I say, my voice not nearly loud enough for him to hear me. I hurry along, stepping through the door after him. We enter into a dark room. A wing stretches out to my left and right, a few windows giving sparse light to the dull scene. The man walks straight forward, pushing open a door, opening into the light rain.

He tromps down one step before reaching the level ground of a deck. A pergola stretches up around us and spans the space above our heads. Intense vines wind around the beams, the white and peeling paint hardly visible any longer. Brilliant green leaves and thorns are completely outshone by vibrant red buds.

Hundreds of roses climb the structure, reaching the roofline of the church, stretching out along the edge of the gutter, before racing down another length of the building.

"How..." I gape, turning in a circle, taking in every petal, overwhelmed by the scent of the roses, strong in the gentle drizzle. It's February first. I don't understand how these roses are alive. And flourishing.

The man walks over to a section of vines, the pruning sheers in his non-bleeding hand and begins clipping stems. Two, three, five.

"You said not today," I say, taking one step forward, stuffing my hands into my pockets and hugging tight to my body to combat the chill. "It was a long drive out here. Please. I need your help."

"You've trespassed into my home," he says without looking up. He leans over, clipping some of the lower blooms, and his hair swings in front of his face, blocking it from my view. "I told you not today. I speak to the dead on my own schedule. You'll have to come back at a time when I am more in the mood."

"In the mood?" I question. Anger surges in my blood and I take three steps forward. "My fiancé is dead. I've driven two hours to come find you. You can speak to the dead. And you're telling me to come back later, because you're not in the mood?"

He gathers the roses, quite the armload at this point, and suddenly stands, pushing his hair out of his face. His eyes instantly darken, like a storm about to unleash. "Yes."

He turns and takes a step off the deck, trekking through the rain-sodden grass, toward the little white gate that opens up into the graveyard.

When you experience pain, you're numb for a while. Eventually, when you wake up, you realize all these people who care about you have been doing so many things to help you, bending over backwards, just to try and ease some of the agony.

Perhaps you get used to their kindness. Perhaps you just expect strangers to feel the same sympathy when you tell them what you've been through.

This isn't the reaction I expected.

His anger. His bite.

His offhanded attitude about the love of my life being dead and gone.