Wind Whispers: Virginia Whitlock's Story

Wind Whispers, Chapter 5: Ambushed

Chapter 5: Ambushed

The days and weeks and months flew by, until years had passed, and before I knew it, I was turning fifteen.

Jasper had been gone for almost three years, but it didn't seem possible that it had been that long: his memory hadn't dimmed at all in my mind, and his scent still permeated his pillow, which I sometimes curled up around, if I woke in the night in the grips of a nightmare. On the mornings after those nightmares, I would wake up and, for just a moment, as my brain was still befuddled by the sleepy fog of dreaming, I would think he was still there, next to me, like he had been on those other "morning-afters" when I was smaller. Then, in a flash, I would realize that I had been dreaming, I would realize it was just a pillow I was clinging to, and that he was gone, gone forever. And then I would have to grieve again, the pain fresh once more.

Thankfully, the nightmares didn't come very often. My whisperers seemed to be trying to keep them at bay by showing me less, or at least fewer things that might frighten me.

On the morning of my fifteenth birthday, I woke to the smells of breakfast and flowers. I lay there for a moment, eyes closed, wondering if I was dreaming, imagining those smells. Sometimes my whisperers would bring scents and sounds to my dreams, and they often lingered upon waking, still rich on my tongue or echoing in my ears.

When I did open my eyes, I saw Mama Dina sitting next to my bed, and a tray on my nightstand, from which those smells were emanating. I detected my favorite: pecan waffles. A little cut-glass vase held a spray of freesia and baby's-breath next to the covered plate. I sat up and smiled.

"Happy birthday, baby!" Mama Dina wrapped me in a fragrant embrace, pulling me tight against her solid warmth. I hugged her back; we sat like that for a long moment, not speaking. That happened often, as if we were each seeking solace in the other's solidity. Finally, she broke away from me and pulled back, swiftly wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. With the other she reached out and tugged at one of my braids.

"Eat, then get up, get dressed. You got some surprises waitin'." She stood up and smoothed her skirts, then went to the door. "Come on down to the kitchen first, all right, baby?"

I grinned eagerly: presents! Who doesn't like presents? And the smell of the waffles hit me again, awakening my stomach with a growl. I wolfed the food down then bolted out of bed, rifling through my closet until I found something presentable. I washed my face and cleaned my teeth with salt and soda, then pinned up my braids into some semblance of order, smoothing down the flyaway hairs with water so I didn't have to waste time re-braiding it. By then my hair was almost down to my backside; women rarely cut their hair in those days, taking great pride in their long plaits...although I found the weight of all that hair to be a headache, in more ways than one.

My fingers were clumsy as I pulled up my stockings and laced up my boots. I had graduated from little girls' shoes to the young women's style of lace-up, tight-fitting soft-leather boots that came up to the tops of my ankles, with stacked heels that made me a little taller, thankfully. I always hated shoes, though, preferring to be barefoot, loving the feel of the grass and the murmur of the earth under my soles.

My whisperers chattered eagerly all around me as I buttoned on my petticoats and then did up the long line of tiny pearl buttons on my dress, my mind far away. Women wore far too many clothes in those times: I nearly fainted from heat stroke during the long, sweltering Texas summers beneath all those layers. In defiance, I would steal away from the house as often as I could during the summer and go down to the creek bottom Jasper, Henry and I had played at as small children. There I would doff my petticoats and stockings and shoes and dangle my hot feet in the cool water, drowsing in the shade of the cottonwoods and willows, and listen to my whisperers tell me stories. The place always reminded me of Jasper; his presence seemed to linger there, but in a happy way. Those were good days.