A collection of thoughts, poems, short stories & ramblings of a somewhat happy, sometimes whimsical, relatively quiet girl with mildly amusing anxiety.
The shadow moved to and fro amongst the garden's splendour. The few leaves left on the larch trees were a golden yellow, ready to fall for the winter. Wisps of cloud swept across the sky, momentarily hiding the moon from view. There was a cold chill in the air, not unusual for the time of year; however, on this night, the wind held a certain dread, hidden, and left unknown. Occasionally, Heathcliff could hear the sound of doors and windows slamming in the distance; an uncommon thing for the Grange at such a late hour. The sound of trotting hooves thundered from Thrush Cross Grange, heading in his direction. Heathcliff rushed to intercept the rider. It was a young looking man who ordinarily delivered messages to and from The Grange. Heathcliff recognised the man and the man him. Slowing his steed, Theodore greeted Heathcliff. "Evening, Mr Heathcliff. Please excuse me, I am to deliver an urgent message to Gimmerton immediately."
"What news do you carry?" Heathcliff enquired, slipping a silver coin into Theodore's palm.
Theodore hesitated a moment before replying, a shimmer of moisture welling in his eyes. "It is Mrs Linton, sir... she's died this night." His voice was sullen with grief.
Heathcliff stammered back a pace, the air catching in his lungs; he stared wide eyed at the rider. "Mr Heathcliff?" Theodore interjected, "Are you alright?"
Anger possessed Heathcliff as he growled at him, "Be on your way! Go! Be gone with you!" He motioned his hands in a gesture of rage beckoning for him to leave. When the man once again hesitated as to what to do, Heathcliff struck the back of the horse, sending it on a frenzied spree towards the town.
Anger still gripped Heathcliff; then a chortled laugh escaped his lips, seeming extremely out of context. A wave of emotions encompassed him as he stumbled backward. His chest contorted, his head reeled and an unearthly sorrow swept through his very being. Tears began to flow freely from his eyes, his breathing coming in gasps. He stumbled from tree to tree, unable to keep his balance. He took no notice of the night creatures carrying on with their own business, owls hooting and swooping to clasp an overconfident mouse, squirrels adding the last of their stock for the winter. The eeriness of the night was nothing compared with Heathcliff's realisation of Catherine's death.
He came upon an old ash tree that he had passed on his way to visit Catherine. He held himself upward on it, wrapping one arm around the cold, hard truck. "It could not be true?" he thought allowed. "How could it be true if I am still here? She is my love, my soul, my life. How can she die and I still remain?" He seemed to fight with the very thought of Catherine being dead. Yet he knew in his heart that it must be true. Catherine had been sick, all knew it, and she did poorly to conceal it. The birth would have taken what little strength she had left. Heathcliff howled a great cry towards the heavens. "How selfish Cathy! To leave this hell for something better! No! Not better! Worse! You have condemned me! Murdered me, Catherine! You were my life, my only good in this world. Now I am nothing. I have nothing! I am hollow!"
Heathcliff's sorrow increased and a great wailing released from his lips. He pulled his arm free of the Ash's trunk, and with his hand trunk the hard surface of the tree. His breathing quickened as he continued, over and over again, striking with such a force that his knuckles began to drip precious rubies. A great pain exploded from his hands and shoulders. But it was naught, compared to the pain felt in his heart. A major blow had been struck to it, no, not to his heart, his soul... his very being.
Heathcliff ceased his ravings and thumped his back against the Ash's broad trunk, allowing the dew shaken from the leaves to settle upon his stirring head. He leant his head on the hard bark, feeling the cold creep over him. There he stayed for a time, unmoving and silent. He closed his eyes and thought of nothing and blocked out every sound of the world around him, his senses going numb.
The hours crawled by unnoticed; the sounds of life came back into the world, birds chirping and sleepy land animals awakening. An orange glow rose above the moors in the distance, blanketing the starry sky with a new blue, mixed with yellow and grey. Warmth was slowly restoring to The Grange as Heathcliff opened his eyes. His face was as a twisted mask, unnatural and unfriendly. His eyes gleamed a fiery red, the only hint of the tears now dry on his cheeks. He watched as the sun sluggishly climbed the horizon.
"I will not rest until they all pay for taking you from me. Revenge will be mine and I will reap the sweet punishment when death has taken me. When Catherine has taken me." He whispered. The rustling of bushes sounded close by and he knew who it was that approached. A pair of ousels passed and re-passed him, busy building their nest. As Nelly neared, they flew off. Heathcliff raised his eyes to her and spoke, "She's dead!"
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