“It is not weakness,” said the woman, “to desire life, and to respect it enough....” Tears gathered in the pale, aged eyes that had lost their hard luster. “I fear I have done you a grievous ill. Forgive me!” And she hid her face, ashamed.
And for all the pain this woman had caused her, all the mother’s love withheld for so many years, Mary found herself unable to return the injury, now that the chance had come. She went to the old woman slowly, took down the trembling hands, and kissed her on the forehead.
“You are what your life has made you. Of course I forgive you. And I’ll make your promise, if you’ll make me one in return.” Her mother nodded helplessly. “Will you promise to rest, and be gentle with yourself, until I can send a doctor back to check on you?”
... “Yes.”
“All right, then. Let me help you to bed, then I’ll build up the fire one last time.” Her mother was unable to reply. And having done what she said, Mary left her with those words.
Margaret MacCain died three hours later, as a black curtain descended slowly across the field of her vision. A single tear escaped her. She said a silent prayer for her daughter.
And then she, too, was gone.
Mary walked on through the bitter night, the faltering torch she held like a fretted candle in the depths of the dark. The rain had stopped, and the ground frozen solid. Each footstep clumped painfully against the hard, unyielding earth. Her mind was so numbed with pain and loss that she found she could not even think. Time seemed to stop dead in its tracks just to mock her.
She continued.
Passing without fear the Standing Stone, she regarded it now in blank wonder, that she could ever have thought it more than a broken and projecting bone of the lifeless earth. It fell behind her plodding footsteps, an impotent slab of nothingness.