The Heart of a Cloud

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By the time I discovered the manor at Shrouded Bluff, it had been empty for over a hundred years, but the house had not forgotten people.

I had rented a room in the village below, and the landlady, with a load of other unnecessary chatter, told me about all the best walking trails. When I asked about the bluff, she waved off the question. No one ever walked up there anymore. With all that mist, the stone steps were slippery and dangerous. Yes, there was a trail at the top, but there was no view at all, just a damp walk through the heart of a cloud.

It was the first place I went. I think I had some vague notion that if I went into the heart of a cloud it might make sense of the cloud in my heart.

The landlady was not wrong about the condition of the steps. Not only were they slick with condensation but years of neglect had left them broken and slanted. There was danger with every step. Oddly, this comforted me, to be so focused on the placement of my feet that I could not think about the misplacement of my affections. As I climbed, the cloud reached out and enveloped me, and when I reached the level top, I could see nothing but disembodied limbs of trees emerging from white walls ahead.

I followed the path.

It ran fairly straight, still rising slightly, cutting through the fog with its rough, pebbly persistence. After a while, a stone wall rose up along one side. I attempted to peer over it, and though I could see nothing through the thick mist, I had the impression of a great depth.

The path ad I continued until a dark shape loomed through the fog ahead. The thrill I felt could have been fear or excitement. I had long since lost the ability to distinguish my emotions. In any case, I did not slack my pace as I approached the mysterious monument.

With a jarring suddenness, I stepped out of the mist and into a space of open air. The wall suddenly swept away, curving around a wide lawn. In the center of that lawn was the manor house. It was imposing, two stories, countless windows, well-formed gables, a wide porch, every last bit built of stone. The pebble path led straight to the front door, and I followed willingly.

I never gave a thought to trespassing. The house was clearly abandoned, glass missing from many windows, stone pillars crumbling in places, tufts of grass growing on the roof. The porch steps were firm under my feet, though, and the front door, though not latched in any way, swung open without a creak. Inside, the house was spacious and elegant and heart-breakingly empty. Immaculate crown molding lined the ceilings, each door frame was carved into a work of art, the walls were covered in delicate papers, as lovely as they were faded. The wooden floors, though dusty, were still smooth and unbroken chandeliers dangled from the ceiling.

But there was nothing inside: no furniture, no pictures on the walls, not so much as a forgotten toy or stray comb. No wild animals had made their home here. No birds had taken shelter from the cold and damp. Only I wandered from room to room and the wind that swept in through the windows only to leave again as quickly as it had come.

I wandered from room to room, and tears ran down my face that such a masterpiece of beauty and strength should contain so much emptiness.

The house was glad to have me there. I felt that clearly. I felt how it yearned toward me, how it enfolded me in welcoming arms. It was cold, but it wanted to be warm. It was neglected, but it wanted to be cared for. It was desolate, but it wanted to be filled.

The house remembered people, and its memories were filled with longing.

I don’t recall making any decision. When I had visited every room of the house, I went back outside. I stood for a long time on that neatly encircled lawn. I followed the pebble path back to the slippery stairs. I descended with great caution and emerged from the cloud with little droplets clinging to my hair. I returned to my rented rooms.

The next day I bought a lantern before climbing the bluff.

The day after that, I bought a rug.

The day after that, I bought three small cushions, a music box, and a tea kettle.

This went on for many days. No one every questioned my strange purchases. No one ever asked me where I went each day. Over dinner at night, the landlady chatted of this and that, of village gossip and news of the world beyond, but she never made the slightest reference the Shrouded Bluff over our heads. It was as if I and the cloud made no impression on those around us.

Then one day, I packed my things. I payed my landlady. I climbed the stairs, more carefully than ever before.

The heart of the cloud was quiet and still. It was damp and gray. But it was no longer empty.

As you can see, the manor is a place of warmth and light, a place of music and elegance. The house and I have kept each other company all this time as we waited. We knew you would come one day, climbing through the fog with cautious steps, following the pebble path until your feet stood on our front porch and your hand knocked on our front door.

Please, come in.

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2 Responses to The Heart of a Cloud

  1. This is positively beautiful!! I love it. ❤ It has such an atmosphere to it. Thanks so much for sharing! I'm so glad I found your blog… I read The Book of Sight last month and loved it and am reading the sequel. 🙂 Keep writing beautifully!

  2. debdunlevy says:

    Thank you so much! You don’t know how much it means to me!

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