Saturday's Child (standard:drama, 2169 words)
Author: Sare	Added: Nov 05 2001	Views/Reads: 3449/2404	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
What power do our dreams have to shape our lives? How much say do we have?

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story


As Emily lay there, she thought, ‘I can see this... as if from far
away...  the sun gleaming on the horses, the red plaid of the blanket, 
the book in Fynn’s hands and my head in his lap, eyes closed, listening 
to him read... Does he feel it? The late autumn sun on his face, the 
gentle weight of my head on his thigh, my hand on his knee, the crisp 
pages of the book he holds... Does he taste it?  The taste of the tea 
from the cup, the taste of autumn on the wind, the occasional taste of 
the gloss on my lips? Is he on this plateau with me to humour me... or 
is it as special for him?’ 

“The wind was a torrent of darkness, among the gusty trees... the moon
was a ghostly galleon, tossed upon cloudy seas...  The road was a 
ribbon of moonlight, across the purple moor... and the highwayman came 
riding, riding, riding, the highwayman came riding, up to the old 
inn-door...” he read, his voice only just loud enough to be heard. 

She wondered if he understood why she’d chosen this as one of the things
she wanted him to read... that all its significance lay in the those 
first lines... how she lay at night and dreamed of him on his boat, 
tossed about by heartless waves in an uncaring ocean.  She wondered if 
she could ever explain why she didn’t understand his love for the 
sea... 

Fynn knew that Emily wasn’t listening to him anymore.  Her eyes were
closed to the beautiful view, her breathing was deep and even.  Her 
pale face against the dark material of his jeans stirred him somehow, 
and he brought one hand down to trace the line of her cheek with his 
fingers.  Her dark hair curled against her forehead, and he brushed the 
curl away.  He wanted his view of her face unobstructed, his alone to 
look at and cherish.  She stirred slightly, her hand gripping his knee 
and then relaxing, falling away.  He reached down and took her hand, 
holding it in his own for a few minutes, staring out over the lake. 

He was still wondering why she’d wanted to come here.  A dream, she’d
told him, a dream she’d had of the two of them sitting on this blanket, 
sitting here just like this.  He knew she was upset that he was 
leaving.  ‘Only for three weeks’, he’d told her again and again.  ‘Only 
for three weeks.  Then I’ll be back to be with you.’ 

But he knew she was afraid.  It worried him.  She’d never reacted this
way before, she’d never been frightened of his leaving.  But she’d told 
him over and over that he shouldn’t go, that he should give the job to 
someone else, just this once, and stay with her.  He hadn’t, of course. 
 How could he justify that?  But her fears worried him. Perhaps that’s 
why he’d agreed to come.  But he liked it here, certainly.  He 
remembered the months and years that he’d spent alone, before he met 
her.  He’d come up here often in those days.  Just him and his horse, 
the lonely man and the lonely landscape. 

Fynn rustled in the pack with his other hand and came out with two red
apples, and he tossed them to Ophelia and Storm.  He listened to their 
enthusiastic crunching, watching them in his peripheral vision as he 
found himself drawn back to looking at the sunshine on the lake.  The 
golden colour of it as it mixed with the bright blue of the sky’s 
reflection made a colour unlike any he’d ever seen, and he tore his 
gaze away long enough to look down at Emily, to consider whether or not 
he should wake her so she could see.  But the smoothness of her face, 
the absence of the usual lines of worry and pain, the faint smile that 
tugged at her glossy lips... he couldn’t disturb her rest.  Fynn dug 
for the camera, snapped five or six shots, then set it down again The 
wind blowing up from the lake carried the faint, bittersweet scent of 
rotting leaves, and suddenly it chilled him.  He looked down at Emily 
and saw her stirring, chilled herself, and beginning to awaken. 

As her eyes slowly blinked open, Emily felt Fynn’s strong arms around
her, gathering her upwards into his arms, and she snuggled her face 
into his chest, rubbing her cheek against the rough wool of his 
sweater.  She brought her arms up around his neck and brought his face 
down to hers. 

“Fynn?” 

“Mmm?” 

“Did you ever bring anyone up here before?” 

“Yes, once.” 

“Have you ever made love up here?” 

“No.” 

“Want to?” 

“Mmm...” 

****** 

When she next awoke, the sun was dipping below the horizon.  Emily knew
that if they didn’t leave right away, they would have a difficult time 
getting down in the dark.  She shook Fynn’s shoulder to wake him, and 
he startled at the touch of her icy fingers.  He swore when he realized 
what time it was.  They gathered their things and mounted the horses.  
The way down wasn’t as steep as the way up, but still it would be very 
difficult in the dark. 

When they finally reached the bottom of the hill, it was pitch black. 
Fynn told Emily to stay close, that he would let Storm lead them home.  
“She knows the way home,” he said, his voice reassuringly calm and 
confident.  Emily tried to relax in the saddle.  It was so dark that 
she could barely make out Fynn ahead of her.  She held onto Ophelia’s 
reins and urged her to go a little faster. 

“Fynn?” she called out nervously after a few minutes of travelling in
silence, the only sound the pounding and crunching of the horses’ 
hooves. 

“Yes, Em?” 

“I’m scared.” 

“I know.”  They continued to ride in silence for a while.  Fynn slowed
Storm so that Emily and Ophelia could pull up alongside.  “We’re almost 
there, Em.  Just hang in there.”  Within ten minutes, the lights of the 
barn became visible in the distance. Both horses instinctively broke 
into a trot, then a gallop.  No longer afraid, Emily clung to the reins 
and laughed.  Once inside the barn they removed the horses’ saddles, 
bridles, and blankets.  They brushed them down and gave them fresh food 
and water. Then, holding tightly to each others’ hands, they walked up 
to the house. 

Lying on the bed, cuddled against Fynn’s bare chest, Emily looked up at
him.  “I don’t want you to leave tomorrow.” 

“I know.” 

“No, Fynn, you don’t, else you wouldn’t still be going.” 

“Emily... it’s my job.  This is what I do.  I’ve done it hundreds of
times before.  I will be back in three weeks... relax.” 

“No, Fynn.  Something’s going to happen... You don’t understand.” 

“Em, just ‘cause you dreamed something doesn’t mean it will come true.” 

“You did.  Today did.” 

“We made today happen, Em.  Us, you and me.  And we make ‘us’ happen,
too.  Nothing else, just us.  Not your dream.” 

“Maybe you don’t know it yet and you’ll make the something happen.  I
don’t know, Fynn.  But I’m telling you, you can’t go.” 

“Honey, Emily, you know that I love you... so much...  But I have to
go.” 

They continued to argue until finally Fynn jumped out of the bed. 
Grabbing a blanket from the end of the bed, he left the room without a 
word. 

Left alone, Emily sobbed into her pillow.  She wished she could make him
see, make him understand, how truly frightened she was.  She hadn’t 
meant to get angry with him. 

In the living room, Fynn tried in vain to make himself comfortable on
the couch.  He closed his eyes against the tears that threatened to 
fall.  Why couldn’t she understand that he couldn’t back down from 
something he’d said he would do?  Why couldn’t she get that it was his 
job, he needed to do it, made a living doing it?  Why couldn’t she 
figure out that her dream had been just that: a dream?  Her voice 
startled him. 

“Am I finally the typical woman, Fynn?  I react to hurt by wanting to
talk about it, and I get so immeasurably frustrated when you react to 
hurt by moving away from me.” 

“There’s nothing left to talk about, Em.” 

“You’re really going to go, Fynn?  Tell me, now, that you’re really
going to go, and I’ll stop talking about it.” 

“I’m sorry, Em.  I’m really going to go.” 

“Then come back to bed.  Your last night at home with me isn’t going to
be spent on the sofa.” 

All night she clung to him, not sleeping, trying to memorize his face,
the line of his jaw, the shape of his ear, the curve of his hip.  
Everything about him committed to memory, preserved like a photograph 
in her heart. 

When morning came they rose, showered and ate breakfast together.  When
the car arrived to pick him up, she kissed him goodbye and stood waving 
from the porch, tears streaming. 

****** "The Highwayman" was written by Alfred Noyes (1880-1958)
"Monday's Child" is, as near as I can tell, by Mother Goose, and it is 
the inspiration for this story.  See my comments in the forum for more 
info, if you are interested. 

This story, as are so many of my writings, is dedicated to my warrior,
with love and laughter.


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