Read Online The World More Full of Weeping by Robert J. Wiersema - Free Book Online

himself, at last. I could.

    Joe Phelps manned the Communications Centre in the
Search and Rescue truck. The crackling of radio signals and
distant voices were the only sounds in the still yard, just
touched with the first light of dawn.
    Jeff set the mug he was carrying on the desktop beside
Joe. “I thought you could use this.”
    Joe tugged off the headphones he was wearing.
“Thanks, Jeff,” he said, and he looked like he was about to
say something else but turned away, directing his attention
back to his switches and knobs.
    It took Jeff a moment. “It’s all right, Joe. I’m not out
here trying to get information from you or anything. I
know you’ll let us know if there’s any news.”
    The relief on Joe’s face was palpable.
    â€œI just thought you might like some coffee. It’s been a
long night.” He stepped back, took a sip from his own mug.
The sun was starting to rise and the world was grey, a mist
clinging to the lows of the field.
    Joe seemed almost chagrined. “Yeah. Thanks for . . . for
the coffee.”
    Jeff shook his head as if to dismiss it. “I was coming out
anyhow. I’m gonna . . . I’m just gonna take a walk up — ”
He couldn’t bring himself to say the words. “Just up to the
edge.”
    â€œSure.” Jeff turned away, then back as Joe added, “We’ll
let you know. As soon as we know something. We’ll find
him.”
    Jeff looked at him for a long moment, then turned away,
without speaking.
    He walked only to the grassy verge edging the west field.
He could have walked straight up the drive, past the shop
and the old barn and behind it, where the track ended at
the forest’s edge. It was the most direct route.
    But that didn’t feel right. Something drove him away
from the yard, through the field to the edge of the wood.
    Was it the picture of himself? Some memory he couldn’t
consciously grasp?
    For whatever reason, he was sure this was the path
that Brian had taken, that he was following in his son’s
footsteps.
    The way his son had been following in his.
    Like father, like son.
    As the sun crested over the mountains, the dew on the
grass shone silver, a wet, shining carpet leading inexorably
into the darkness.
    He stopped at the point where the grass met the brown
of the forest floor. Under the spread of the trees, the light
disappeared, and the night still felt almost full.
    He had to steel himself to step across the dividing line
into the forest.
    Once under the trees, it took Jeff’s eyes a moment to
adjust, vague shapes gradually shifting and congealing into
forms: stumps and bushes, a fallen log, a stand of trilliums.
The clearing was familiar.
    As was the girl who stepped soundlessly into the clearing
from the dense brush.
    â€œCarly?” he whispered, as if afraid she might take
flight.
    She smiled. “I didn’t think you’d remember.”
    â€œI didn’t,” he said.
    But now he did.
    Without warning, he remembered it all.
    The weight of the fishing rod on his shoulder, the tackle box
in his pack. The smell of the forest, fresh and green, in his nose,
his clothes, his skin. The taste of the trout he had caught with
her in the tumble-rocked mountain stream, its sweetness, and
the bracing cold of the water they had drunk. The feel of her
hand in his. The stars so bright in the sky the night they had
spent in the woods, the Northern Lights dancing above them.
    He had never seen the Northern Lights again.
    And he remembered crying, feeling something rent from
him, a tugging at his heart that left him gasping for breath.
    He remembered her asking —
    â€œI asked if you wanted to stay with me,” she said.
    Did she sound sad, even a little? Jeff thought so.
    â€œI remember.”
    â€œYou said you had to go home.”
    â€œI’m sorry.”
    She shook her head. “I understand. I understood, even
then. You wanted to stay. I could