Journey's End

The morning had been cold as the traveller made his way up the slope deep in the Hartzmountains. He had been travelling for a long time but then he knew that he had an appointment to keep and he pushed himself harder than normal. 

The rain came on like clockwork as he reached the high point of the clearing and a few gusts of wind tore at the tall pine trees that overhung the area giving it a gloomy atmosphere. The traveller shivered and pulled his coat tighter to himself.

The welcome gleam of light suddenly cut through the darkness as the man rounded a large copse of trees. Its golden beam acting like a lighthouse in the wilderness and quickening the traveller heartbeat. Almost there, he thought.

As he neared the cottage the wind was shrieking through the forest flinging rain thatstung like hail into his face. He could make out Greta’s face in the window looking out for him. Bless her, he thought, she always there for me.

By the time that the traveller was seated in front of the roaring fire the storm had reached its height. It sounded as if a wild beast was attempting to gain access to the cabin, tugging at the door and howling its indignation.

“Peter and Karl will be back soon,” said Greta, handing the man a bowl of soup with a piece of black bread as she had done unknowingly countless times before.

“It is a wild night, I hope they are alright.”

As if on cue the cabin door swung open and a large man and boy entered.

“Peter, Karl, we have a guest tonight. Come and meet him.” Greta’s worried expression was replaced by a look of relief and love.

The traveller shook hands with both father and son and asked where they had been working. The man knew the answer to his question but knew that he had to maintain the plot.

“Ach!” grunted Karl. “We were felling some trees in the high pasture when this storm swept in. Poor Peter was blown about like a rag doll and I had to hold onto him as we neared the cabin.”

The family sat at a large table while they ate their supper. The traveller had joined them at their meal and relaxed in the welcoming atmosphere.

“What is your name?” asked Karl to the traveller.

“What does it matter?” Greta interjected. “He is on a lonely journey and if we can ease some of his burden, then so be it. You are welcome, stranger.”

“You are too kind,” replied the man. “Many would have kept their doors barred.”

Greta leaned over to their son Peter and whispered something in the boy’s ear. He dutifully got up from his chair and went across to the corner of the room where a large draped object sat. Peter pulled the cover off, exposing an old piano, which had been lovingly cared for, attested to by the gleaming wood and keys Peter sat down in front of the keyboard and after placing his fingers on the keys, took a deep breath and began to play.

The traveller knew what he was about to hear but it always caught him unawares. The rich timbre and sheer beauty of the music caused him to catch his breath. The boy was a prodigy and the instrument his sounding board.

The recital continued late into the night and the man knew what would be the boy’s swan song, a piece composed by the boy himself called ‘Journey’s End’. A piece that began in a wild manner finally closing as gently as a mother’s lullaby.

Greta handed the traveller a blanket and pillow and directed him through to her son’s bedroom.

“Peter will sleep in front of the fire tonight,” she said ignoring the man’s insisting that he take the fireside place.

Early next morning the traveller woke to the soughing of a gentle wind and the dawn chorus of the birds. He rose and looked about him at the ruins of a once proud dwelling place. The walls were no higher than waist level and bits of masonry and rubble lay all about.

The man went across to the corner of the room and after clearing bits of stone and wood, pulled a large piece of cloth away exposing a smashed up piano. Its keys lay all about like broken teeth and the rich wood was scored with deep scratches and gouges. The traveller touched the piano’s broken corpse lovingly and then carefully covered it up again.

The sky was a deep blue and small puffy clouds moved slowly over it. The storm was forgotten and Nature was cleaning up her house.

The wild flowers gleamed in the early morning light and their rich perfume filled the air.

The man turned back for a final look at the ruin of the cottage and then at the three moss covered gravestones that lay in a small glade to the side.

A small deer was nibbling at the grass and a pigeon alighted on one of the stones. It was a beautiful place and a true ‘Journey’s End’ for the family and for him.

Another stone lay just to the right of the path and someone had planted weeping elm by it. Some flowers sat in a glass jar and the traveller knew that someone had replaced them just recently.

With a large lump in his throat he hummed the tune that encompassed everything about this place forever. Truly a point in the cosmos of pure beauty.

“See you next year,” he whispered and looking down at his gravestone, vanished.