Can anyone begin to fathom the reluctance with which I proceeded to care for this man? His clothes were so threadbare, they fell away from his body when I attempted to remove them with as much gentleness and respect as I could. I had no wish to invade his privacy with my hands or my eyes. I kept him covered with the bedsheet throughout the process of bathing him, only uncovering whatever area needed to be washed at a time. I fought the howling voice of betrayal that screamed in the back of my head, that I should see a man naked who was not my husband. I apologized internally to Zahne throughout, yet for his sake, I remained quiet and calm and composed, as much as I could, until the task was done.
I had no clothes to offer him but those already in my keeping. Conrob’s clothes. They were sitting, unused, and would never be worn again. This poor man had need, and I had the means to meet his need, and so I did. My heart crumbled within me as I helped his frail arms into the sleeves, his feet through the trousers. There are no words to express just how surreal and bewildering it was, to see my husband’s clothing on another person. But what could I do? I swallowed these thoughts and feelings. I had no choice but to do so.
At least I can say that the days that followed were a steady climb away from the hurt, the worry, and the sorrow. The progress was slow, but Zahne never strayed from his determination to get well again. At first, words were difficult and sparse, and there was little trust in his gaze when he looked at me. I did not hover, but brought him food and water and changed his bed linens and spoke to him when he seemed amenable to company. I did not announce his presence to the rest of the village for reasons that may seem trivial to others, but were quite valid to me. I was a recent widow, and bringing a strange man into my home - into my own bed, in fact (though I slept on the floor in another room) - could be seen as anything from suspicious to scandalous. And Zahne was a proud man. His battered, weakened body did not detract from this truth. And I was determined to give him as much privacy and dignity as I possibly could.
Little by little, his strength returned, with food and rest and patience. At first, just sitting up in the bed, or trying to stand was the limit of what he could manage, only for him to collapse again in exhaustion. He never pushed me away or rebuked me, if I stayed nearby to help support his weight or lift his legs back into the bed. In hindsight now, I know that he had suffered much at the hands of another woman. And this makes the trust that he placed in me all the more sacred. He did not share a lot of his past, or his experiences. At least, not all at once. Things came out a little at a time, and the more he recovered, the more he talked. Yet there was a sense of understanding between the two of us, I think. A sense that we were two very grieved souls, for very different reasons. And as I did not pry into his past, nor did he pry into mine.
His sole drive seemed to be finding a purpose and a use for himself again. If he pitied himself and his sufferings, he did not show it. He would speak of repaying my kindness, of not wasting his renewed chance at life. Over time, the awkward way we fumbled and spoke around each other became easier and more comfortable. The days fell into patterns. He could stand and walk again, and he would venture around the cottage, and then eventually outside. One evening when I returned home from my chores, I found him splitting wood. The chunks were not even or tidy, but to see him trying so hard to be useful and helpful warmed my heart to its utter depths.
As I write this last portion of this particular tale, Zahne has departed my home at last. The last of the walls of caution and nervousness seemed to fall away during his final days here. He has learned to smile, to laugh in his quiet way, and to speak freely. He even shared a tender embrace and words of great comfort before leaving, promising that I would see him again. He found work, and is off to regain the life that was nearly stolen from him.
The house is so empty again. So quiet. The walls echo with every footstep, every rustle of the paper beneath my hands. It is a silence that is very familiar, and yet I despise it. It is the same silence that came with my husband’s passing. What use are these rooms when it is only me here?
Selfish. That’s what I am. I wish that Zahne were still ill. Still wounded. I wish he still needed me.
I wish I weren’t here alone.
There is a sense of relief, having recounted all of this. I wasn’t sure if I should speak of it or write of it at all. I’m glad that I have. This man has come to mean a great deal to me. And as painful as his absence is, I know it is a necessity. Perhaps his departure is another hint that I should go home to the Mark.
I must think on it further.
