Clouds of Witness

By Tom Conoboy

John felt light-headed, even whimsical, as he sat on the mountain. He swigged from his water bottle, feeling a spike as the cold hit his ulcer, then the mellowness as it smoothed out and warmed across his gut. His legs were heavy, his hands were shaking, and the dizzy spells were returning more frequently. But he looked across the valley, over miles of moor and cloud and mist, out towards home, that wretched village nestled at the foot of Ben Quaich and, unusually, John felt placid.

Felt happy.

Just felt.

"You okay?" Marjory said. She was crouching above him and he knew she was staring, looking for signs. It was the only thing which spoiled his enjoyment, the knowledge that Marjory’s imagination was crawling with troublesome thoughts. It was ironic, in a way, that now it should be she who was worrying for both of them while John was striding across the heather like a new lamb discovering the joy of walking.

"Fantastic," he replied. He breathed deeply, tried to conceal a cough. "Look at those clouds. It’s like they’re racing. Two levels of them."

"The lower level’s winning."

"Not half. It’s virtually sprinting."

"Must need a wee, then."

"Nah, it’s not a rain cloud. It’d be greyer if it was."

"Must need a drink then."

A wind gusted across the sudden silence. They tracked the cloud, followed its shadow as it fell like a thumbprint on the valley below, smudging across fields and roads and houses and woods, reducing them to indistinction.

Except, as the cloud rolled by, they slipped back into light again, seemingly more vibrant than before. John smiled, opened his hands, stared at his palms and outstretched fingers, curled as though holding a ball.

"Thank you," he said at length. His back was beginning to ache and he was aware of a blister developing on his right heel. He was aware, too, that once, before, he would have blamed Marjory for both.

"Thanks for what?"

"For carrying the rucksack."

"Figured it was my turn."

"Might be your turn for quite a while, yet."

"Did anyone say living with John McOmish would be easy?" She was still following the clouds, still trying to keep the conversation general, but she knew John was staring at her. She looked down.

"Don’t think anyone said it would be this hard, did they?" he said.

"Just as well, I’d have been off ten years ago."

He wanted to say ‘you should have done’, but he knew that was too easy, that it would have been designed to elicit a negative response, to put her on the defensive. He knew that.

He knew that.

Two months ago, he wouldn’t.

"We’d best be getting back down," she said. "Don’t want to overdo it, first time out."

"No." He buttoned his coat, stretched his back, flexed his knees. He loved the tightening of his muscles, the exertion they were being put through for the first time since his scare. But more, he loved the loosening of his mind, the way he was able to relax, to feel the light, to sense the air, judge the mood. He hadn’t done that in a very long time.

He took Marjory’s hand. Kissed her cheek. Kissed her mouth. Looked up to the sky, to the clouds, to the world passing by.