Nen and Anani by Nell Iris

Author:Nell Iris [Iris, Nell]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: JMS Books LLC
Published: 2019-02-04T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter 6

Anani pulls back as we continue with our chores. No more accidental touches as we fill baskets of food from his storage in the barn. No more talking, no more confidences as we finish shoveling and carry firewood into the cottage. The tendrils of his essence are still present inside me, still firmly coiled around my heart, but outwardly he withdraws.

His physical distance makes it difficult to breathe. I want to drop the wood I’m carrying, wind my arms around his slim waist, bury my nose in his hair, and keep him there for the rest of our lives.

But I don’t. I keep my mouth shut and my hands to myself and finish the work, but I can’t help sneaking glances at him whilst hoping he doesn’t notice.

He keeps his head high and his back straight and works hard, as though he was born into this life. As though he didn’t grow up surrounded by lavishness, never wanting for anything, never having to do any hard work. Gone is the young, sensitive man who made up stories and had his head in the clouds, the boy who followed me around everywhere and asked endless questions, and this stubborn, hard-working man has taken his place.

Soon, we go back into the warmth of the cottage and close the door behind us, thankful to be sheltered from the whirling snow. We pull off our wet clothing and hang it to dry in front of the fire.

As Anani prepares tea and I make sure both fires are blazing, the silence builds between us. It grows and grows until it consumes all air and threatens to choke me.

I can’t stand him pulling away, and I don’t understand why. What did I do or say to offend him? I furrow my brows and take a deep breath, trying to calm my agitated stomach.

We sit with our feet close to the fire and our hands clasped around steaming mugs, still not speaking. He keeps his distance and never even looks at me. The tension makes me more tightly wound than the string of a bow harp, and I tap my fingers against the mug. The usually friendly crackle of the fire sounds more like lightning strikes, and the tea tastes like muddy water.

I’m mere moments away from flying apart when he drains his cup and rises to his feet with the grace and elegance of a cat.

“Excuse me,” he says without looking at me, crosses the floor, and puts his cup by the water basin. Then he hurries upstairs, taking the ladder two rungs at the time.

I stare after him, willing him to come back down, but he doesn’t. So I put the mug on the floor and pull my knees to my chest, wrap my arms around my shins, and rest my forehead on my knees.

The snow pelts the windows, and the howling of the wind grows louder as though the storm increases in strength. The door clatters and the noise makes me jump.

I heave

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