The Winter Whuthers 04/13/2010
Wind blows hard, howling and wuthering about the edges of the manor, shaking the corners of Misselthwaite, and driving Colin out of his own comfortable bed into his cousin's room.
Mary stares curiously out of the window, despite a tad bit of discomfort gnawing at her from the ferocity of the weather. The wind off the moor has always wuthered, but never so violently until the winter months came upon it.
"Come away from there," Colin demands, yet not imperiously.
"Oh, you big baby!"
But she comes away and they climb up on her bed to look again at the pictures of the garden, both of his mother and father and of themselves with Dickon. They are so caught up in the smiles and whispers, only occassionally casting furtive glances toward the gale, that they hardly notice when Colin's father comes in, a concerned expression furrowing his brow.
"I see you are not frightened by the storm," he says, gaining the children's attention.
"Uncle Archie! Come look," Mary cries.
She shoves Colin aside to make space for her uncle and he climbs up on the bed himself, putting one arm around each of them. He looks at the pictures, but Mary looks at him.
"Is winter always like this?" she asks, a slight hitch in her voice.
Colin eyes him skeptically. "It always seems like this to me," he says.
Archibald Craven looks at the window on the wuthering and the downpour.
"Your mother," he says to Colin, "and your aunt," he squeezes Mary's shoulder, "used to think that the sound was angels crying as they remembered our sorrows. It comforted her."
Mary furrows her brow.
"What did you think it was?" Colin asks.
Mary turns sharply inquisitive eyes on her uncle.
He smiles at these two children of his. "I always hear the moor calling for spring to come."
"Like the magic?" Mary asks excitedly.
"When we called to you with Dickon?" Colin adds.
"Yes. Exactly like that."
Mary smiles broadly and Colin rests his head against his father's shoulder with a sigh.
The little boy murmurs sleepily, "Then spring will come."