Wanderer in the Storm

The biting autumn wind is a harbinger of rain.

Anyone and anything who has existed in this world for more than a few years knows very well that as soon as the wind picks up and angry clouds begin to cover up the azure abyss of the sky, it’s time to seek shelter.

But The Wanderer seemed not to know this unspoken rule.

The strange man had stopped in Pitney, the small, somber town I spent the formative years of my life, a few days prior to the storm, arriving weak and weary at my father’s inn and claiming to be the sole survivor of a carriage robbery some ten kilometers away. He had no money, and his only belongings were the clothes on his back. He appeared to be of a higher standing than most of the people in our little town based on his expensive cloak and the rings adorning his muddied fingers, leading everyone to assume he was some type of noble. However, his tired and quiet demeanor prompted the townsfolk to avoid directly questioning him further.

Instead, rumors spread that he was a disgraced viscount who was on the run from the law, or more outrageously–that he was the grandson of a pirate who was looking for his grandfather’s hidden treasure, and would resort to murder if that meant he would find it.

At first, I thought he was simply a noble who was down on his luck and who really was just the survivor of a brutal attack. But I am of the belief that if a person hears a rumor repeated one too many times, he too begins to believe it, regardless of how outlandish it may be–and I was no exception. I was but a young boy in 1835, and I didn’t understand that rumors are just that–rumors, not the law or a God-given commandment I had to obey.

There wasn’t anything inherently wrong with him, other than a limp in his left leg that he apparently claimed was a result of the attack. However, I was a young boy at the time and my imagination ran wild, fueled by the unpleasant rumors I heard every time the stranger was brought up in conversation, so his lame leg became the main subject of my distaste.

At first it put me on edge, but later it annoyed me. I hated hearing the uneven rhythm of his footsteps on the floorboards above me when I was tending to the front desk, or hearing the same uneven crunching on gravel on the rare occasion that he went outside.

The first time we interacted was on one such instance, when I saw him admiring the intricate arrangement of colorful handmade candies and chocolate in the confectionery's storefront window.

We made eye contact and a smile began to form on his lips. It wasn’t a malicious smile at all. It was warm and comforting like you’d expect from a family member, and it somehow matched the tired look in his eyes. Yet his demeanor frightened me. I got scared and ran the other way, not wanting to risk walking past him to get into the store. After that, the stranger didn’t acknowledge my presence or even look my way, even when I brought his meals up to his room.

I didn’t mind being ignored, but I still begged my father to make one of my older brothers do it instead, or for him to do it himself, but he always insisted that I do it without telling me why. Every time I entered his room, he was either sitting by his window, silent and unmoving as he watched the milky clouds shift and swirl, or sketching something on the paper he asked for on his first night here.

I tried to see what it was he was drawing a couple times, but it was hard to see without coming suspiciously close. Whenever he left his room his sketches were nowhere to be found, so no matter what I tried I couldn’t find out what he was drawing.

That is, until his last day at the inn.

The weather that entire day was what you would describe as “still,” but not in the way you’d expect nature to be. It was a turbulent, uncomfortable stillness that everyone felt within every fiber of their being.

“It might storm tonight,” my father told me as he handed me the mysterious stranger’s meal. “Be sure to warn our guest. He told me he is thinking of leaving today.”

When I brought him his dinner of chicken soup and boiled potatoes, he was sketching again. Paper covered his desk completely, leaving me with no place to put it. I stood in his doorway for a few moments, considering turning around and leaving, but instead he gestured for me to enter, still not looking up from his drawings.

“You can set it down there.” He pointed at the chair by the window, and I obliged. His voice was soft and velvety, and of a higher pitch than one would expect. I had heard the butcher’s wife describe it as ‘off putting,’ but I couldn't disagree less. Regardless, I kept my guard up.

“My father told me to warn you that there’s a storm coming.” I awkwardly set the food down on the chair and glanced around the room. There weren’t any indicators of suspicious pirate activity or danger in sight.

“Thank you for the warning, but I am aware.” He paused to look up at me with a warm smile. “The birds have left.”

I stood silently in place, unsure what to say, but my expression likely gave away my confusion as he decided to elaborate further.

“There’s a bird nest by the window. When I arrived, the birds were still there. But this morning, they left. Must be a big storm…” He trailed off, looking through me and out the window, admiring the ominous dark clouds in the distance.

I still said not a word. Seconds felt like minutes as I stood by the window, unsure if I should–or rather, could–leave.

Unsure if I wanted to.

Suddenly, I realized the opportunity laid out before me. Feeling more nervous than I should’ve been, I stepped towards the man and took a shaky breath. “May I see what you’re drawing?”

“I thought you’d never ask,” The Wanderer replied with a smile. He shifted to the side, making room for me to come up to the cramped desk.

On the paper were drawings of birds, plants, buildings, and people. The sketches he had tossed aside seemed to be disproportional and haphazardly stenciled, compared to the few perfect drawings directly in front of him.

“You’re very talented,” I whispered in awe, afraid that if I had raised my voice by just a few decibels more the bird he was working on would become frightened and fly away.

“That’s very kind of you to say,” he said. “Thank you.”

We were both silent for a few moments. I was studying his drawings as he studied my face, almost as if he was trying to deduce how I felt about his art. My eyes kept falling on a specific drawing of a bird. I think it was supposed to be a canary or a sparrow. It was one of the more detailed drawings he threw aside, and I quickly saw why: the left foot was smaller than the other. It was only noticeable if your gaze lingered on the bottom half of the page, or if you’re an ornithologist. And yet I was still drawn to it. Perhaps due to the way it was the way it was posed, or the life and anxious curiosity that the man somehow managed to replicate in its beady eyes.

“Take it.” His voice startled me. I was so focused on the drawing that I hadn’t realized my fingers had curled around the sharp edges of the page. “I was going to throw it away anyway.”

“Are… are you sure?”

A nod, “I wasn’t going to take any of these with me. You can take all of them if you so wish.”

I looked at the drawing again, and hesitantly folded it into a smaller rectangle, before tucking it into one of my pockets. “Thank you, sir . . .” I looked up at him, suddenly remembering that he hadn’t told me his name. “Might I inquire about your name?”

“I’d rather not say.”

“How come?” My heart was racing. I was sure that I was the first and only one in this entire town to have found out so much about the man directly from him. Instead of answering my question, he just dismissively waved his hand.

“What does it matter? I’m leaving soon anyway. Speaking of which, my food is getting cold and I must fuel up before my departure.” He got out of his desk chair, turning towards the tray of quickly cooling food.

“Oh. Oh! I’m so sorry! Enjoy your dinner sir.”

He said nothing more to me as I quickly left his room, gently shutting the door behind me. But, as I was leaving, I thought I heard a gentle chuckle behind me. The man was muttering something to himself.

After that, I never saw him again. Father told me that he left a few hours later, right as the cold, icy rain that the world was impatiently waiting for began to hit the ground

Much like the autumn storm that welcomed his departure, he came as suddenly as he had left, leaving behind no evidence of his stay.

Within half a year, everyone forgot about The Wanderer. He didn’t leave behind any clues to his identity, and he never signed his drawings either, so no one ever found out who he was. He faded into obscurity, and as of today, I haven’t heard anyone talk about him in almost four years.

The only proof that he ever came through our little town was an old, dilapidated carriage a hunting party found a few weeks after his departure, and a creased drawing of a little bird with uneven legs hidden behind the baseboard in my room.

I still don’t know if he was an outlaw or just an unlucky man. Frankly, I doubt I ever will.

But regardless, I secretly hope that someday we’ll meet again. When we do, we’ll go to the confectionery together and if he smiles at me I won’t run away. Then we’ll go to the pub and talk about whatever comes to mind, and I’ll no longer have to imagine how he would answer the philosophical questions that keep me up at night–because I know he’d have the answers, and more.

Most importantly, I can show him my notebooks full of sketches of people and buildings, some intricate and detailed and others hastily scribbled on. But my best drawings would be those of beady eyed birds with uneven legs.