Bitter Silence

“Au revoir et merci, Charles,” shouted Sofie as she sent off her elderly neighbor who lived a good mile downhill. He resided near the base of the icy road that led up the treacherous incline to her rugged stone house. A house that oozed secrecy as it sat perched at the highest point and rested in the dense fog of northern Scotland. But it was her home for 6 months of every year as she wrapped herself inside a wintry isolation that most would find unnerving.

As Sofie stepped back in, she saw her breath form a cloud that seemed to suspend itself in midair. She clutched herself with both arms and quickly shut the wooden door behind her.

She hurried into the kitchen and saw her mountain of bags piled once again on top of the old table resting in the middle of the kitchen. Her luggage had disrupted months of settled dust and she waved her arm through the air to clear a passage to get to her belongings.

She began the arduous process of unpacking. She didn’t seem to mind as it helped ease her mind. She always felt a sense of healing and renewal as she spent time in that somber, yet stately place.

Just as she put the last of her sweaters neatly on the shelf just inside the small closet of the bedroom, she heard the whistle of the teapot alerting her that the water was ready. She smiled and walked into the dimly lit kitchen and poured herself a cup of tea with the teabags she had left from last year.

“I am going to speak English now that I am back in Scotland,” Sofie whispered to herself as she stepped into the rigid expectations, she set for herself. She had just turned 61 years old and had established an eccentric routine of teaching Philosophy at Paris-Sorbonne University in France for half the year and then retreating to Scotland for the remainder of the year. This was her 26th arrival at the stone house.

Sofie was married to Paul Perrin, and they shared a home in Fontainebleau, a small town near Paris. They have been married for 30 years and were content together, but she needed her deeply reclusive space, so she and Paul bought the house in Scotland, and she traveled by herself to reflect and to write.

There was something peculiarly different about Sofie. Her IQ rivaled any notable genius. She had social skills but found human interaction to drain her as if she had suffered a grand mal seizure. In her early years, this part of her nature bothered her, but as she got older, she learned to embrace it and make use of it.

Sofie sat down with her hot cup of tea, sweetened with just a half teaspoon of sugar and the rich cream she brought with her. She held the cup with both hands as she looked out the ice glazed window next to her rocking chair. Sparkly crystals framed the window, but she could see down the hill at the two or three houses scattered in the distance.

Smoke from Charles Thomson’s chimney billowed in the air as if he were saying hello. He was a lovely man, getting up in age, but always helped Sofie when she needed to get into town for groceries or run an errand. It was good for Charles as well as he would stop in the bakery and chat with the locals while she did her shopping.

A few miles over lived Oliver Baines, a highly regarded journalist who found success writing articles about extraordinarily dark crimes. He had a way of gathering information through his investigative skills and delivering a report that didn’t leave a lot to the reader's imagination.

He had met Sofie a few times in town a few years ago, but last year he was curious enough about her situation that he purposefully made himself a nuisance by engaging in conversation with her at the market. To most, it would have been viewed as normal, but for Sofie, it was grueling. She even found herself abruptly ending the conversation by insincerely inviting him to stop by sometime as she told him she had to go. To Sofie’s shock, he agreed and found himself sitting in her living room two hours later.

Now Sofie was not a pushover, but she had invited him, even if it was a failed attempt at dropping a hint to get lost. So, there she was, sipping hot tea and sharing cursory details of her life that she preferred to keep private.

Oliver took a special interest in her poetry.

“I come here to write and keep to myself. It is therapeutic for me,” she shared with a forced smile.

“I think it is brilliant that you are a writer. You know that I write? I am a journalist for The Telegraph,” he stated.

“Oh, that is lovely,” she responded as she already understood his niche and his accolades.

“May I look at some of your writings, Mrs. Perrin. I would be so honored,” he said.

She was quite taken aback but deep inside she felt a small sense of appreciation that he wanted to read her words. They were more than words to Sofie, they were her most intimate thoughts and deepest imaginations all breathing life into a piece of paper.

She kept her poetry in stacks of hardback journals, her name engraved on each one. She tended to use them as house décor on the rustic shelves built into the stone walls. She reached for one and pulled it out and started to flip through it. She read her words and felt humbled that somehow, she created these masterpieces. They were to her, anyway.

She found one of her writings to share with Oliver. She opened that page and handed it to him.

Endless roots

Whispering through the darkness

Conscious of existence

But seeing not

They anchor deep into earth

And break through wispy grass

They hold the most grand

And steady the unrestrained

The winds whip hard

The rain bleeds out

The electricity jolts with spectacular heat

And the ice clenches with fervour

Its branches forsake

Reacting to fleeting moods

Thrashing their wiry tongues

Rebuking its very existence

Unaware that the Master

Has joined them to an anchor

Is holding them close

And giving them life.

SAPerrin

Oliver looked up at Sofie with her unkempt hair tossed in a loose bun on the back of her head, and her slender frame propping up the overgrown clothing she wore. He was intrigued by her mind and the mysterious energy she radiated as she allowed her surroundings to speak for her.

“Thank you. This is incredible,” said Oliver as he searched for words to string together to consolidate every extreme spectrum of this woman. There was nothing about Sophie that landed in the middle of any gamut. She understood that and was quite content with it.

Oliver left.

Weeks later, Charles gave her a call to give her a ride into the village to do her monthly shopping as they always did on the first Thursday of the month.

She didn’t answer.

Charles rang again in another 20 minutes, but only to the sound of annoying clanging bells on the other end.

“Well, I bet she is just in the middle of her doodling, I’ll just head on,” he said as he bundled himself inside his dark brown trench coat, put on his wool Herringbone cap, and went into town. Charles had a thick Scottish accent and could be quite difficult to understand, but he had learned to speak slower when interacting with the foreign folks. It wasn’t really the accent that left others tilting their head, it was the rapid-fire delivery coupled with the rich dialect that seemed to trigger a dazed look.

‘Hidee-Ho!” Waved Charles as he spotted Ella Spencer bagging up her fresh carrots and potatoes at the vegetable market.

“Good day, Charles!” she responded

“Alone today I see? I am accustomed to your visit to town with Ms. Perrin. Is she well?” she inquired.

“Ah dinnae ken. For the life of me, I couldn’t reach her. Best she is up to her napper in some literature, I suppose,” he said as he looked down at the ground and shook his head.

“Ah well, having a nice roast, are ye?” he said as he changed the subject.

“Lovely roast. And a nice hot custard,” she responded.

They said their goodbyes and Charles made it back to his home after collecting his favorite Scotch, Glayva and some pastries. He poured himself a small drink and peeked out his window toward Sofia’s house up the hill.

The landscape was a deep bluish-grey as it hovered its bitter cold hues over the area. Her house appeared stoic and almost lifeless as he struggled to see if there were any lights on in her house. He saw no movements or flickers of light, which was unusual considering that the darkness had seemed to have its way over the sun that day.

Just then he caught a glimpse of her chimney. He couldn’t see smoke rising into the air.

“Oh, that’s odd,” he said with a hint of trepidation.

“I’ll just give her a ring,” he said as he calmed his mind.

No answer.

Charles became concerned and decided to drive up the icy, narrow two-lane road to check on his friend. He grabbed his sheep-skin gloves, threw on his hat and coat and walked out to his compact size car and started the journey.

Like many roads in the UK, this one was no different. It was wide enough for a vehicle with almost no useful shoulder on either side. It slithered up the hill as if it were a serpent leaving its undeniable trail behind it. Millions of shiny icicles adorned the wooden fence that accompanied the delicate twists along the way. To some, it was a picture of beauty - the imagery that artists attempt to capture in the acrylic expression of their forlorn imaginations.

As Charles approaches the opening of the road leading on to Sofie’s property, he spots what appears to be an owl with its feathers wildly shooting up toward the sky.

“Oh dear,” he mumbles as he realizes he has passed a dead barn owl immediately upon entering the small clearing just outside her house.

Charles leaves the engine running in his car as he gingerly steps out and approaches Sofie’s front door. He reaches to open the knob and realizes that the door is already slightly ajar. He pokes one finger hidden inside the warmth of his glove and gently pushes the door open.

“Sofie?” he yelled.

Silence.

“Sofie, it’s Charles. Are you alright?” he repeated with a firmer expression.

Silence continued to penetrate the bitter cold air as it wrapped its dread around his heart.

“Oh, dear heavens,” he shouted as he looked down and observed what appeared to be blood in the pattern of a small shoe print.

Charles clutched his chest and backed away from the house and returned to his car as quickly as his 78-year-old body would allow. He hurried back down the hazy road and scurried into his house to call the police.

Fifteen minutes later he could hear the faint shrill of sirens that became increasingly louder as they approached. He watched as a team of emergency vehicles roared past his house and up the road towards Sofie’s.

He covered his mouth as he watched the first responders begin to investigate the mysterious and disturbing scenarios that he stumbled on in his friend's dwelling.

“Dear God!” he whimpered as his heart began to sort out the prospects of what he was observing.

Just then, there was a loud knock at his door. He gasped as the pounding disrupted the stillness that draped over him like a wool blanket.

Charles shuffled to the door only to welcome two police officers, both greeting him with a solemn expression on their faces.

“Come in, chaps,” he said as he opened the door to the Scotland Police Service.

“Good day, sir. I am officer Gilchrist and this is officer Kendrick of the Ardmair police service.

“We are sorry to have to report that we have located the deceased body of a female just along the fence of the road leading to the stone house about a mile up the hill.” Confirmed officer Gilchrist.

Charles felt his face go white as the blood seemed to evaporate from his body. He reached his arms out as if he were trying to balance himself as the two officers rushed to his side.

“Please sit down, sir,” said officer Kendrick as he helped Charles over to the cushioned recliner positioned near his sitting room window.

As they helped the elderly gentleman ease into his chair, Charles looked up at them with a look of horror on his face. He could not speak.

“We understand that you called 999? Is that correct, sir?” they inquired.

“Yes. Yes, I did call. I hadn’t been able to reach her for a while and so I drove up there to check on her and I –” Charles inhaled deeply as he mentally revisited his findings.

“Can you give us her name and a description, sir? We need to understand if the female is possibly your acquaintance,” stated one of the officers.

“Ahh, yes. Ahh,” he stuttered as he tried to formulate a sentence.

“Perrin. Ahhh, Sofie Perrin. She is a shorter lass, thinly built. Her hair is always pulled back, you know in a heap behind her head. Quiet woman. Keeps to herself. She told me years ago that she taught Religion. No….literature? at Sorbonne,” he said as he tried to retrieve details provided decades ago in the vortex of turmoil swirling in his mind.

“When was the last time you saw Ms. Perrin?” asked officer Gilchrist.

“Well, I don’t know,” replied Charles.

“I always drive up to pick her up the first Thursday of every month. Sometimes more often. She likes to get her shopping done but doesn’t stop to chat. She is finnicky about people I’d say,” he said as he instantly recognized the unusual bond, he shared with her.

“I couldn’t reach her today. I just thought she might be immersed in her writing. She is a writer, you know.”

“Have you seen her at all this week, Mr. -?”

“Sorry, Thomson. Charles Thomson,” he replied.

“No, I haven’t,” he shared as he sharpened his focus on a tiny white shred of paper that was wedged between the thick slats of his hardwood floor.

“Dear God, I hope it isn’t her,” he lamented as he pulled his eyes away.

“Do you know if she had any family? Has anyone visited her recently that you are aware of Mr. Thomson?”

“Oh! Her poor husband! Yes, she is married, and her husband is in Paris. I have met him a few times, maybe in 1983 when they bought the place. It has been years. He doesn’t come with her when she stays here. I never asked any questions. It is not my business and Sofie would never be inclined to share her personal life,” said Charles.

Just as they were about to ask another question, Charles was distracted by movement outside his window. He propped his upper body up a little higher to peek through the wintry glass.

“Oh heavens, they are putting that dreaded yellow tape up the road a ways,” he said.

“Yes, sadly it was a grisly sight. Looks like an old barn owl got caught in the crosshairs as well,” reported officer Gilchrist.

“Oh dear, she was outside?” asked Charles for clarification.

“Yes sir, she was discovered in an embankment of snow near the wood fence. It appears she was shot but we will have the body examined for actual cause of death,” he reported in a stoic voice, as if he was a thousand miles away from any emotion.

“The owl was most certainly shot,” he added as he recalled the lower portion of the bird being completely absent from its body.

“Well, sir. Thank you for your time. Here are a few cards. We would appreciate it if you would give us a ring if anything else comes to mind. We will collect your proper information before we leave, ok?”

“Yes, of course.”

The officers leave and head back to the deadly scene just yards from his modest stone house.

He sits back in his recliner and puts his weathered hands to his face and begins to weep.

As officer Gilchrist and officer Kendrick arrive at the crime scene, they approach the lead detective.

“The old chap… knocked off his bum by i’tall,” reported one of the officers as he flashed a beam of light on Sofie’s lifeless body that littered the white snow with streaks of blood leading from the dead owl.

“What the hell did the bird do?” asked officer Kendrick as he verbalized his confusion. He placed his hands on his hips as he attempted to sort out how the bits of evidence may or may not connect to the lethal event leaving Sofie exposed in the harsh elements.

“I have a feeling she has been out here for days. Her body is solid ice,” said detective Leishman.

“Old man says she has a husband. In Paris. He reports that he doesn’t come with her when she spends months here every year. Hasn’t seen the lad in decades he said,” as officer Gilchrist relayed more information.

“Murray is going through personal items in the house to locate next of kin. We will be sending someone over to the husband once we verify the data.”

“Detective Grant! Did you collect the bird feathers, that cigarette butt, and the notebook paper?” yelled detective Leishman.

“Yes sir,” he responded.

“I want you to collect the barn owl too. We will run forensics on it. I’m sure it will be a bloody waste of time, but I want it done.”

“Yes sir.”

As night fell into the wee hours of the morning, the law enforcement team completed their collection efforts and had the coroner pick up Sofie’s body. The trail of black cars and vans that slowly drove back down the road resembled a dark and dreary funeral procession as it passed Charles’s house. The two officers gazed over and saw Charles’s broken silhouette staring back at them. Just a dim light that burned softly in the old stone house as Charles whispered goodbye to his friend for the last time.

Time moved along and no solid leads emerged for the homicide unit handling Sofie’s case. The home was so barren and remote that almost no one ever drove near the area, let alone visit. Poor Charles continued to putter along and thrive in his simple existence.

All the locals would gather at the fish market, or the bakery and whisper hushed accusations, but really, they didn’t know anything. It was unnerving to consider that there was a murderer in their midst. All the townsfolk would peek out of the corner of their eyes every time they passed anyone. It didn’t matter who it was.

Two years later, life tried to mend itself and people began to move on with a little more confidence as the harrowing nightmare of Sofie Perrin faded in their minds. But they didn’t forget and on occasion, one of the ladies would start a new rumor that would circulate for a while but would quickly wither into the howling sea that would always cast its hypnotic trance back upon them.

Charles woke up on a Tuesday morning, wrapped himself up in his dark green robe and reached for the newspaper that patiently waited for him to open his front door. He poured a cup of tea and sat down with his pastry and opened the paper as he did every morning for the past 56 years.

The headline took up half the front page. Charles sat in shock as he frantically opened the newspaper to read the details.

BARN OWL TIES BAINES TO LOCAL HOMICIDE

Authorities have announced the arrest of Oliver Stuart Baines in the homicide of Sofie Anne Perrin late Monday evening as he was taken into custody at the Ardmair Police Headquarters. Baines appeared disheveled as officers searched his house in the early hours of the morning while arresting him upon discharge from Northwest Highlands Medical Centre. Baines was charged with first degree murder.

Oliver Baines is known for his brimming collection of investigative articles dating back a quarter of a century. Officers report that they responded to a 999 call at Baines’s residence over the weekend to assist with a medical emergency. According to public records, Baines was transported to the hospital on Saturday. It is unclear at this time what he was evaluated and treated for.

Detective Barry Leishman stated in a press release issued earlier today, that upon arrival at Baine’s house at approximately 9:16 a.m. on Saturday, the response team initiated standard evaluation procedures. The driver of the ambulance that responded to the incident, was former police officer Daniel Gilchrist, who left the force to pursue his emergency technician certification shortly after he worked the Perrin scene on 24 January 2009.

According to the press release, Gilchrist observed a collection of feathers that appeared to “decorate” Baine’s bookshelf. Gilchrist didn’t suspect the feathers to have a sinister association; however, they caught his attention, which is when he spotted several journals with Sofie Anne Perrin engraved on them.

Baines is also suspected in stealing multiple writings authored by Perrin. He is being held at the Northwest Highlands Detention Center and is awaiting preliminary hearing scheduled for 4 April 2011.

Charles felt a wave of emotion flood through him as his eyes filled with tears.

“Damn you!” he yelled as he felt the fiery surge of vengeance course through his frail body.

Months passed as the hands of justice seemed to take its sweet time, but finally it was judgment day for Oliver Baines. The entire community of Ardmair arrived at the courthouse on the day the conviction was handed down. For a painfully private recluse, Sofie Perrin gained a village of friends as they showed up to hear the judge declare her killer GUILTY.

In the weeks following the conviction, the town of Ardmair erected a statue of a tree in City Centre and had a special poem engraved on the stone that lifted the tree high into the air.

She is a mountain

Who knows not

How her beauty touches

The weary traveler.

She is an eagle

Who knows not

How she inspires the dreamer

Rushing through blinding skies.

She is the wind

Who knows not

How her subtlety stirs the dust of man

And how her whisper warms the cold heart.

She is the tree

Who knows not

That shapes this land

For all eternity

SAPerrin