The Kind Visitor
Her kindness had teeth, and she was the last to feel them.
When the river took Hesper's husband, the whole village came with bread. Marit came with a shawl she had knit herself.
"Wool from my own ewes," she said, laying it over Hesper's knees. "Warm as a hearth. My Tolan never feels the cold on the water, not even at dawn, I make his shirts so thick."
Hesper's hands went still on the cloth.
"Oh," said Marit. "Oh, I beg your pardon."
She said it kindly, and then she kept going, because the silence was worse. She spoke of her sons, who came home every evening smelling of fish and smoke. She spoke of the new boat, how sound it was, how the keel had been tarred twice. She spoke of the ferryman, who was a wonder, who had never lost a single passenger. Each time she stopped and begged pardon, and each time her pardon arrived one sentence after the harm.
She was not cruel. She loved what she was describing. That was the trouble. She held every dear thing out in both hands, and every dear thing was something the river had not taken from her.
Hesper sat very straight. Her face had gone pale, though not from weakness.
"Marit," she said at last. "Walk down to the bank with me. Then I will tell you what the water is to me, and you will understand why I cannot bear the sound of a boat."
Marit nodded, and her eyes were wet. She understood now, she was sure of it.
They walked down together. Hesper told her all of it, from the first morning to the last.
On the way home Marit decided she would make amends. The next week she came again, her arms full, with a basket of fresh river trout.
"Caught this morning," she said, smiling. "Still cold from the current."
Hesper looked at the basket for a long while.