A Piece of History: Foreshadowing

      Puffy cumulus clouds danced across the midmorning sun, alternating cool shadow with warm light. The spring breeze was in effect, wafting the scent of fresh cut grass, blooming flowers and car exhaust past open living room windows. The Residential District, at ten thirty in the morning, was the picture of quiet suburbia. A few children played in green front yards, too young for school, and a beautiful silver and white malamute greeted by-passers with a cheerful bark.

      The warm April sunlight seemed unnaturally cold to Jonas Foster as he shuffled along the sidewalk, his hands thrust deep in the pockets of his leather jacket. The denim jacket and long-sleeved shirt he wore beneath his outer coat did nothing to warm him, and he shivered as his boots thudded dully on the concrete. He watched the scuffed toes of his motorcycle boots move rhythmically, and found an odd comfort in staring at them. Narrowing his world to a single mundane thing had become a habit when he found himself at a loss, and his boots were the focus of his entire mind.
      Was it easier this way, to block out the memory of her face when he had walked away? Did it take away the chill which had encroached when she had spoken of forgetfulness? The warmth he’d briefly recaptured in the arms of Tamara Mayhew had vanished with the abruptness of a candle flame in high wind. All of the life he’d brushed with his fingertips, had momentarily felt once more while she had laughed and teased him was gone, perhaps beyond recall. Jonas Foster, death mage and hit for hire, couldn’t stop himself from shivering as he paced slowly down the sidewalk.
      His feet were carrying him without thought, and he didn’t bother looking at his surroundings. What did they matter? One place was as good as another to brood silently, reflect, think bitterly and mourn. Always mourning. Jonas sighed heavily, shifting his weight to kick a flat stone. What was the point of "rebounding" if you ended up in the same place you started? A step back, perhaps, for the very -idea- of forgetting, of …replacing Dia in his heart with some white-haired trollop made his marrow turn to ice.
      Yes, the warmth was utterly gone. The death mage felt as though he’d been made of flesh-coloured ice, and neither sunlight nor movement nor his layers of clothing imparted warmth of any kind.

      The breeze kicked up, and Jonas stopped stiff. His nostrils flared once, and his throat abruptly closed. He didn’t want to look up, and kept his gaze fixed determinedly on his boots for a few heartbeats. The scent came to him again, stronger now, and his heart whimpered as he looked up.

      The small cottage looked tired. The white paint was peeling, and the tan trim was dingy, chipped in several places. The yard was wildly overgrown, and it was with a pang that Jonas saw the red, pink, white and peach roses growing over the porch railings and up the trellis. No wind chimes hung from the porch roof, as they had before, and the potted plants were long gone. Grass grew between the cracks in the front walk, and the oak tree’s branches, unpruned, brushed the porch.
       The death mage felt an odd sense of comfort standing there, looking at the house. Perhaps it was the proximity with death, the knowledge that the owner of this place had passed on. While most people shied away from areas where death lingered, Jonas Foster sought them out. There was a soothing aura which seemed to fall over him as he walked towards the house, his boots thumping on the walkway. He almost smiled as he looked at the porch swing.

       "Lemonade is a nice creation, don’t you think?"

       Her eyes had sparkled when she’d said this, turning to him with her glass of the pale yellow liquid in hand. Jonas, sipping from his own, had lifted an eyebrow at her.
       "Lemonade?"
       "Yes." Dia smiled, brushing away a curl of iridescent hair. "It’s a little tart, a little sweet, very cool and extremely refreshing." She leaned back and regarded her glass fondly. "I’d like to thank whoever thought it up."
       Such simple desires made Jonas laugh, and he did so now, his seldom-voiced laughter echoing off of the porch as he looked at her with warm chocolate eyes. "You’re silly."
       Dia’s dimples showed when she smiled back. "But I made you laugh."

 
      Jonas shook his head, and blinked rapidly as his eyes burned. His throat worked as he looked away from the porch, and it took several moments before he could focus his eyes on anything. The tree’s leaves rustled as the breeze played through them, and the death mage looked at this, an emblem of life for aeons. He blinked again and squinted. A large black bird sat in the tree, the cobalt feathers shining blue and purple in the sunlight as the bird shifted on the branch. Orinthology was not his strong point, but death and all related symbols were. Jonas Foster puzzled for a moment as to why a raven sat in an oak tree in coastal Virginia. Something rang in his mind as the bird rustled its’ feathers, a phrase from a book he’d read long ago. "…the great black eagle rustled his wings and mocked man’s notions of the gods…" A smile, called forth from Jonas knew not where, tugged at his dry lips.
      "I’m not here for God," he said aloud, perhaps addressing the raven. He looked again at the house and sighed a bit. A question filtered into his mind, and he found himself picturing the mug Dia had always poured his coffee into. Had Andrew and Bertram cleaned out the house? Jonas had had no contact with them since… then. He didn’t know if there had been a funeral, a service… anything, for that matter. His brow furrowed, and he fought this sudden impulse to walk inside.
      "The rock. If the key’s there…" Jonas nearly laughed at himself, talking aloud as if to a reluctant child. Very well, follow the impulse then. He looked at the grey rock, one of many lining the front flower beds, and walked over to lift it. He remembered cautioning Dia against keeping a spare key in the open, and she’d thanked him, but said that no one had ever yet figured ou

t where it was. That was saying something indeed, considering how many people he knew had tried to enter unbidden.
      The key was there, half-interred in the earth, gleaming a dull bronze. He picked it up, wiping it off absently on his jeans as he replaced the rock. The porch steps creaked under his weight, and even as he looked back at the raven, the death mage found himself wondering when he could come by and fix those.
      "…Christ, Jonas," he muttered to himself, inserting the key in the lock (only one lock…she’d never installed that deadbolt…) and turning it. "Next thing you’ll be dusting the damn place and making coffee." Shaking his head at his own wistful thinking, Jonas opened the door, letting a rush of pine-scented air escape. Tears abruptly welled once more, and he roughly wiped his eyes on the sleeve of his jacket before stepping carefully inside.

 The raven watched the door fall shut and cawed once, a bright eye sparkling redly in the morning sun.