“As I exclaimed ‘Jane! Jane! Jane!’ a voice- I cannot tell whence the voice came, but I know whose voice it was- replied, ‘I am coming: wait for me;’ and a moment after, went whispering on the wind the words- ‘Where are you?’ “I’ll tell you, if I can, the idea, the picture these words opened to my mind: yet it is difficult to express what I want to express. Ferndean is buried, as you see, in a heavy wood, where sound falls dull, and dies unreverberating. ‘Where are you?’ seemed spoken amongst mountains; for I heard a hill-sent echo repeat the words. Cooler and fresher at the moment the gale seemed to visit my brow: I could have deemed that in some wild, lone scene, I and Jane were meeting. In spirit, I believe we must have met. You no doubt were, at that hour, in unconscious sleep, Jane: perhaps your soul wandered from its cell to comfort mine; for those were your accents- as certain as I live- they were yours!” Reader, it was on Monday night- near midnight- that I too had received the mysterious summons: those were the very words by which I replied to it.
(Mr. Rochester and Jane Eyre)”
― Charlotte Brontë,
Over the distance, pushed into my ear by the keening wind it came. The call.
No matter the windows latched and curtained. No matter the years between.
Undeniable and elemental, like the lightning flash. The call.
The warmth of the hearth forgotten, out into the storm. The scent of the loam. Wet on my feet.
Arms extended, the moon-shot clouds light the cedar-scented hills as I run.
Soul-shaking thunder sings to my bones. The call.
How shall I answer? The question unneeded. The breath of the earth fills my chest.
I curl contented in the arms of my love. Soon shall I answer. The call.