View from the Tower

“My lady,” my steward, Henshaw, asked hesitantly. I gasped, pulled my mind back from the horizon, and turned toward him. He stood in my parlor, one hand tucked behind his back with his brow knit in concern. Oh, the old worrier.

Drawing a breath, I turned toward him and smiled. “Henshaw, was I needed for something?” I tilted my head, inviting him to answer.

“No, ma’am. It’s just.” Henshaw stopped, and I felt his uncertainty about how to broach my expression from the moment before he’d gained my attention. I could guess how I’d appeared.

“It’s.” I paused. “I simply visited another vista.” I turned back to the balcony and stared over this wounded landscape. The plants were little more than dust. The stone lay broken and black from the blistering heat. Only this tower remained.

“Were you visiting somewhere pleasant?” Henshaw asked.

“The waves were crashing on the shore.” I half turned to him and saw his slight smile.

“A pleasant sight, then.” He nodded with approval.

I chose not to dash the image he’d built for himself. I could see it now, too. A shoreline, wild with waves, lush and radiant. Nothing like where we found ourselves. I wouldn’t disappoint him by telling him what waves were breaking on.

I couldn’t keep from hearing the voices hollering in fury and defiance echoed in my mind. Pleasant wasn’t the word I’d apply to that image.

“Ah. Well. I’ll leave you to it.” Henshaw nodded and tapped the tray sitting on the table. “Please recall eating though.”

I smiled fondly at Henshaw. “Of course.” Nodding, he left, carrying with him the imaginings of a pleasant world.

How could I, the dreamer, disappoint him? All the dreams I saw reflected the world we lived in. I stared from my tower, searching the scorched landscape for even a hint of green.