17th-century Reverend Charles Morton theorized that birds migrated to the moon in the winter. At the time, this idea was relatively well received. John Wray/Ray was a British naturalist.

Such Matters

Hearing the rap on the rectory door, Mrs. Morton fitted the final dried hollyhock into the dining-table centerpiece and hurried to greet Mr. Wray, who’d travelled from Cambridge to discuss the Reverend’s treatise that swallows migrate to the moon. 

“You must be famished after such a long journey,” she said, quickly closing the door behind him to fend off the damp cold and raw wind of the Cornish winter. “I hope you intend to join us for supper.”

“Indeed,” Mr. Wray said.

He shook loose from his greatcoat and handed the garment to Mrs. Morton. She could feel freezing fog’s chill clinging to its fibers.

“Splendid.”

Having already told the cook to prepare the Reverend’s favorite dish, hashed hare with pickled cucumbers, she instructed the maid to fortify the dining-room fire with seasoned hardwood and to fetch their finest wine from the cellar to complement their usual allotment of water. 

No doubt drawn by the commotion of his friend’s arrival, her husband emerged from his study, where he’d been putting the final flourishes on that Sunday’s sermon, which expounded on the promise of natural philosophy to reveal God’s grand plan to the faithful. “Thank you for coming,” he told Mr. Wray, clasping him by both shoulders, his voice as resonant as an organ’s lowest octave. “I am in desperate need of a devil’s advocate and trust you will play the part to my utter satisfaction.”

“I shall do my damnedest,” Mr. Wray said.

The Reverend laughed at his jest.

At supper, Mrs. Morton seated the men nearest the fire to afford them the greatest comfort and stationed the maid in close proximity to attend to any needs they might have. Mr. Wray, after securing the salt cellar, complimented the symmetry of Mrs. Morton’s handiwork adorning the centerpiece. She waited for her husband to concur, but he remained absorbed in carving a bit of gristle from his hare. She finished her water and gestured to the maid with the empty glass.

“Some wine,” she said.

The Reverend stilled his knife. 

“Perhaps you should exercise restraint, to preserve your usual propriety.” 

“More water then.” 

The maid hurried to comply.

As the meal progressed, Mrs. Morton partook in polite conversation, remarking on the weather’s recent severity and her spring ambitions for the rectory rose garden, but stayed silent when the men commenced their discourse on the swallows’ winter disappearance.

“But 180,000 miles, Charles?” Mr. Wray inquired. “How could such tiny creatures traverse such vast distances?”

“Remember, air resistance dissipates at the higher altitudes,” the Reverend replied. Then, with the certitude of a man accustomed to dispensing eternal truths: “And anticipating the reward of bountiful sustenance no doubt mitigates the journey’s hardships.”

“Indeed,” Mr. Wray said. “And Mrs. Morton, how do you see it?”

Her lips parted, poised to speak, but she paused to sip her water. “Such matters exceed my domain.”

“Indeed,” Mr. Wray repeated.

The men consumed their last morsels and took their leave. Mrs. Morton watched as they retired to the study, their backs receding into the hallway’s darkness.

“Should I clear the table, ma’am?” the maid inquired. 

Mrs. Morton watched her husband close the study door behind him. “Yes, and the centerpiece as well.”

The maid collected the Reverend’s plate and reached for his wife’s. Mrs. Morton could see her work-worn hands, the torn nails and swollen knuckles. She lifted the plate to meet her grasp.

“Thank you, ma’am,” the maid said, bowing her head as she stepped back. “Should I put another log on the fire?”

“No, that will not be necessary.”

“And in the study, ma’am, for the gentlemen?”

Mrs. Morton looked again into the hallway. Light blazed beneath the study door.

“No, I believe the gentlemen are comfortable enough.”

She bid the maid good night and ascended the stairs to her bedchamber, cold and flickering in a dying fire’s embered light. She stoked the coals and felt the flush of warmth on her face, but the heat retreated and the cold returned, like a pestilence regathering its strength.

She stood at the window. A crescent moon slivered the night, faint as a candle in a crypt. Turning away, intent on seeking solace in sleep, she heard a knock at the door. 

“A log for the fire, ma’am?”

“Yes, that is just what I need. Do come in.”

Mrs. Morton returned her gaze to the window. “Are there not lands to the south?” she asked.

“I believe so, ma’am.”

“Perhaps the swallows fly there, to escape the cold.”

“Indeed, ma’am.”

Scott Ragland has an MFA in Creative Writing (fiction) from UNC Greensboro. Before taking a writing hiatus, he had several stories published, most notably in Writers’ Forum, Beloit Fiction Journal, and The Quarterly. More recently, his work has appeared in apt, The Conium Review, NANO Fiction, Ambit, The Common (online), Fiction International, Cherry Tree, CutBank (online), and Zizzle Literary, among others. He also has a flash forthcoming in the minnesota review. 

A Song for Scott