Graveyard

by William Bowden

“We have both been born in the wrong time!” she said, as a listful wind played with the soft mane of purple and brown hair that adorned her face.

“Destiny is cruel, but then — I would have collapsed at the age of nineteen, taken from this world by a mystery illness — and we would never have had this conversation,”: This was said as he stared up at the baleful sky; replete with hordes of bats all circling and wheeling in the night air. He turned to leave: but she showed no sign of movement. Realizing that he was again prey to his eternal impatience, he deferred, and leant back on the rickety wooden fence.

Her observations and general interests of late had all focussed on the past, and for a moment an idle voice from deep within his mind had opined: She is more the romantic than you, — whilst this was a distinct possibility, for the present; it was if a single solitary tear had fallen into the ocean inside him — and like many of the others it was more a sympathetic resonance — less a sign of oneness. Still, unlike most of the outwardly attractive women who’d bounced in and out of his life — failing to raise any interest deeper than scorn — this one had something about her. Idly he wondered whether to tell her he had only a few brief days left. As usual though, silence reined, despite the fact that he grew weary of censoring every utterance. But then what use was there in putting into words that which could not be spoken, destroying a burgeoning friendship purely because it was to be short lived. Then again ... a parting gift perhaps?

“What are you thinking about?” she asked softly, in that curious and familiar way.

“That we’d better get going soon, if we’re spotted by some security guard they’ll throw us out — and we wouldn’t want that now would we?”

Silently, under the darkening sky, they made their way to the destination. He noted the Moon was full, and uttered a wordless prayer of thanks. They were crossing a large thicket — barricaded by tall and ancient trees. There was no light here, save for the wan lunar glow, and as the blanket of darkness wrapped them he began to relax a little.

She placed her hand in his as they crept toward a rusted fence, barely discernible due to the profusion of vines clinging to it’s pitted surface.

“O.K. This is it. Wait here while I check it out,” and with that he began climbing up the decaying rampart. Once on the other side, he whispered through the bars:

“Sit tight, I’ll be about five minutes,” the only response was a slight nod of the head. Turning, he began wading through a jungle of knee-high weeds which thinned out after about ten paces. Then he was in the main cemetery.

The first thing to do was a complete circuit, looking for any security types with flashlights or the like. Luckily the paths in this particular graveyard were cobbled, so it was easy to move without making a sound. The grass and moss that served as grouting for the antique cobblestones further aided a stealthy passage.

He completed his round in under two minutes. This graveyard was deserted all right, and it looked as if it had been for some decades. It was also tiny. A lost islet of decay, camouflaged from the masses by a wall of towering oaks, and nestled close to a major hospital. The name of the place was Gore Hill, but as the moonlight played across the undulating and erratic carpet of tombs, it was beautiful beyond it’s name. He allowed himself a moment, sipped the cool night air, and revelled in the subtle textures revealed to him by his peculiar brand of night vision. The leaves were glowing with that faint and pallid luminescence which few on this earth could see. Deeply scarred and ruined edifices whispered to his ears in soft waning sorrow. Beneath his boots the grass moaned, and the murmurs of the wind in the weeds comforted the dead in some strange way. Only a short time and you’ll join us, the wind seemed to be saying and: Sleep forever sleep.

The mournful cry of a nightbird: echoing across the forgotten vale, woke him from his reverie and reminded him of his charge. Returning to the fence he simply whispered:

“The dead await you my lady,” and within seconds she was beside him.

Having another beside him again brought back the old pleasure/pain combination. As a youth all nocturnal journeys had been conducted alone. This evening was almost a transgression of hidden core values — the nature of silence, of texture, of the sacredness of night. When somebody else was around his singular wordless world was continually destroyed by the onslaught of language — of questions — of interuption. And he was bringing her here! One of his old haunts — a window into his past — and she was going to want answers, pose questions.

Damn language! It’s scalpel was an irritant to which he was largely immune, but in these rare instances when he was sensitive: it was a source of pain. During the day it was no problem; he was firmly trapped in the waking word-world and accepted the resultant shift in mentality. Some of his colleagues even thought of him as a wordsmith; a purveyor of observations and phraseology. How distracting conversation was, if only they knew that most of the time he was trying to paint the sky inside his mind. That most of the verbal drivel oozing from his tongue was merely that of a single performer: an improvisor, locked on an unwelcome stage under the endless gaze of the world.

“Ooooops!” and suddenly he was halting her fall into the long weeds. “Sorry,” she whispered and flashed a beautific smile at him. He held her arm for as long as would be deemed appropriate, and they emerged into the moonlit wonder of the forgotten relic of a cemetery.

“It’s so beautiful,” she intoned: almost to herself: and at these words he had to admit she was right.

“You don’t think I’d take you to just any old graveyard would you. This place and I are old, old friends.”

“How’d you find out about it?” she asked, looking up at him expectantly. She was so gorgeous under the patina of the moon, that for a moment he was tempted to kiss her. Of course, he merely responded by saying:

“Let’s just say I’ve been around a little longer than you have,” to which she responded with a simple smile. The tombstones were beckoning, and they spent the next quarter of an hour or so wondering down the winding overgrown paths; stopping to read the weathered inscriptions and pausing pensively when the plaques were too damaged to decipher. He was thinking more about these unmarked graves than any of the others. The occupants were now lost to history, save perhaps for some forgotten parchment or plan: that may have given the status of the plot. Soon I too will join you, said the impassive herald in his head, Soon enough ; and then she was by his side, sitting down and reaching into her bag.

After what seemed an age, a bottle of wine, an opener, some cigarettes and a small bag of dope appeared. He immediately lit a cigarette and sat down beside her. As the smoke propagated through his lungs, a mist of calm serenity flooded his mind. He absent mindedly predicted her next remark:

“I don’t drink ... wine,” : the fictional utterances of a vampire long dead: Dracula. He had the good grace to smile, and as if on cue attacked the recalcitrant cork on the bottle. Once prised open, he offered the bottle saying:

“Let’s see,” and was rewarded by the erotically charged sight of her neck — as she took a long, slow sip. Give me a draught of vintage; that has been cooled an age in the deep delved earth, quoted Keats in a far recess of his mind and simultaneously: Singest of summer in full-throated ease.

It was such a moment that a lesser man would have grabbed her then and there. Instead, however he remained impassive and allowed his mind to find the least compelling reason for inaction. The compelling reasons were obvious: it was the lightest that floated to the surface. He was seeking the petty, worded reason. The reason that could be framed in the ugliness of language only. A train of thought rolled by and the conductor yelled:

“Beautiful girls have too few real friends!” and this mollified him. Yes that would do. The hidden edifice of feelings could be balanced on such a phrase as this. It would hold off a deluge, a flood. He remembered the words of one of his masters in a particularly tense situation: “Try to regain control just for a moment ... only for a moment,”. He smiled — in his wordless, timeless realm a moment was almost an eternity! Control was almost too easy now, although he occaisionally wondered if his internal dialogues were obvious when she said to him:

“What are you smiling about?”

“I’m just happy to be here, with you,” he replied; disguising his intentions in the overt nature of the remark, but with a subtle undertone that implied intimacy.

“Do you often think about how fleeting our lives are, how so many people just don’t do what they really want to — before ending up here.”

“All the time,” he replied somewhat ironically. The way she introduced these topics almost suggested an awareness of the ripples caused in the inner lake of his control. “But there are some things you can never do in life, and for all the reasons of situation, opportunity and circumstance. It is of no concern.”

This line of reasoning invariably silenced her: because it said: Your Move ... and of course nothing would happen from this point on. Sometimes he wondered about these instances. Was it the crucial part of the evening, could he negotiate the terms of any involvement, did she realize how short their time together really was? Well it was ‘of no concern’ really at this point — he’d denied a possible chance as he had on thousands of such encounters across thousands of moments: this was no different.

A glowing joint appeared in front of his face, and he wondered how long he’d been away not to notice the characteristic aroma. He took a long deep toke and controlled the languid release of the fumes to co-mingle with the night air. Soon enough they were both stoned and laughing. Under the influence of the marijuanna the trees were practically glowing. Feeling a strong impulse to move, he initiated a game of chasings through the graves. This culminated with him falling on top of her into the soft grass atop, presumably, a coffin. He smiled down at her, and she lay unmoving. The instant seemed to stretch for an aeon and he could feel the enticing contact between their groins. Still he resisted the urge, and sensing this she rolled partly sideways and looked at the inscription on the plaque: George Ellis, loving husband of Eliza, Beatrice and Suzanne. Aged 41. Aware that another situation had slipped by: he rolled off. Was he torturing her with this behaviour? Was she interested in him only because he didn’t follow the expected impulses? Was he just another avuncular figure destined to play no role of true intimacy? It didn’t matter anyway. Whatever the situation was it had gone on long enough ...

Later, as he strode alone down the sinewy footpath home, girdled with dead cars and distant houses, whilst looking up at the night sky. Keeping his neck arched back: and still walking, the trees flew overhead — scuttling past as if viewed from a convertible. The tiny points of light remained fixed in their velvet blanket: a testimony to the vast and cold indifference of the heavens. The thought occurred that if it was somehow possible to keep walking — matching the speed and rotation of the Earth — then he could remain forever in darkness; never seeing another sunrise, never falling prey to the horrors of daylight and the word-world. He would never have to answer a single question, justify an action, tire of another soul. He could remain in that moment — a more beautiful moment than any other — for eternity — guided only by the soft starlight — and his gentle mother: the Moon.