The Time Before You Die

by Lucy Beckett

  He felt a great weakness as he watched her, as if, under the pressure of the stones, something in his chest had given way. Tears rose again in his throat. He closed his eyes because he did not want to see her go. Shut in his own darkness he listened to the beating of his heart, loud and irregular as if it might stop, as if the next beat, the next thud inside his head, his ears, might not come, might never come.

  He breathed as slowly as he could, and little by little the beat became firmer and quicker. He felt the sweat on his forehead roll down into his closed eyes, down his cheeks, into his beard. He must not let go, not yet, not quite yet. . . There was something that he had to find out, something that had to do with the difference between then and now, between the child in the early morning with the day before him and the old man holding on to his breath for a few more beats of his heart—with the difference, and with what was the same. . .

  He knew that it was a question of words. It was not that the words and his life were one, the weight on his chest. The weight was only his life, the fallen stones. Sixty years, seventy, and he would have lain, here or elsewhere, under their weight with the strength crushed out of him, seeping away. It was not that the words and his life were one, and the fact that they were not one. . . He closed his eyes more tightly, frowning as he tried to bring it clear. The fact that they were not one was part of whatever it was that he had to find.

  Had not always been one. There. That was solid ground to stand on, to begin from. The muscles of his face relaxed.

  Perhaps in the Charterhouse, during the years of silence in which the hours, measured out by the tolling bell, were nevertheless full of words, perhaps there the words and his life had been one. Perhaps that oneness had been the very thing, the jewel, the ruby, that the king had stolen from him when he sent commissioners to strip the wainscotting from his cell and the habit from his back, from his days. Those long days had been the loss, their singleness of life and word, when all that he had done had been in the meaning, and all the meaning had been in what he had done.

  He saw them coming into the church at night, their faces hidden by their cowls, their hands inside the sleeves of their habits, one light burning at the lectern, men without names, hidden in God. Each monk as he passed the light stopped for a moment and looked across at him, and each face, lit from below by the flame flickering in the draught, was full of reproach.

  He shrank back into the darkness. Surely it had not been only he who had gone away. They had all gone. They had not chosen to go. But they had gone. Still they came, one after another, more and more of them, and disappeared into the dark, more monks than there had ever been at the Mountgrace, all the Carthusians, risen from their unnamed graves, and each stopped at the taper and looked towards him, reproaching him.

  He opened his eyes. There was no one there, no one in the stable, no one on the bridge, no one in the field, no one.

  O God be merciful to me, a sinner.

  He was hot, burning hot. If only he could be free of this burden, free of the weight on his chest, the stones he had pulled over on himself, the weight of sin.

  Yet he had almost reached. . . When he had fallen asleep he had almost reached the understanding that lay in wait for him, close to him. But it was hard, beneath the fallen stones, a hard struggle to find his way through, and now he had lost the ground he had gained. To find his way back he had to stay awake, not to let his eyes close, not to sleep. . .

  He looked out through the open door. The June heat was gathering in the day. The birds no longer sang, except for now and then a short note uttered into the sunshine, and the leaves of the trees were still, even over the stream. The girl had gone; the cockerel had gone. No one came over the bridge, not even a cat. There would be a cat, and it would be lying stretched out somewhere, in the shade, asleep. He heard a man shout, and far away, perhaps in the yard beyond the mill, the rumble of wheels, a dog barking. He saw the oxen standing in the heat, the miller unloading sacks of grain from the cart, lifting them one by one onto his back from where the carter stood them ready, hens pecking in the dust among the shadowed spokes of the wheels for the odd grain of corn that fell when the sacks were shifted. Soon the great stones would start to grind, and they would call him to come and watch the sack fill. . . And always the sound of the water, the even roar of the mill-race, the nearer rattle of the shallows. . .

  “Nay, Master Fletcher,” the gaoler said, rattling the keys at him. “They had me lock you in. You won’t get out a second time.”

  “But the sack—I have to watch the sack. If it fills too full the flour spills over and goes to waste—”

  “I can’t help that, Master Fletcher. They had me lock you in, and you’ll stay here until they come to fetch you away to the trial. Then you’ll have to answer for the wasted flour, then you will, so you’d best not drop off. Don’t you dare fall asleep—and don’t you try to move. That’s what my keys are for, to keep you from moving. I’ll let you have a window, mind. You can watch the others die. Out there on the green, in the sunshine, that’s where they die. But in your case it’s all a pretence. A pretence, is it not, Master Fletcher? For England, did you say? To die for England? You want armour to die for England. Golden armour, and gauntlets with spikes on the knuckles. You have no armour. You have only your bare hands and the scar on your thumb. Or is it the Church you would die for? Which one, Master Fletcher—ah! Which one?”

  The gaoler came nearer and stood over him as he lay.

  “Where is your brother, Master Fletcher? You never found him. You left him to face the rack and the cruel lords, didn’t you? And you could have saved him. He was always afraid of the river. And the river got him in the end, ten foot deep in the middle, it was, and the wheels stuck between rocks, and him drowned as he sat there on the wagon in the dark. Go out there! Go out in the cold and find him! Bury him in the snow, or the crows will get his eyes!”

  He felt the gaoler’s hot breath on his face as he leaned over him.

  “All the birds in the air fell a-sighing and a-. . . Robin is dead. They are bringing him now, bringing him in from the field with the pitchfork in his belly, carrying him on their shoulders who never but walked, tall and strong. He’ll not jump down from their shoulders. They’ll not clap him on the back and laugh, all of them together. He’s dead. He’ll not come back at the mill door, taking the light in the doorway, to tie your sack and lift it away. He’ll not come back. And the sack, Master Fletcher, the sack! Look there! Full to the top and running over! The flour pouring out on the dusty ground, all going to waste! Shout! Shout for Robin to come! Shout!”

  A bursting pain in his chest woke him. He could not shout, he could not.

  A big black dog stood beside him, panting into his face, its tongue hanging out. A black dog. . . The sheep. . . He saw a lamb twitching on the grass, blood spreading from its throat.

  Someone called the dog, and it went quietly away. He heard it lie down in the straw at the far end of the stable, its tail thump the ground.

  Sweat trickled down his face, his neck, his chest. He saw an egg hit an old man in a street, without a sound, and trickle down his face.

  O God, be merciful to me, a sinner.

  If he could breathe evenly, if he could steady his heart, the pain would cease. If the pain would cease he would have the time, a little time. . . and the meaning would come back to the words.

  O God, be merciful. . .

  There was something he had yet to do. The gaoler had said, the gaoler had known—but he had not understood. He had not listened to the words. And now they were gone.

  A man was there, a man he knew, his bulk solid in the shadows. His hand was stretched out behind him to keep the dog quiet. There was flour on his clothes; he saw it on his shoulder, his thigh, in the light from the door. It was Robin.

  He closed his eyes. The gaoler had been wrong, and the dream—a dream. He had shouted, and Robin had come. He would tie the sack and roll it away, out into the yard where the oxen were standing, and lif
t it onto the cart. . . lift it off his chest. . . up off his chest so that he could breathe. . . so that he could move, run, run out into the day. . .

  Someone was talking as he ran. Words. But he shook off the words.

  He ran down the path by the stream and vaulted the gate into the pasture. He ran through the high grass and the buttercups. The cows were standing under the trees in the shade. He ran down to the ford and waded into the river. The water was cold, the stones sharp under his feet. He splashed his face, his hair, his shirt, with the water and drank from his cupped hands. Then he ran up the steep field on the other side, scattering the sheep as he ran, and out to the open moor, higher and higher along the narrow path the sheep had made, winding upwards through the heather. He reached the place where a great flat ledge of rock stuck out of the moor with bracken growing under it and a green space of turf. Out of breath from running, he threw himself down on the turf. He looked down. He saw the heather below him, the field, the sheep quiet again, the river shining between the trees, the mill quiet. . . quiet in the sun. No one came out of the open door. No one crossed the bridge. He could not get his breath. His whole body hurt from running, and he could not get his breath. The pain in his chest made him gasp.

  He had to go back. Down there. To the mill, the silent mill. He had to go back. No one came out because they were gathered inside, waiting. A man lay dying there, an old man, a stranger, and he had to go back because he had something to tell him, something the old man needed to know, something no one could tell him but himself. He must hurry, he must run, or it would be too late. But he could not get up from the grass. His breath would not come. He could not move for the pain. He could not move. He opened his eyes. The stable was empty. Sunlight flowed in at the door, dense, warm, light with the dust gently rising in it, and lit a patch of the flags so that he could see the cracks between them, and the straws lying, and the bits of chaff. . .

  The pain suddenly faded. The rasp of his breathing stopped. That was it. That was all. Not to fight any more. Not to struggle. He looked at the uneven flags, the straw, the chaff, lit in the heavy light. That was all. Only to love. The bread and the wine.

  He saw a bearded figure leaning against the jamb of the door, arms folded, head down, waiting.

  Then he knew that he had come to fetch him, and he watched.

  At last the figure turned and came towards him through the light. He watched, and he was not afraid.

  The cardinal spoke, so that, with his eyes open, he heard these words: “I saw a new heaven and a new earth. The tabernacle of God is with men and he will dwell with them.”

  And the earth was the flagstones and the straw and the shadows of the straw.

  There was enough money left to pay for a coffin and a priest. They buried him the next day in the village churchyard beside the river. When the priest reached the prayer: “O God, we humbly pray to thee for the soul of thy servant,” he looked across the coffin at the miller. The miller shook his head and the priest read the prayer again. “O God, we humbly pray to thee for the soul of thy servant. Let him not go into oblivion, for in thee he put his trust.”

  By the end of the summer the grass had grown together over his grave.