by Mandi Lynn
It’s an odd question. Even in my own mind I can’t completely understand it, but Garren looks at me with an understanding that I’ve never seen from another person.
He shakes his head. “I don’t think so.” And his eyes are sad.
I imagine what it must be like for Garren, to love someone so much and to know in his heart that, if there is a life after death, he will never see Lucie. He will just keep existing in an ever-changing world without his sister, because he can never die.
“Mystral promised me that Lucie would have forever, that whoever experienced the waters of Tiboulain would have forever.”
Forever. The word hangs like a great weight that can never be lifted. What is forever? Is it a vortex that traps me, which brings me farther, deeper, until all I am left to do is breathe? Days wavering, nature escaping. People changing, dying, living, breathing. And I’m here through it all, only existing.
“Why would someone want forever?” I say, trying to wrap my mind around the idea. How could someone want to live forever, never able to grow close to anyone, knowing that mortals will always leave this planet first?
“Because it is the only way to know life is eternal,” Garren says. “We think there is a life after death, that God brings us salvation, but there is no way to know for sure.”
The words are final, like a marker on a grave, settling a lifetime’s worth of arguments with a few simple words.
Tiboulain is so similar to what I had only known once before. Garren brought me here when we were trying to escape the pestilence, when I was only concerned with saving myself; I had no idea of the twisted world of dark magic I was bringing upon myself. Time had passed so eagerly when I was within the folds of the water. When I awoke people had changed; the land had morphed, yet I had remained.
“Exactly how long was I gone?” I ask.
Garren takes in a heavy breath beside me. “I suppose it was at least a hundred years.”
I can picture Dondre, almost happy with my disappearance because he was no longer forced to see what he had named as the source of the pestilence. With me gone, he was able to forget the pain I had caused him and grieve Margo’s death without me. I was a murderer to him. I wonder if he lived long enough to see that my death didn’t stop the pestilence.
“What happened?” My voice is barely a whisper and I wonder if Garren has even heard me.
“You gave yourself to the moon. It kept you for as long as it pleased,” he said simply.
In my human life I would have cried. I would feel a tear dripping down my cheek, making way for emotions I couldn’t handle. But here, in this eternal world, I have nothing to do but grieve in an absence of sensation.
“And all this time, for one hundred years, you’ve just been here?”
He doesn’t speak, just nods his head as if the answer is obvious.
“Why?” I ask, and my voice is a whine. I’m a toddler being scolded, someone being punished who doesn’t understand why the world wishes such poor luck upon them.
“I was waiting for you,” he says, not revolted by my meager display of cowardice.
My bottom lip trembles and I can’t control myself. I don’t understand this world and why it wants me here, when all my life I’ve been castaway. Suddenly I’m regarded as this gift to the moon, the only person who can bring about forever, and I don’t want it. I wanted to die one hundred years ago, when the pestilence came and took away my family, when people looked upon me as a curse.
“Why me?”
The question comes from my lips as a plea. I wait for Garren to give up on me and realize I’m not the person he’s been waiting for over the past century. He needed a savior, a witch like Mystral, someone who could bring Lucie back. I’m none of that.
Garren comes to my side as if I’m a broken child. I see his arms as they wrap around my figure and cradle me to his chest. When I close my eyes, it’s like he isn’t here and I can’t decide if it’s frightening—because I can’t feel his touch—or comforting—because I don’t remember anyone ever touching me.
“I don’t know why it had to be you,” he says.
His words are muffled; maybe his lips are next to my hair.
For a moment I close my eyes and pretend none of this is real, like it is all some poor, awful dream that I just haven’t woken up from yet. In my imagination it’s like I’m back home with Cyrielle, when Nouvel was just an unborn baby tucked away in his mother’s abdomen. When our heads were filled with dreams of seeing a child grow up to be strong and prosper. When I imagine, I see my life without death. And when I imagine, I realize that is what I have. There is no death for me. I will be like this forever. I only wished it wasn’t gifted upon me.
When I open my eyes again, Garren has tucked my head against his chest, as one would console an infant. He murmurs something to me, but I can’t bother to focus my mind enough to make out the words. I’m frightened by his contact and what his motives for these actions may be. He loved Lucie—would do anything for her—but I can’t help her.
Whether or not he believes that I can bring her back, I ignore the pings within me that say to walk away, before I can be hurt. I take the only contact I have and embrace it, drawing closer to Garren. He doesn’t flinch, but pulls me close.
I close my eyes a final time, telling myself this is okay.
XXX.
A pile of clothing falls in front of my feet. The next day’s sun rests midsky, reminding me that life moves forward in an ever-so-steady motion. I sit on the rocky sands of Tiboulain, always looking to the ocean, but I haven’t moved in hours.
We don’t sleep. There is no fatigue that comes along after several hours that tells us when we need to rest; we just continue in our existence. Garren tried to explain it to me, how we don’t need so many things anymore—food, sleep, contact. He says he still sleeps at night out of habit, the only thing tying him to the world, but last night he was here with me while I looked out into the endless expanse of ocean.
“I brought you clothing,” Garren says, standing beside me, pointing to the pile of fabric extravagant enough that I feel foreign just being within its proximity.
“My peasant clothing isn’t quite the standard here, is it?”
The dress is royal blue with a skirt that flares out at the waist. It’s simple, but compared to my own kirtle it seems so much more. I pick up the fabric and feel the thick wool, soft as the sheep I had raised back home. When I pull the dress onto my lap I see a bright new chemise underneath, the white cotton stark compared to the chemise I wear now.
“Time has changed things,” Garren says.
“Fashion of the times,” I half mumble. “Well, I suppose it hasn’t changed too much.” I run my fingers over the cloth and realize it has never been worn before. It has no stains on the fabric. It has the rigidity of fabric not yet washed. Growing up, I had only gotten handed-down items from Margo, clothing that no longer fit her. As far as I remember, this is the first piece of clothing that I haven’t had to share.
“I got it from a seamstress in the market. She saw you when you walked through the first day and thought blue would suit you well.”
When I look up at Garren he seems unsure of himself, worried that for some reason I may not like his gift.
“I’ll let you change,” he says, stepping away.
“Thank you,” I say, gripping the dress tighter.
He turns back to me smiling. “Of course, my lady,” he says, bowing to me the slightest bit, his gaze never leaving mine.
He walks toward the shore, giving me a moment of privacy and I change quickly. I tear away my old kirtle from my body, the fabric falling to the sand in worn pieces. My chemise comes off next, the once-white fabric now a dull brown. I pull on the new clothing with thankfulness. The chemise covers me from the neck down, extending all the way to my wrists. When I pull on the thick wool of the kirtle, the dress envelops me, the sleeves of blue rolling to my elbow, the skirt almost touching the ground. It’s like nothing I have ev
er worn before. All my other clothing has been frail, used, but this feels safe and sure, strong.
I look at my old wardrobe at my feet. It sits, falling apart at the seams, probably from soaking in the pool with me for so long. It’s a miracle that the garment lasted as long as it did.
“Okay,” I say, turning toward Garren. He hadn’t gone far, just simply standing with his back to me while I changed. After hearing my voice he turns slowly, still unsure I’m giving him permission to look.
When his eyes catch me, he lights up. “Well, look at who has clothing from this century.”
A smile tugs at my lips and I grasp the skirt at my sides and offer a small curtsey. “I owe you my biddings, good sir,” I say, laughter rising from my vocal chords.
Garren comes closer, his hands behind his back as if taking a critical examination of my appearance.
“I suppose the woman in the market was right. Blue does seem to befit you.”
I look down and see the skirt of the kirtle is draped, falling in different ruffles at my hips and cascading down. The hem at the waist hugs my body perfectly, almost as if it’s a second skin.
“It’s beautiful,” I say, running my hand over the material. I look up to him and see his happiness in every line of his face, but suddenly I can’t bring myself to feel the same way. Without realizing it my smile has deepened into a frown.
“What is it?” Garren comes closer and I see his hand reach out for mine, but at the last minute he pulls away, letting me have my distance.
“All of this is very …” I stop, not quite sure what I think. Everything in the past few days is too much. The dress feels like a protective layer, yet I’m leaving my old self behind. “… overwhelming,” I say finally. “I don’t know what to think.”
Garren nods like he understands, and I think he wishes he did, but it isn’t possible. I was the one gone, trapped in Tiboulain for one hundred years. Garren was always here, always existing, able to understand and change and modify himself to fit along with the world.
“Was I really gone for that long?”
I look at Garren and I see the spark that was once in his eyes has disappeared. His blue irises die down to a muted gray, lost in thought.
“Yes. I didn’t leave you—I couldn’t. For years I stayed by the pool of Tiboulain, watching you drift in the water, so close yet unable to touch you. It was strange. I would come close to the water, almost drop my hand in, but then something would come over me and I’d find myself repelled by the thought of being near the water—like it may take me hostage. It was years before I left Tiboulain, only because I saw the world changing. Life forming on Ratonneau and Pomègues, bridges and buildings being built on something that once used to be untouched. Eventually I realized waiting on Tiboulain made time pass slower. So I traveled back to Marseille and made my life there.”
“Was the pestilence gone?” I imagine what I would have done if I were Garren. Stay on an island, hiding from death? Or risk returning home where a disease may still be eating away the human soul from the inside out?
“It had died out at some point, I suppose. Marseille was different when I returned. The people I talked to had this solemnity to them. There were paintings and works of art that you wouldn’t believe, Luna. Death was no longer on the streets, like it once had been. Instead it was in art. Skeletons dancing their sick songs, dark figures with a beak as a face choosing those who lived or died.
“The pestilence affected life. They called it the Black Death and there were tales of how it wiped out life, as if our existence was nothing to God. Children born after the pestilence was contained knew of the Black Death and feared any man whose face was hidden, as if he may carry the Black Death itself. Life became this rare gift to everyone. They became aware of their mortality.”
“Did you know of anyone who survived?”
“My parents ran off before the worst of the pestilence hit. Everyone else I knew grew victim, though I didn’t know many in my village.”
“Do you know if my family survived?” I’m not sure why I ask the question. I don’t even know if Garren knew who my family was, but the thought became vocalized before I could make sense of it.
“I think I saw your brother when I went back—he looked a lot like you. Dondre was his name?”
I nod. “Did he seem happy?”
“If it was him I saw, then yes. He found a girl, formed a family. I’m sorry to say your parents had probably passed by then, whether it be by pestilence or other courses of life—again, it was years before I came back to Marseille. But Dondre grew to be a strong man for his family.”
And I suppose that’s the best I could have wished for him. Part of me wonders if he had ever forgiven me for the crimes he accused me of, but I also know it is nothing worth worrying over.
“And he’s gone now,” I say. It isn’t a question. Just a single statement that needs to be heard.
“After the pestilence passed, they gave final rites again, sending the dead away with a proper ceremony. If he died afterward, then you may find his burial spot.”
“Okay,” I say simply.
XXXI.
The grave is hidden within the cemetery. All the stones are the same. Just simple pieces of rock carved in a square or rounded shape, marking the burial spot of a loved one. Garren brought me to the cemetery, saying that it was the one closest to where he believed Dondre lived out his adult life. It turns out my brother didn’t bother traveling very far from where we grew up. Marseille is still within visiting distance. Though to get there, it would take a day’s trip by foot.
“What did you say your last name was?” Garren asks, walking ahead of me. His eyes shift side to side, checking every stone with a quick glance to see if my brother is lost somewhere within the mass of bodies.
“Leland,” I say. “It would be Dondre Leland.”
Garren doesn’t speak again, silently checking each stone before moving to the next one. He works his way through the cemetery, leaving me behind to take a much slower pace.
There is a lack of life within the cemetery. Not just the bodies that are buried beneath its grounds, but nothing grows within. When I turn around to look past the gated entrance, I see green foliage filling the space, but once inside the confines of the cemetery a dull sort of existence begins. Grass grows but it’s a muted green plastered to the ground. Some graves have flowers or other precious pieces of kindness left at the foot of the stone, but they have a filtered and foggy appearance.
I wander over to one grave, smaller than most—only about the size of my outstretched hand—but the words are clearly sketched. It’s new, surrounded by trampled dirt, grass yet to be grown. The death year on the grave is 1732.
“Garren?” I call out, a sense of panic growing within me. It can’t have been that long. When I left it was 1348.
Garren comes to my aid at once, looking over my shoulder. I can hear his breath at my neck, but he doesn’t speak like I wish he would. Instead he just stares, unable to see what my gaze has captured.
“What is it?” he asks.
I shake my head, a rumbling choking me from the inside out. My finger quivers as I point to the four digits that tell the year this stranger died.
“That’s more than one hundred years,” I say, my voice weak.
Garren doesn’t say anything. This information is not news to him. Of course he knew how long it has really been, but he didn’t tell me.
I do the math in my head, taking my time with the numbers. Over and over I check my work, so sure that the answer I have can’t be true—three hundred and eighty-four years. For three hundred and eighty-four years I was gone.
I turn from the grave to face Garren, but he doesn’t see me. He looks down at the grave in shame, caught in the lie he’s been feeding me. Repeatedly.
“That’s almost four hundred years, Garren,” I say. My hands still tremble at my sides and when he doesn’t look at me, I want to hurt him like he has hurt me. He lied. “Why didn’t you tell
me?” And when the words come, I realize I’m screaming.
“I didn’t want to hurt you. It doesn’t matter how much time has passed,” he says, his eyes finally leaving the grave but resting instead on the bare dirt patches of ground scattered with grass.
“Of course it matters! My brother is dead, has been dead, and you think the amount of time that has passed doesn’t matter?” Breaths become heated and strong and I feel that, if I were still human, my skin would have the red undertone it always sported when I argued with Mama or Papa.
“You’ll learn, Luna, that when so much time has passed, it all becomes the same. It doesn’t matter if the ones you loved died yesterday or hundreds of years ago, because the pain still exists. It just fades and ebbs as you grow used to its company. You learn to hide yourself from the world to lessen the pain.”
My hand crosses his face so quickly I’m not even aware of my actions. We are monsters together, unable to feel anything. A sharp slap sounds from the contact between his cheek and my hand, but the sound is the only thing that tells us that I had hit him. My palm should burn with pain, but it doesn’t. His cheek should bear a red outline, but of course it doesn’t.
That’s when Garren looks at me. His eyes finally return to my face, and it’s as if he’s a lost pup, so unsure of the world around him. I wonder what he sees in my eyes. I feel wild and frantic, unable to control the urges that have come over me.
“You told me that it’s been one hundred years since the pestilence struck,” I say between deep breaths.
“Since the pestilence had last been in the area,” he corrects me. “It came back for a time but not nearly as bad as when it struck when our families were alive.”
My lip trembles and I know if I were still human, tears would be flowing with merciful grace down my cheeks. My hand comes up to cover my mouth, the shame fully spreading over me as I realize this man is about to witness me falling apart.
“Leave,” I say, no longer looking at him.
“But Dondre’s grave—”
