It was dark and cool, but not cold- spring had finally driven off the worst of the chill and the night air was refreshing, the air wafting over the fields and the barn, redolent with life. The moon had set and at its departure the heavens had opened up in a riotous explosion of color. I stood transfixed by the barn, gazing up at the blazing stars spread across the sky… and felt loneliness clutch about my heart as a vise. I used to love to lie awake at night and gaze up at the mysterious night sky. When had that stopped for me? How long ago… no, surely not that long, but it had to be a century or more.

What had taken from me the joy and mystery of contemplating the night sky? I remembered the fear and excitement long ago when the heavens had burst forth with a new light and the monks had called all the people to prayer as the brilliant portent of evil tidings hung in the sky for a month or more before finally fading back in to the velvet canopy of the night sky. Until then I had seen the stars as much like myself, cold and unchanging. It had been liberating to see that they could become brilliant and unpredictable, even if only for a short while. I had seen throughout my life the comings of comets. I did not understand them, I did not know why they were as they were, and that pleased me. Why had I lost that?

The small house was dark and quiet; Robert and his grandchildren slept soundly, the dogs undisturbed by my being out, having grown accustomed to my strange ways. I had a good home, a man who gave me not love, but some companionship, and a place to call mine for a span of years. He was a conscientious man, my Robert Girard, devoted to his family, and now to his young bride. He was fond of me, but more than that he needed me, and that was good to feel. It was nearly enough to… but I thrust that down, deep inside me, for those thoughts and desires could bring naught but agony and madness. As good as he was, as much comfort I found ensconced in his house and his family, he was but a man and already old. His back was straight and his eyes clear but the thief of time stole up upon him as it did all the people and things I was foolish enough to feel any attachment to.

The stars were cold in the sky, their light beautiful, but devoid of warmth. Like me. There was such ice in my breast it weighed upon my heart. It had been so long, so many centuries since that day I watched a proud man die at the behest of a cruel and bloodthirsty ethos… no, I could not bear to think of that again. Not his death, nor the horror I became in the aftermath.

It was too late. Pain welled up in me as a sharp aching in my heart as I fought for control of myself. I would not weep, I refused to, but even as I spoke these words to myself I felt hot tears running down my cheeks, my sight blurred as my emotions turned treasonous to my will and sought their escape. Trembling I leaned back against the barn while the burning fear and grief passed from my lips as quiet sobs until finally I could put them down, the pressure having eased somewhat with their escape.

“Is it so terrible, being with me, that you steal away behind the barn at night to weep?”

Startled I turned to see Robert’s silhouette, an inky blackness against the night, and I ran to him, threw my arms about him and clutched myself tightly there as fresh tremors, more immediate in their provenance, shook my body. His thick limbs encircled me, strong and sure, and I buried my face in his chest, the aura of him filling my lungs, the taste of hard labor, the smoke from the fire that warmed our tiny house, even the traces of our love making. I drew in great draughts of it, my tears soaking the rough shirt he wore. I heaved a last sigh, will finally triumphant over grief, and forced myself to stop shaking.

“It is not you, Robert, not at all,” I said, my voice returning. “I told you when we met, I am… complicated.”

His hand came up and he slipped a finger under my chin, turning my face up so I gazed in to his shadowed face.

“All women are complicated, my Monique. You more than most.” Then without another word he walked me back to our house as I turned my face again to the stars.

I so hungered to adore them as I had, but not at the price of revisiting that dark and painful place in my soul. My roots were here in the now, for as long as I could bear it. Let the dead past lie in its grave…

Posted on September 20th, 2004 by Zsallia
Filed under: The Past