didn’t.
He hadn’t worn a watch since…
Didn’t matter, he figured. He wasn’t running from time. He was just running.
He looked down at his feet, and with a smile, thought, Yes . Yes you are running. His shiny new shoes were moving. Plodding, but it didn’t matter how fast he went, where he went, or for how long. What mattered was that with every single jarring, pounding step he took, he was running.
Spring, ’07, Keane began to run. He kept going right until ’13, winning in his own way.
Until the heat wave came again, and a summer of bright burning shadows that followed him no matter how hard or fast he ran.
VII. The Blood Eye
Two lines from William Blake’s “Auguries of Innocence” play over and over in your head like a mantra or a ward whenever you are afraid. And you are afraid.
You are afraid of the light and the dark and the shade and the heat. Afraid for yourself and for others.
You fear the thing that lives in the dark places within you.
Some are born to sweet delight , you think.
Some are born to endless night.
The poem brings no comfort. It is not a pillow or a crutch or a blanket but an augury of things that abide, dormant, hiding in the dark, waiting for their time to come again.
That time? It is here. It is now.
40
Teresa was seven years dead, Keane six years reborn. He was a different man now. In many ways he was harder than he’d been. He’d lost his wife, his mind. Running, in a way, had been Keane’s salvation. Not slaying the beast that lived in his shadow. That wasn’t a defining moment. That was a stepping stone.
Maybe a stone across a chasm, but just a stone.
You didn’t slay him, though, did you?
No , he replied to his wife, silently. She never left him. Not even for a minute. He could always feel her there in his mind and his heart, still feel her hand in his in the attic of a house long gone.
No, he thought. He’d been sure he’d gone, but Brother Shadow had been…what? Dormant? Put to sleep?
Keane didn’t know, but dormant sounded about right.
The heat wave, baby.
Keane nodded. She was right. Of course she was right. The brightness, the long days…the short, sharp shadows. Brother Shadow was strongest then. He’d been building, held at bay, waiting.
Keane felt the truth of it. Brother Shadow, falling to pieces like shards of ice. The ice, seeping into the carpet. Of course there’d been nothing left—he was just a creature of the dark, a monster from another land, another dimension.
But his death had never felt final. Never…conclusive.
Like a stepping stone.
The chasm still waited below. The pit, the abyss. The darkness was full of him—his brother, his dark. Because Brother Shadow belonged to him, didn’t he?
Yes, honey. Yes, he does. He’s yours, and you’re his. You’re light and shade. Together a whole. You can’t kill him. He can’t kill you. You understand that, right?
Keane nodded, there on his couch in his rented flat.
He’d dragged himself back from that abyss, but of course it was there all along, and down in the dark was where Brother Shadow lived.
He couldn’t kill him.
He couldn’t win.
But Teresa was wrong, wasn’t she?
Because you can’t kill what you can’t see. But if he could see into the black? If he could see into his shadow?
Honey, what are you doing?
“Shh, baby,” he said, and walked down the short hall to the bathroom.
41
Keane stared at his reflection in the mirror above the sink. Stared into his deep-sunk eyes. Looked at the hard angles that made his face. His beard, long gone, was coming back on his tanned cheeks and chin and upper lip. His hair, short, was a long way back on his forehead now.
He was getting old. Not quite there, but old. His weathered skin was wrinkled and peppered with sun freckles. Barely an ounce of fat on his face.
But there was nothing in his eyes. He
He hadn’t worn a watch since…
Didn’t matter, he figured. He wasn’t running from time. He was just running.
He looked down at his feet, and with a smile, thought, Yes . Yes you are running. His shiny new shoes were moving. Plodding, but it didn’t matter how fast he went, where he went, or for how long. What mattered was that with every single jarring, pounding step he took, he was running.
Spring, ’07, Keane began to run. He kept going right until ’13, winning in his own way.
Until the heat wave came again, and a summer of bright burning shadows that followed him no matter how hard or fast he ran.
VII. The Blood Eye
Two lines from William Blake’s “Auguries of Innocence” play over and over in your head like a mantra or a ward whenever you are afraid. And you are afraid.
You are afraid of the light and the dark and the shade and the heat. Afraid for yourself and for others.
You fear the thing that lives in the dark places within you.
Some are born to sweet delight , you think.
Some are born to endless night.
The poem brings no comfort. It is not a pillow or a crutch or a blanket but an augury of things that abide, dormant, hiding in the dark, waiting for their time to come again.
That time? It is here. It is now.
40
Teresa was seven years dead, Keane six years reborn. He was a different man now. In many ways he was harder than he’d been. He’d lost his wife, his mind. Running, in a way, had been Keane’s salvation. Not slaying the beast that lived in his shadow. That wasn’t a defining moment. That was a stepping stone.
Maybe a stone across a chasm, but just a stone.
You didn’t slay him, though, did you?
No , he replied to his wife, silently. She never left him. Not even for a minute. He could always feel her there in his mind and his heart, still feel her hand in his in the attic of a house long gone.
No, he thought. He’d been sure he’d gone, but Brother Shadow had been…what? Dormant? Put to sleep?
Keane didn’t know, but dormant sounded about right.
The heat wave, baby.
Keane nodded. She was right. Of course she was right. The brightness, the long days…the short, sharp shadows. Brother Shadow was strongest then. He’d been building, held at bay, waiting.
Keane felt the truth of it. Brother Shadow, falling to pieces like shards of ice. The ice, seeping into the carpet. Of course there’d been nothing left—he was just a creature of the dark, a monster from another land, another dimension.
But his death had never felt final. Never…conclusive.
Like a stepping stone.
The chasm still waited below. The pit, the abyss. The darkness was full of him—his brother, his dark. Because Brother Shadow belonged to him, didn’t he?
Yes, honey. Yes, he does. He’s yours, and you’re his. You’re light and shade. Together a whole. You can’t kill him. He can’t kill you. You understand that, right?
Keane nodded, there on his couch in his rented flat.
He’d dragged himself back from that abyss, but of course it was there all along, and down in the dark was where Brother Shadow lived.
He couldn’t kill him.
He couldn’t win.
But Teresa was wrong, wasn’t she?
Because you can’t kill what you can’t see. But if he could see into the black? If he could see into his shadow?
Honey, what are you doing?
“Shh, baby,” he said, and walked down the short hall to the bathroom.
41
Keane stared at his reflection in the mirror above the sink. Stared into his deep-sunk eyes. Looked at the hard angles that made his face. His beard, long gone, was coming back on his tanned cheeks and chin and upper lip. His hair, short, was a long way back on his forehead now.
He was getting old. Not quite there, but old. His weathered skin was wrinkled and peppered with sun freckles. Barely an ounce of fat on his face.
But there was nothing in his eyes. He
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