inside you. A window, and you are on its ledge. It is why you could call me at all. But I wish . . . I wish you had not.”
He walked slowly with an uncertain gait over toward the Laughing Maiden stone. I got up to follow him, and as we reached it, he pointed at the grass.
Old Marsh lay there, his eyes wide and his mouth open, his tongue hanging out. “Fear stopped his heart. Death came with me and touched him. Look, he is like a shell,” Harvey said. “Do you see? We are shells, and inside us, the bird is born that must fly. Poor old man. I loved him, and I loved his stories. It was not meant to be his time.”
Harvey bent down and pressed the dead man’s tongue back between his lips, closing his mouth. Then, he put his fingers over his eyes, shutting them. “The body at death is at rest. At peace. Do you see this? No, no, you see the terror of death. I tell you, Iris, there is more terror in a day of life than there is at the moment of death. It is as if a door has opened to a prison, though you do not believe it is a prison while you exist within it.” He turned to look back at me. “Do you know what I felt when I died?”
I shook my head, more tears coming to my eyes. “Please don’t speak of it, Harvey. Please. I can’t bear to remember. You are alive now. You are here. That is all that matters.”
“I felt as if I could truly breathe,” he said. He whispered a prayer over Old Marsh’s body. “He is, right now, seeing the green cliffs at the other side. The mermaids along the shore sing to him. The light—it is like all lights, and yet like none I had ever before seen. Perhaps his wife is there to greet him. Or an old love. Sometimes, they wait. Sometimes, you see the dead come in to the harbor, and their old dogs are all along the docks, wagging their tails, for they have waited for their masters and mistresses for many years. You see mothers who have missed their sons. Fathers who had never spoken of love to their children, ready to embrace them as they voyage from the end of life. It shows the lies of this world, you see. We are wrong about so many things here. Mankind has done terrible things, yet we are forgiven. Those who have been trodden upon are lifted up there. All wrong is righted.” He wiped at the edge of his eyes though he shed no tears. “You do not know what you have done, Iris. You do not know.”
“But I love you,” I whispered feebly. “I missed you. I could not bear it, knowing I might have . . . that I . . . that if I had fallen . . .”
“Shh,” he said, rising up again. He put his hand over my mouth. His hand felt warm, full of blood, the hand of a living man. “Death is a gift, so long as it is nature’s hand. But this,” he drew his hand away, and nodded toward the dead man in the grass. “When we are called back unnaturally, Death demands a price, for there is always a balance. If I am alive, then someone else must die before his time. This is what you have done. But he is the lucky one. He is at peace. I know what awaits him, and I envy him.”
“You are truly yourself,” I said, surprised even as I said it. “I feared you might be . . .”
“The soul of Death?” he asked, with a weary grin upon his face. “You call it ‘death’ to smudge filth upon it. You should call it ‘the infinite.’ That is what it is. It is existence without end. It is world without end, amen.”
I could not help myself. I nearly threw myself at him, embracing him as he had embraced me when he drew me back from the cliff. I wept against his collar. “Please forgive me, Harvey. But I could not live without you. I could not let you leave. It is not home if you are not here.”
“So be it,” he whispered against my ear. “But we will both pay a price for what you have done, I am afraid.”
He would not return with me to the house, but insisted on going to the Tombs. “I am more comfortable there,” he said. “The bones of
He walked slowly with an uncertain gait over toward the Laughing Maiden stone. I got up to follow him, and as we reached it, he pointed at the grass.
Old Marsh lay there, his eyes wide and his mouth open, his tongue hanging out. “Fear stopped his heart. Death came with me and touched him. Look, he is like a shell,” Harvey said. “Do you see? We are shells, and inside us, the bird is born that must fly. Poor old man. I loved him, and I loved his stories. It was not meant to be his time.”
Harvey bent down and pressed the dead man’s tongue back between his lips, closing his mouth. Then, he put his fingers over his eyes, shutting them. “The body at death is at rest. At peace. Do you see this? No, no, you see the terror of death. I tell you, Iris, there is more terror in a day of life than there is at the moment of death. It is as if a door has opened to a prison, though you do not believe it is a prison while you exist within it.” He turned to look back at me. “Do you know what I felt when I died?”
I shook my head, more tears coming to my eyes. “Please don’t speak of it, Harvey. Please. I can’t bear to remember. You are alive now. You are here. That is all that matters.”
“I felt as if I could truly breathe,” he said. He whispered a prayer over Old Marsh’s body. “He is, right now, seeing the green cliffs at the other side. The mermaids along the shore sing to him. The light—it is like all lights, and yet like none I had ever before seen. Perhaps his wife is there to greet him. Or an old love. Sometimes, they wait. Sometimes, you see the dead come in to the harbor, and their old dogs are all along the docks, wagging their tails, for they have waited for their masters and mistresses for many years. You see mothers who have missed their sons. Fathers who had never spoken of love to their children, ready to embrace them as they voyage from the end of life. It shows the lies of this world, you see. We are wrong about so many things here. Mankind has done terrible things, yet we are forgiven. Those who have been trodden upon are lifted up there. All wrong is righted.” He wiped at the edge of his eyes though he shed no tears. “You do not know what you have done, Iris. You do not know.”
“But I love you,” I whispered feebly. “I missed you. I could not bear it, knowing I might have . . . that I . . . that if I had fallen . . .”
“Shh,” he said, rising up again. He put his hand over my mouth. His hand felt warm, full of blood, the hand of a living man. “Death is a gift, so long as it is nature’s hand. But this,” he drew his hand away, and nodded toward the dead man in the grass. “When we are called back unnaturally, Death demands a price, for there is always a balance. If I am alive, then someone else must die before his time. This is what you have done. But he is the lucky one. He is at peace. I know what awaits him, and I envy him.”
“You are truly yourself,” I said, surprised even as I said it. “I feared you might be . . .”
“The soul of Death?” he asked, with a weary grin upon his face. “You call it ‘death’ to smudge filth upon it. You should call it ‘the infinite.’ That is what it is. It is existence without end. It is world without end, amen.”
I could not help myself. I nearly threw myself at him, embracing him as he had embraced me when he drew me back from the cliff. I wept against his collar. “Please forgive me, Harvey. But I could not live without you. I could not let you leave. It is not home if you are not here.”
“So be it,” he whispered against my ear. “But we will both pay a price for what you have done, I am afraid.”
He would not return with me to the house, but insisted on going to the Tombs. “I am more comfortable there,” he said. “The bones of
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