One More Name for
Death
by
Paul Radcliffe
“Time itself is one more name for death.”
C. S. Lewis, A Grief Observed
Time was a hanging
lantern. The light it shed flickered at the edge of his memory, but it was clear as the
dawn that crept across the harbour. He had never forgotten, though days and distance had
conspired over the years that went by. Someone had once written that time does not take
everything, hard though it tries. And it had tried. Different faces, different times. Masks
that slipped, his own and others. A pantomime of assumptions that left as they arrived,
with warnings unheard.
He
had seen another face, however, and he had not forgotten it. It lingered patiently, it
did not shout or clamour for attention. It did not need to. Glimpsed occasionally, perhaps
on a cold railway station, a glance through a grimy
carriage window as the train pulled away, night closing round it and realization dawning.
Now, another railway station at the far edge of the known world. The known world, however,
is not the only world. Other worlds overlap and blend with it, though few can see
this.
She walked across a station concourse. When he saw her, he remembered
why he had not forgotten. Time had enhanced her, where it is its habit to take away. It
was late evening. As they crossed the platform to leave, they were watched from the upper
floor of the station, from a room that had once been a nursery. A toddler, long dead, stared
down, saw them leave, and faded back into the shadows of the office. They had not seen
him, but he had been there. As with memories, neither he nor they had ever left. He never
would.
It was a short walk to a darkened house in a quiet
street. There was much to talk about, but little was said. There are times—as most
of us know—
when
words are unwelcome. The city’s weather was unpredictable, and a gathering wind pushed
against them as they walked. It brought with it the first drops of rain. There was a towering
hill nearby, and she saw the trees move.
Somewhere on the hill, there was
a shelter for animals, animals lost and abandoned. Unseen by either of them, a puppy opened
its eyes as a shade drifted past, accustomed to its fate. The shade brought no malice.
The puppy went back to sleep. It was used to the sound of the wind.
The woman
saw the leadlight, the patterned window. A heart, pierced by long grey swords. As all hearts
are, sooner or later. This was a truth they both knew. Some heal. Perhaps. The house was
haunted by memories and dreams ripped away as the wind tore at the rain. They went into
a room, a warm room with a round polished table. The lighting was subdued, and he thought
candles should have burned there. They did not, and the ghost who was watching did not
mind. He had been there since his death, coughing blood and consumed by fear, in a bedroom
that looked out onto the angry harbour.
He watched as the woman sat at the table, and the man placed a bottle
of wine there. A bottle of the country’s Sauvignon, straw-yellow, and two glasses.
The glasses themselves held a story, which he would later tell. The two were looking at
each other.
Before the glasses were filled, and while they held each other’s gaze, a
reflection appeared in the smooth glass of the wine bottle. It was easy to miss, even had
they not been looking at each other. A misted outline that did not linger long in the glass,
eyes dark hollows and thin shoulders. Their glasses clinked, and the ghost heard something.
The woman was speaking of time and distance, and a path to be walked, not far away. The
ghost knew something of time, and even more of death. In life, he had been a decent man,
and even as he found himself now, he did not bring spite or jealousy to the two people
who drank wine. He left them to their magic and became one with the night. He
wished them happiness on this evening, though they could not hear.
Time does not take all things. Hard, though it tries.
As the spectre vanished quietly,
it heard the man speak her name and saw her smile. After that, just the wild rain on the
windows and the sound of the wind.
There
should be a law against it
For Yasmin.
by
Paul Radcliffe
A pub guitarist, two
days ago, playing “Wicked Game” while I am thinking about you, and a golden retriever is attempting eye contact
. . . and hypnosis . . .
There should be a law against it
Booking a seat to
see We Wait in Time, and not booking you the
next seat with a large glass of Spy Valley Sauvignon . . .
There should be a law against it
Not having you with me when the
leaves have fallen on the hospital path, and the ghosts of drowned nurses smile through
their tears. And remember the waves closing over them. . . .
There should be a law against it
Writing one poem
when it should be a leatherbound volume of Collected
Works . . . .
There should be a law against it
Imagining you in an old black T-shirt
from the holiday paradise of Afghanistan with an angel on the back, and knowing it is pointless
for me to think about wearing it ever again . . .
There should be a law against it
Looking for your
initials on the grey shingle on a New Zealand beach, and finding them on every stone. .
. .
There should be a law against it
A beautiful ghost
with your name, her lost child, and the Three of Swords hanging as the price paid
There should be a law against it
Paul
Radcliffe is an Emergency RN. In the past, he worked in an
area where children were sometimes afflicted with sickness of Gothic proportions.
Some are ghosts now. As a child he visited an aunt in a haunted farmhouse. This explains
a lot. Paul has worked in a variety of noisy places unlikely to be on anyone’s list
of holiday destinations. He is also a highly suggestible subject for any cat requiring
feeding and practicing hypnosis.