Clear your mind, begin again
All that came before is gone;
There is no truth, there is no past
The day is gone, the light is lost.
The long fought hours slip away
To whited stones;
The stones are ground to dust
Dust blows in the wind,
then the song begins again.
The time has come
the Judgment soon;
Above the mists,
beneath the Moon.
Youth to age, and back again
And all resounds in death;
Death to old and young alike,
And all for Heaven's Breath.
Such were the words that Mary heard, as she slipped into a dream. The
voice seemed to come from the walls, and the walls from the stone
heart of earth, the earth so old it had forgotten them. Too weary and
wretched to fight, yet as she spiralled back and always down, the
Voice became familiar, and edged all else in fear.
It was the voice of her mother, unburied and unwept.
The voice became a hovering form, which followed her as she walked.
The ground beneath her feet grew hard: it was cold, and the winter
wind touched her harshly. Till a great house appeared at the top of a
hill, surrounded by well-ordered green.
She drew nearer its stone walls, passed through and into warmth and
firelight. But it was quickly Night, and in silent corners the shadows
gathered thick to hold their counsel. A long corridor it was, and in
the distance a candlelight appeared, drawing closer: a large, strong
handsome man. He was her father, but she was not his daughter, only
Woman already swayed by the strength of his gait, and the unswerving
resolution of his hands.
He held a ring of keys, as Ballard had, and like him forced the lock.
The doorway opened and a woman no longer young, but still fair and far
from old, sat up in the ghostly bed and wrapped the coverlet about
her. And the form of light and darkness was no longer behind her,
because it was she, her mother in the bed.
The Lord Purceville took her hard by the wrists, and dared her to
scream. But no such sound came, and it puzzled him. Something like
love shone in the deep and pleading blue eyes. And pain and pain and
pain, because she knew it all before. Yet again the tragedy must be
played. And she could only watch, and feel her heart weeping blood as
all life was drained by him, the widow-spider.
And then her mother was alone in an unknown room, familiar though she
had never seen it, a chalice of poison in her hands. Her face was wet,
for the innocent babe that lay wrapped upon the bed. But the anguish
and despair were too great, and with trembling limbs she lifted the
cup of sorrow to her lips.
Yet bitter was the taste, bitter even as the road which led her to it:
the cup was still half full when the baby cried, and something shook
in her heart. She uttered a scream, and Anne Scott burst into the
room, followed by her brother.
And she did not die, but was taken away. And the child taken from her,
forever. The light went out in her soul, and the softness of her
heart. . . her youth was gone.
And then she was old and dry, alone in a smoky hut, gnawing on the
ends of schemes. Alone in ruin, alone with Death.
But somewhere a door was opened, and in walked the babe, grown to
woman. And though she tried not to love her it was in vain: her own
Mary, conceived in broken love, the lost treasure of her heart. And
she loved her, full love once more, though it was too late. A black
curtain was lowered before her eyes, as blood and water flowed from
the breast.....
Then large, calloused hands almost Roman, came and took her from the
lair, and tied her to a tree. And wood was brought and gathered round.
. . till smoking tongues licked her feet, a beast unproud, devouring
death as sure as life, and old and young alike.
Mary shuddered, and her eyes opened wide.
Her eyes were open. She was not sleeping, nor dreaming of a dream. And
yet the presence remained. The widow Scott lay breathing evenly,
somewhere in the gloom. But the presence remained.
Not a raging ghost, not the white-shrouded form of a woman, but an
invisible essence, unimagined: the echo, the afterglow, the spirit of
Margaret MacCain. It did not speak to her, but only watched, knowing
her thoughts, in some way bound to earth until the drama was played
out. Or the dream was gone.
Mary lay still, afraid but understanding. It was not a thing that
needed to be taught; it simply was. And she knew it in the depths of
her being. And the darkness of Night was infinitely deeper than the
darkness of the mind. Fear could not match the hard truth of it.
Thunder rolled beyond the walls in a glowering storm, as spiders
crawled freely through the window.