GRAVE IS THE NIGHT
The ancient bench smelled of rusting
iron and she could feel the overhang of thin, damp Willow branches brushing
against her shoulder, no doubt a base for spiders to weave their webs. Apart
from a single street lamp illuminating the lych-gate the churchyard was in darkness,
except that on the stroke of twelve the gravestones would adopt a ghostly radiance
of their own, lighting up the scrolls, the cherubs and the angels. The later it
got the more lifelike they became but none of it started until midnight. The
witching hour! In the vague shadows Billy Jean thought she saw an angel’s
wings move in the breeze. She shook her head as if to clear her mind. It was
surely before its time.
She had no idea how long it had been
since the church clock registered the half hour but even now she had no desire
to test her legs and get off the scratchy bench. She felt secure wrapped in the
cloak of eerie darkness.
The wine had worn off yet the sense
of peace stayed with her, although she’d felt quite agitated when a big rat scuttled
over a nearby rock. But that was precisely fifty-five minutes ago. She shuddered,
thinking maybe the rodent would return and bring his family with him.
Billy Jean was there for a reason.
She had visited this precise spot for five weeks, ever since her husband died. Earlier
visits were in daylight; the night vigils were more recent. Since Ernest had
always preferred night to day she knew his spirit would return in the dark
hours.
It was the moving glass that
convinced her he was ready to reappear in her life. She always placed a glass
of water on the bedside cabinet in case she got thirsty in the night but four
mornings in a row it was not where she left it. Last night she denied herself
the luxury of sleep in order to wait for the sign that his spirit was ready.
Sure enough, at three o’clock the glass began to slide. First right, then left,
then round in a circle. Excitement built up inside her as she uttered the words
she had been practicing for five weeks. Welcome
home.
Billy Jean wondered what form his
spirit would take, man or spectre. Here in this place she could picture a ghost
materialising from nowhere but, knowing him, she knew he would want to be different. He had always been the odd
one out in a crowd. If people wore black he would wear grey; if they wore hats,
he would go bareheaded; if they acted foolishly, he would be the perfect
gentleman. She had loved him from the first moment they met, at a dance,
because he was the only man in the room who would venture onto the floor, and the
only man to capture her heart.
Sixty-three years ago. She remembered
it like it was yesterday though if you asked her to recall what she did a week
ago she would be hard pressed to remember.
Everyone said they made a handsome
couple, Ernest in his pinstripes and she in a white silk bridal gown with
matching shoes, with six attendants dressed in green. Everyone said green was
the wrong colour, that it brought bad luck and to this day Billy Jean wondered
about that. So far as she could recall there hadn’t been an ounce of bad luck
in their lives. Until now, with Ernest’s passing, which was the worst thing ever.
Even though they never had children,
or perhaps because of it, they spent their entire married life like a courting
couple. They laughed and cried together and if they argued they always made up
before going to sleep. Not like modern couples who part at the drop of a hat, never
stopping to think or question if their marriage could be saved by an apology or
a hug. Billy Jean was thankful that she and Ernest were kindred spirits, near
or far, alive or dead, they were as one. He vowed to love her until he died and
now he was proving that he loved her afterwards.
Although she felt quite warm inside
her shawl, the anticipation of seeing him and not knowing what he would look
like caused her to shiver. Billy Jean pulled the shawl closer, suddenly feeling
her age, wishing he would hurry.
Somewhere in nearby trees the
inevitable owl made himself heard. A cemetery wouldn’t be right without an owl.
Something brushed against her foot but disappeared before she could check it
out. A tingling sensation in her spine caused her to hunch her shoulders. She
felt so tired, physically and mentally, unable to think, as if her brain was
shutting down. Closing her eyes, she relaxed and after a few moments drifted gently
into oblivion.
The rains came while she slept; a light
shower at first but when thunder echoed in the distance it got heavier. The
owl hooted its disappointment before flying to another tree. And then
miraculously, considering the time, it was as if dawn had arrived. Things
stirred restlessly in the undergrowth, unusual sounds blended like off-key
music, while graveyard statues grew bold, stretching out their arms as if in
warning. Billy Jean stirred, but did not waken. Therefore she did not see the wraithlike
figure in a black cloak walking towards her, slowly, and carefully. Had she
stirred she might have thought him to be an undertaker.
Billy Jean dreamed they were dancing,
amongst the trees, slow steps in time with mellow birdsong, the evening sun
preparing to set. He felt so good. So close. ‘This will be our last waltz,’ he
whispered, and she clung to him in her determination never to let him go. He
took her hand, guiding her through weeds and autumn debris, his arm supporting
her as they walked happily into the darkness.
oOo
The grave was frequently visited by family
members but only now could they admire the recently carved epitaph.
Here lies Ernest and Billy Jean De’Ath
United in death as in life
(My thanks to T Rand Collins for allowing me to use his photograph, a night view of the churchyard of an historic Anglican church in Metchosin, B.C.)
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