They say certain things, these wise men and doctors. They always do. One of them told me, for example, that I didn’t go to sleep at all last night. That is simply not true. I did go to sleep, and I know this for a fact because I had such a remarkable and vivid dream that even now I still remember it perfectly.
The dream went like this: I was falling. Specifically, I was falling out of my bedroom window. I simply opened the latch and walked out. For a moment I thought I would die, because my chambers are very far above the ground. But this was dreaming, and in dreams there is no death, and so I flew instead. I was caught up in a wind that carried me out towards the sea. And for a long time I stayed there, floating above the water.
I saw the ships in the harbour and the little grey houses of the shepherd folk along the cliffside. I saw, too, the grove where we buried my Casimir. I have always thought of it as a peaceful place, because the earth there is rich and soft as velvet, and there is an angel of white stone watching over the gate of the crypt.
But the funny thing is, I saw last night that the angel had been moved, and there were men standing inside the gate. Because I was up in the air, I could get a little closer without being seen, and so I went to see what they were doing. They were standing above my Casimir’s grave, and gesturing to each other and speaking violently. One of them was carrying an old cavalry sword, the kind we used in the last war. One of them had an axe and a holy book. The third fellow seemed completely useless and unaware of what was going on, because he had simply brought a very large bagful of garlic.
It was then, I believe, that I woke up.
One of the doctors told me, the other day, that I ought to go out more often for air. He said that, at my age, the most important thing is taking long walks, and not eating too many rich foods. I believe this to be true because I have already seen an improvement. But it is an unpleasant improvement. It has been six years since the last time I suffered the monthly issuance of blood. This morning, I woke up covered in it.
The old wise man who lives at the top of the stairs told me a curious thing.
He said, when a child is born, there is something that stays inside the mother for the rest of her life. It is not the little white cap that comes out on his head, nor is it the little fleshy blanket he is wrapped in. All these things exit the mother’s body as a matter of course. I know this to be true because I remember it happening with my Casimir. But he said there is a part of the child that remains always with you, like a fingerprint left in a lump of dough. He said there are miniscule parts of the child’s flesh which are so knitted into your own that it is impossible to ever be rid of them. Though of course I have not seen this with my own eyes, and indeed the notion seems somewhat fanciful and foolish, I find myself believing this, too; and in a way, it is a comfort to think that I still bear a little bit of Casimir always with me, now that he is gone.
Two weeks ago, a girl who has been missing from the shepherds’ village for at least a year was found dead upon the shore. She was very pale and thin, and though her body was not ravaged, there were strange marks all upon it. I know this because one of the doctors who attended upon her told me so.
I feel very keenly for her mother. I think I shall bring them some wine and a little wreath of figs. And I will tell her what I know of my own sorrow: that sometimes it wakes up within you, and it cries out and it bleeds. And you feel, once again, their little feet kicking against your stomach; and you wake up gasping to the pinch of small teeth gnawing into your breast.
haunting