vine and its roses in colour that seemed to pulse with life, branching, arching, looping across the cave wall. Despite the darkness, she had hardly made a mistake.
Perhaps painting the cave wall wasn’t such a childish thing to do after all.
Whether because she was so tired or because her head truly was injured, it took April a few minutes to wonder where the light was coming from. As she traced the contours of her painting she slowly became aware of someone sitting next to her. This didn’t bother or frighten her at all—again, perhaps because she really did have a concussion. Maybe she was lapsing into a coma, she thought, and imagining the light.
Or maybe this was death.
She turned her head slightly, happy to find that for the first time since she’d awakened in the cave, movement didn’t set her whole skull throbbing.
A woman she had never seen before was sitting next to her, and the light was emanating not from a lamp or from the dawn outside, but from the woman herself. The light was warm like flames in a hearth. The woman’s eyes were fixed on the mural, and they sat together for some time, just taking it in.
“It’s really fine work,” the woman said eventually. “And important. You should keep at it, I think.”
It was morning.
April was alone, and the cave was getting lighter—light enough that she could make out the lines of the mural, though not in the living relief she had seen it in last night. Her headache was still gone. The cave smelled, but the presence of the painting still made her happier, stronger.
Had she dreamed the woman?
Well, she wasn’t dead … so the visit hadn’t been death. And unless she was dreaming now, she didn’t think she was in a coma.
Ignoring the slight cramping in her stomach—too bad that hadn’t gone with the headache—she got to her feet and headed for the wet mud in the back of the cave. “Keep at it,” the woman had said.
It seemed to April like a fine idea.
This time she stood for a few minutes in front of the wall, the mud ready in her hands, considering. An image arose: one of the last she’d seen before all this. Bicycle tires whirling, a boy riding as fast as he could straight down the cobblestone street toward the bay. And then another image: the nets and crowded spaces of the fishing shack. And another: Nick’s face. She hoped he was well, that the thugs had not had him in their sights in any way. She felt that he still needed her, and the frustration of being interrupted suddenly hit. So she began to sketch the images out in red paint, this time laying the mud down thickly and then scratching out a sketch with a thin bit of rock, using the light stone beneath to create the lines of the pictures. It would be a prayer, this painting. It was all that she could do here.
She became aware, as she worked, lost in concentration, that she wasn’t alone. She could see no one, but her spirit sensed what her eyes could not. It was no great surprise.
She was Oneness, and she was never alone.
* * *
Chris had gone pale when Tyler arrived by himself, and he rushed out into the gathering evening. Tyler, bewildered, had stumbled into the house to find that the visitor he had spotted was not Diane; it was a woman he didn’t know, small and weathered, with dark hair silvered in strands and a face that was still powerfully attractive. She introduced herself as Mary and then stood peering around Tyler out the front door, clearly concerned about Chris.
When Chris came back twenty minutes later, having searched the immediate area as thoroughly as possible in the gloom, Tyler explained, “She was right behind me—we spoke when we got to the town. I have no idea when she left.”
And Mary made both young men sit down and eat a dinner, which she had cooked, of ham and potatoes and cornbread. Tyler wolfed it down, starving despite himself; Chris ate as much as Tyler did but without apparently noticing it. Mary was remarkably unoffended by
Perhaps painting the cave wall wasn’t such a childish thing to do after all.
Whether because she was so tired or because her head truly was injured, it took April a few minutes to wonder where the light was coming from. As she traced the contours of her painting she slowly became aware of someone sitting next to her. This didn’t bother or frighten her at all—again, perhaps because she really did have a concussion. Maybe she was lapsing into a coma, she thought, and imagining the light.
Or maybe this was death.
She turned her head slightly, happy to find that for the first time since she’d awakened in the cave, movement didn’t set her whole skull throbbing.
A woman she had never seen before was sitting next to her, and the light was emanating not from a lamp or from the dawn outside, but from the woman herself. The light was warm like flames in a hearth. The woman’s eyes were fixed on the mural, and they sat together for some time, just taking it in.
“It’s really fine work,” the woman said eventually. “And important. You should keep at it, I think.”
It was morning.
April was alone, and the cave was getting lighter—light enough that she could make out the lines of the mural, though not in the living relief she had seen it in last night. Her headache was still gone. The cave smelled, but the presence of the painting still made her happier, stronger.
Had she dreamed the woman?
Well, she wasn’t dead … so the visit hadn’t been death. And unless she was dreaming now, she didn’t think she was in a coma.
Ignoring the slight cramping in her stomach—too bad that hadn’t gone with the headache—she got to her feet and headed for the wet mud in the back of the cave. “Keep at it,” the woman had said.
It seemed to April like a fine idea.
This time she stood for a few minutes in front of the wall, the mud ready in her hands, considering. An image arose: one of the last she’d seen before all this. Bicycle tires whirling, a boy riding as fast as he could straight down the cobblestone street toward the bay. And then another image: the nets and crowded spaces of the fishing shack. And another: Nick’s face. She hoped he was well, that the thugs had not had him in their sights in any way. She felt that he still needed her, and the frustration of being interrupted suddenly hit. So she began to sketch the images out in red paint, this time laying the mud down thickly and then scratching out a sketch with a thin bit of rock, using the light stone beneath to create the lines of the pictures. It would be a prayer, this painting. It was all that she could do here.
She became aware, as she worked, lost in concentration, that she wasn’t alone. She could see no one, but her spirit sensed what her eyes could not. It was no great surprise.
She was Oneness, and she was never alone.
* * *
Chris had gone pale when Tyler arrived by himself, and he rushed out into the gathering evening. Tyler, bewildered, had stumbled into the house to find that the visitor he had spotted was not Diane; it was a woman he didn’t know, small and weathered, with dark hair silvered in strands and a face that was still powerfully attractive. She introduced herself as Mary and then stood peering around Tyler out the front door, clearly concerned about Chris.
When Chris came back twenty minutes later, having searched the immediate area as thoroughly as possible in the gloom, Tyler explained, “She was right behind me—we spoke when we got to the town. I have no idea when she left.”
And Mary made both young men sit down and eat a dinner, which she had cooked, of ham and potatoes and cornbread. Tyler wolfed it down, starving despite himself; Chris ate as much as Tyler did but without apparently noticing it. Mary was remarkably unoffended by
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