until the bronze figure beneath began to emerge. It melted then recomposed. It softened, then redefined. It formed only to collapse. Its aspects shifted second by second, each complete metamorphosis being the herald for the next. But through it all the bronze eyes remained fixed and focused on the young man who breathed in quick, shallow gasps, chest tight, limbs rigid on the bed.
And the eyes too melted, after a fashion. For they cried. The shining drops gathered in the corners of his eyes and fell soundlessly to the earth below. Huge, sad eyes spoke soundlessly through the voided air which closed around them, of youth, courting Pomona through the orchards inland from the shores of Laurentum, winning her. Garlanded, handsome I was when the crown of plenty dangled from my fingers, and the songs sung of me and how they were sung less, later not at all…. Of my silence! The black earth which reclaimed me, I would speak of it…. And yet the dark interment weighs heavy on my thoughts, too long in silence, too long…. And through his rambling melancholy the tears fell, until the darkness thickened around him. His eyes fell back into the forgetful, sad centuries of which they spoke, narrowing to points, to pin-pricks until they vanished mutely into the dark. The tears of an abandoned god, a last appeal before dark.
Lemprière jerked violently as every sinew in his body snapped out of tension. He was shaking. He drew his knees up and rocked on his heels. His breath came quickly and his neck ached. What have I witnessed, he wondered. It cannot be, it cannot…. Better that I am mad than it be true. He looked out of the window. The stream, trees and fields looked much as they ever had. No trace remained of the vision he had witnessed. The god may have returned, may have risen and mourned his neglect, but no sign remained to betray the fact. And what of me, he thought then. It is I who read of him. Did I call him? But the other possibility hammered insistently in his skull, the thought that could not be faced for fear that it was true. I called him, I must have called him. He clasped his head in his hands. His temples pounded and a low groan gathered in his throat. Hammers in his head. He threw himself off his bed, ran to the window and, drawing breath, shouted into the dark,
‘I called him!’
The darkness was blacker than he could ever remember. An absolute silence followed the falling off of his voice. But the sound within was still there, barely audible, there, like the drops of water which as a child he had seen falling from the glistening roof of the cave at Rozel Bay and which, given time, produced the squat stalagmites on the cave floor. One might catch an hundred, a thousand, a million of those drops, they would produce the stalagmite just the same, each tiny deposit adding its layer until it reached the roof. He turned from the window and walked back to his bed. Lying there, staring into nothing, he opened the gate in his mind.
‘It is me.’ He spoke the words aloud and would have chuckled at how simple and how terrifying a statement he had just made. Somewhere within me, he thought, is a god who tears his face out of the ground, who has not walked the earth for two millennia and who walks outside my window. Then he wondered, what else walks within me?
The room was silent for some time. A few splutters were heard which gradually grew more frequent until they became recognisable as high-pitched giggles. Alone and in the dark, Lemprière laughed to himself without the least idea how or why he did so. The laughter rose and fell. Gaps of silence between the outbursts grew longer, until, exhausted at last, he fell into a deep and dreamless sleep. Outside the window the moon broke through the clouds and cast a bleaching light over the young man’s face. His limbs twitched periodically as his body released its inner tensions; his face was white in the moonlight and calm. He slept on.
Father Calveston applying grease to
And the eyes too melted, after a fashion. For they cried. The shining drops gathered in the corners of his eyes and fell soundlessly to the earth below. Huge, sad eyes spoke soundlessly through the voided air which closed around them, of youth, courting Pomona through the orchards inland from the shores of Laurentum, winning her. Garlanded, handsome I was when the crown of plenty dangled from my fingers, and the songs sung of me and how they were sung less, later not at all…. Of my silence! The black earth which reclaimed me, I would speak of it…. And yet the dark interment weighs heavy on my thoughts, too long in silence, too long…. And through his rambling melancholy the tears fell, until the darkness thickened around him. His eyes fell back into the forgetful, sad centuries of which they spoke, narrowing to points, to pin-pricks until they vanished mutely into the dark. The tears of an abandoned god, a last appeal before dark.
Lemprière jerked violently as every sinew in his body snapped out of tension. He was shaking. He drew his knees up and rocked on his heels. His breath came quickly and his neck ached. What have I witnessed, he wondered. It cannot be, it cannot…. Better that I am mad than it be true. He looked out of the window. The stream, trees and fields looked much as they ever had. No trace remained of the vision he had witnessed. The god may have returned, may have risen and mourned his neglect, but no sign remained to betray the fact. And what of me, he thought then. It is I who read of him. Did I call him? But the other possibility hammered insistently in his skull, the thought that could not be faced for fear that it was true. I called him, I must have called him. He clasped his head in his hands. His temples pounded and a low groan gathered in his throat. Hammers in his head. He threw himself off his bed, ran to the window and, drawing breath, shouted into the dark,
‘I called him!’
The darkness was blacker than he could ever remember. An absolute silence followed the falling off of his voice. But the sound within was still there, barely audible, there, like the drops of water which as a child he had seen falling from the glistening roof of the cave at Rozel Bay and which, given time, produced the squat stalagmites on the cave floor. One might catch an hundred, a thousand, a million of those drops, they would produce the stalagmite just the same, each tiny deposit adding its layer until it reached the roof. He turned from the window and walked back to his bed. Lying there, staring into nothing, he opened the gate in his mind.
‘It is me.’ He spoke the words aloud and would have chuckled at how simple and how terrifying a statement he had just made. Somewhere within me, he thought, is a god who tears his face out of the ground, who has not walked the earth for two millennia and who walks outside my window. Then he wondered, what else walks within me?
The room was silent for some time. A few splutters were heard which gradually grew more frequent until they became recognisable as high-pitched giggles. Alone and in the dark, Lemprière laughed to himself without the least idea how or why he did so. The laughter rose and fell. Gaps of silence between the outbursts grew longer, until, exhausted at last, he fell into a deep and dreamless sleep. Outside the window the moon broke through the clouds and cast a bleaching light over the young man’s face. His limbs twitched periodically as his body released its inner tensions; his face was white in the moonlight and calm. He slept on.
Father Calveston applying grease to
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