The Truth About Death (32 page)

“Try to keep her quiet,” the doctor said.

“I have to tell you something.” Her forehead crinkled under Julian’s hand. “There were people at the bus stop, and I thought that one of them had mistaken me for someone else. I couldn’t be sure, so I got on the bus, and then I heard it again.”

“Mrs. Dijksterhuis, I’m going to give you something that will help you sleep.”

“You’ll have to let me go first.”

“Just try to relax now.”

“I have to go to the toilet. I’ve had to go for a long time.”

The doctor turned to leave. “I’ll be back in a jiffy,” he said. “Don’t undo her whatever you do or we’ll have the devil to pay. I want to give her a sedative and a dose of Thorazine. Keep her quiet—that’s the main thing. Talk to her; tell her a story; anything.”

The doctor’s broad back filled the doorway.

“What have I done?” she wailed. “What have I done? Everyone on the bus stared at me as if I were drunk, but I
wasn’t
drunk. I was in great trouble and I had to pour out my soul before the Lord.”

“Why don’t I tell you a story?”

“Yes, Julie, but I have to tinkle. Badly.”

“Is that all?”

“I think so.”

Julian closed the door.

“Once upon a time,” he began as he loosened the straps on the near side of the cart, “there were two little girls named Seremonda and Duva.”

“They told me,” Hannah interrupted, “that the children had gone away.”

“You have to listen.”

“I
am
listening.”

Hannah swung her legs down over the side of the cart and stood up unsteadily. Julian helped her squat over the wastebasket, casting about in his mind for a suitable adventure, adding familiar landmarks one by one as he did so—the schoolhouse, the churchyard, the baker’s great stone oven, and of course, the great highways that bound east and west, north and south. The north–south highway was the geographical axis of the children’s adventures; invariably they set out north to the mountains or south to the sea. It was bisected, in the center of the village, by the east–west highway, which provided a sort of metaphysical axis, though this was never defined very precisely. The westward road, which led through rolling meadows and fertile valleys to the ancient city where the king held his court, was kept in good repair, and every now and then some of the villagers, either to seek their fortunes or to escape from sickness and trouble, would pack up their belongings and set out for the city, never to be seen again. But the highway that led to the east disappeared into a dense forest and was said to be impassible.

Hannah let loose a noisy stream of urine. “A river bordered the kingdom on the east,” continued Julian. “Hardly a trace remained of the bridge that had once spanned it; few of the villagers cared to venture even that far into the forest, and no one ventured any farther.” Not even Julian.

“But where did the children
go
?” asked Hannah.

“Are you through?”

“Not yet.”

“Are you listening?”

“Yes, I’m listening. They were under the mountain, don’t you remember? Tell me about it, Julie. They wouldn’t let me go there. They shoved so and held my arms.”

“You couldn’t see the mountain from the village itself, because of the forest, but you could see it from the churchyard, which was on a high hill. It was cold and white even in summer, and on holy days at night you could see little lights, like fireflies, just where the top of the mountain should have been.”

“I saw them too, Julie, dancing round the lamp. What are they?”

Julian wasn’t sure, but the schoolmaster said they were only shooting stars in the sky beyond the mountain, and the priest said they were fairy lights dancing on the mountain itself. The villagers were divided, but there was no way of settling the questions because there were no longer any travelers on the eastern highway.

Someone will have to set out eastwards,
thought Julian.
Tonight
.

The door opened and Hannah stood up suddenly, her skirt concealing the wastebasket. Sara ran to her mother. Father Neumiller was silhouetted in the doorway, his briefcase in one hand.

“Papa’s telling a story about Seremonda and Duva.” Hannah kissed Sara’s teary face.

“Are you all right, Mama?”

“Of course I’m all right. You must come and listen. But didn’t you bring Dinah?”

“No, Mama.”

“You mustn’t leave her all alone.”

“Mama, she’s dead—don’t you remember?”

“Then we must fetch her.”

Hannah stepped out of her underpants and looked around, as if to see who was going to accompany her. No one moved. A look of pain swept across her face and her knees buckled.
Julian caught her and with Father Neumiller’s help lifted her back onto the gurney.

Julian poured some water from the pitcher into the wastebasket. He raised his arm again, renewing the strange sense of wonder that had come over him earlier, and let his hand rest on the side of his wife’s face.

“No one ever ventured eastwards. Never even thought of it.”

Sara looked up at him.

“Except
.
”
Julian took the plunge. “No one ever ventured eastwards
except
the wandering minstrels and jongleurs who came out of the forest in the fall, dressed like wild animals, bound for the west.”

“Why did they dress like wild animals?” asked Hannah.

“The animals were their totems.”

“Oh. What did they do in the west?”

“They spent the dark winter months entertaining the king and his court.”

“Where did they come from?”

“Listen to the story and you’ll see. You’re worse than the children.”

But her question prompted him.

“Did they come from the Mountain of Lights?”

“Well, they told stories about it; they said that although the side of the mountain you could see from the churchyard was always covered with snow, on the far side it was always summer; and that spring lay to the north, and autumn to the south.”

“Shouldn’t it be the other way round?”

“That’s the way it was.”

“Did the villagers like the minstrels?”

“Yes and no. They didn’t trust them, but they gathered on the green to watch the juggling and tumbling and to listen to talk of life at the king’s court and songs of faraway lands.”

Julian waited for another question. He looked at Sara.

“Well, what happened?”

Not much to go on
. “One of the minstrels …” He trailed off, but then continued. “One of the minstrels was the favorite of Seremonda and Duva. His name was Joachim, and he was more reckless and gay than the rest. He was the last to arrive in the fall, dressed as a she-wolf, and he was the first to disappear into the forest in the spring. ‘Ich am of Faerielonde,’ he sang to the villagers, plucking a lute made of seven different kinds of polished wood and strung with gold and silver strings that glistened in the firelight.

“Ich am of Faerielonde

And of the holy londe

        
of Faerielonde.

Good sirs, pray ich thee,

Come and dance with me

        
in Faerielonde.”

Julian half sang, half chanted, improvising a melody. He summoned the villagers into a ring, children, parents, grandparents. They danced to Joachim’s music, some of them, like the schoolmaster, against their will. Seremonda waited for the schoolmaster’s son, the first love of her heart; but Duva, who lay close to Julian’s heart, was the first to join the magic circle. And when the dancing was over, and Joachim disappeared into the darkness, Duva went with him; and Julian knew that wherever her road led her that night, he could never call her back.

“By the time they reached the edge of the forest they could hear the villagers calling after them; but soon their cries became indistinguishable from the cries of the waterbirds nesting along the banks of the river.”

“What about Seremonda?” Sara asked. “Doesn’t she go too?”

It was her story too, of course; but she didn’t suit Julian’s present purpose.

“Just listen, will you? You always want to know everything in advance. They stopped to rest for a while—okay?—when they got to the river. They could hear the alarm bell tolling in the distance, but Joachim knew that the villagers wouldn’t pursue them into the forest at night. Pretty soon, though, they heard footsteps; not the clatter of heavy boots on the cracked paving stones, but the slap of small shoes.”

“Oh, Papa.”

Hannah smiled. She was lying on her side, one hand on Julian’s. Father Neumiller grunted in the back of the room and began to fiddle with his briefcase.

“Was it Seremonda?”

“Of course. But do you know what? Joachim was very angry with her. He said that she was too old to come with them, that she would be unhappy; but she wouldn’t go home, so they slept on beds of leaves and pine needles and breakfasted on nuts and berries before setting off through the forest, following the course of the river as it curved toward the east.”

Father Neumiller’s scowling face emerged into the light. He offered a hip flask to Julian. Julian took a swallow and gave the bottle to Hannah. Cheap brandy. He wanted her to sleep before the doctor returned. She dribbled the brandy down her front. Julian dabbed at it with a Kleenex, and then he brought the minstrel and the children to the far side of the forest, where there was a great gate and gatekeeper who thrust his lantern in their faces. “ ‘What have we here?’ growled the gatekeeper when he saw Seremonda. ‘You minstrels have no
mercy.’ But he gave them chunks of bread, which they toasted at an open fire, and cups of hot wine, which they stirred with cinnamon sticks. On the far side of the river rose the Mountain of Lights.

“The children clapped their hands,” said Julian, clapping his own, “and watched in wonder as the lights that gave the mountain its name began to appear, blue-white and amber, flickering like candle flames, whole constellations of lights dancing in the dark as if the stars themselves were dancing in the deep dome of heaven.”

He added a song, which Joachim sang as he escorted the children over a bridge spanning a steep chasm:

“Love of a distant country,

    
My whole heart aches for you;

O children, more beautiful than the stars,

    
Lights on the mountain,

The fields are harvested, the woods are hewn,

    
By those who never return.”

The mountain itself seemed to take up the song with a thousand echoing voices.

“No one grew older in that land, and the four seasons were at the command of the children, who swam in summer, and sprang in spring, and fell in fall, tumbling down the mountain like rockslides.”

Where am I now?
wondered Julian.
Given enough time,
he thought,
it would be possible to work out the metaphysical details, to reconcile discrepancies.
But there was no time. Tears had begun to sparkle in the corners of Hannah’s eyes; Sara was shuffling her feet; Father Neumiller would soon be drunk and loquacious. And in the doorway stood the doctor, gently
squeezing a hypodermic needle in his huge hand. A drop of clear liquid ran down the silver shaft of the needle and caught the lamplight as it fell, like a tear, or a star.

“On the west slope,” said Julian, turning back to Hannah, “the children wondered about the wide world beyond the forest, which they could see from the very top of the mountain, where they danced on holy days at night, carrying little torches.”
So much for the lights
.

Father Neumiller’s hand reached out of the darkness and caught the doctor’s arm. “Let him finish.”

“I told you not to undo her,” said the doctor, but his voice was tired rather than angry.

Julian held up his hand, palm out, motioning the doctor to be silent. Hannah was lying perfectly still. Julian filled the high halls that honeycombed the mountain with the music of sackbuts and shams, rebels and krumhorns, lutes and tournebouts. He set Duva a-dancing in courtyards overlooking orchards and vineyards and green gardens laid out in neat rows and watered by mountain springs like the garden of Alcinöos. But he hung the songs of the minstrels like heavy weights on the heart of Seremonda. He was clearing a path for her return.

“She grew pale and did not dance with the rest but sat apart in inglenooks, in silence and shadow, in fire and fleet and candlelight. Joachim did what he could to comfort her with counsel and cheer, marvels and magic, pranks and presents. He brought her a pear-shaped lute with seven pairs of gold and silver strings and taught her to play, to bind sadness in song; and soon she was strumming stately sarabands, plucking proud pavanes. The other children gathered round her, and Duva led the dancing. Seremonda’s heart grew whole, but she did not forget the wide world in the west, her heart’s
home, and the schoolmaster’s son, the first love of her heart, and a terrible longing seized her, the same longing that sent the minstrels migrating like birds back to the wide world and beyond. When they began to gather in groups, talking of travel to faraway lands, she asked Joachim if she and Duva might not go too.

“ ‘You shall come with me,’ he said, ‘for love calls you back to the things of the world.’ ”

Alas,
thought Julian,
for Duva must stay behind
; “But Joachim said, ‘Duva will not wish to leave the mountain.’ ” And indeed nothing would persuade her to return. Seremonda became quite cross with her, but to no avail.

It suddenly occurred to Julian that she might travel farther east. They might all meet at the king’s court in the west. The world is round, after all. But he let the opportunity slip through his fingers. Duva remained on the mountain. Joachim and Seremonda departed, dressed as wild animals, keeping the river on their right.

“Seremonda forgot the sharp pain of parting as she drew nearer and nearer to her old home, which they reached on the third day at nightfall. They drew the villagers into a circle. ‘Ich am of Faerielonde,’ Joachim sang, and Seremonda plucked the gold and silver strings of her pear-shaped lute. One by one the children joined the dance, followed by their parents. Seremonda’s mother and father joined hands with the rest, and the schoolmaster’s son too, the first love of her heart. The priest blessed them reluctantly before stepping into the magic circle. Only the schoolmaster remained in the darkness. But Seremonda joined her voice, high and clear, with Joachim’s till the schoolmaster too stepped forward into the warm glow of the firelight.