Her eyes wander, search and pore
Seeking wonder, and peace once more
Desiring truth, wishing to be wise
Hoping for a day as this to rise...
I
The Garden
There are flowers everywhere: some planted on purpose and some servants of their own wild wantonness. The girl is fond of both, but this evening calls, in some indescribable way, for the latter. And so, after swinging the little wicker gate open and listening to the creaks die out as ever, she heads straight for the left corner of the garden, where her favourite flowers grow in profusion and a raw splendour of their own.
Once there she sits on the marble ledge and lets herself the deepest of breaths. The aroma gently enters her, and the smile that ignites her face moments later is proof enough that it fulfills her too. Her eyes, closed of course by now, open for a few moments and take a look around. She is surrounded by flowers of all the same variety, one which she is unaware of, despite all her worldly knowledge. They are lilac in colour, and black in fragrance. And just as every other time, she feels that there is no more to know of them, that this is all there is.
She closes her eyes again and turns her face upwards. Her hands, reclining on her lap thus far, slowly begin to rise. They stop a little above her midsection and it looks as if she beckons to the world to come see her and comprehend what she means when she says she is different. They stay like that for a few protracted seconds, and then move on, to her face and then over her head and outwards. Her lips part infinitesimally, and a sigh seems to escape them. This final state looks much more complete, much more the way she is meant to be. Her up-turned face seems to be talking to the evening Sky, and her hands appear to make a reasoned request... perhaps for it to take her away, or else, to come down and be her friend.
II
The Sky
I am dusk. I am red in hue and purple in purpose. I bring an end to brightness, but I promise not just the dark of night, but also the dawn to follow. I am good-hearted, and totally innocent.
Today, there is a girl sitting in a garden, asking me to aid her. I, the Sky wearing its twilight robes, by myself, can do nothing. But I do have messengers, agents who can symbolize assistance. Now, let me think what this girl can possibly find of help. The more I see her, the more I am reminded of something... someone, in fact. She looks a trifle removed from the rest, and I think I know her from someplace else... And... Oh! Of course! Sweet Master! How could I have missed it? Well... if that is the case... the solution is simple... but oh, let me stare some more, for a sight of such vaunted rarity is hardly one to let pass...
I think I should now progress to my task of finding her an aid, which, by the way, is the simplest of all the tasks I've had in my life as the Sky. This is hardly even a search, to be true. This is destiny, and there is nothing more decided than destiny. I scatter a handful of clouds and let the earth flood in half with silver, and I am done.
The girl's eyes open and meet me. Not me precisely, but the gift I just delivered: the Moon.
III
The Graveyard
Rest is passe. Rest is irrelevant. Rest is for those who aspire to live. His shadow is more solid than his self, and the evening has missed his presence completely. No more, though, for his stench will soon be unmistakable. It is a special night for him, simply phrased, but full of the joy of unquestioned power.
He floats to the end of his journey, blacker than thought and swifter than speed. The gates to the graveyard open of their own, for he has his own winds at command. A few yards inside, he finally lands, touching the earth with his fleshless feet, and setting an imperceptible tremor into action. His body takes tangible shape, and his quasi-human hands acquire a staff of symbolic finality. No vision can decipher him yet, but for those who will whenever he so desire, he wears a blameless hooded robe of the purest white, closed at the waist by an iridescent waistband . This is supposed contradiction, but true knowledge is scarce.
Silent as his winds he progresses, and reaches his corner of choice. The girl is seated on her gravestone already; his job has half been done. But his presence itself is testament to the occasion: this is no normal night, no commonplace end to the life of another day. No, he can't simply steal. He would have to do more. He would have to show this girl a dream from his land of lifeless imagination.
And so he does. Like lightning he picks her up, and touches her forehead with the tip of his staff, to take her away for the last time before omega. This act, as every other time he has had to visit this hateful place full of life, gives him a thrill beyond measure. He waits staring at the staff-tip, his invisible eyes burning with anticipation-- he is about to know whether he came in time...
A faint, quivering light awakens at the staff-tip, and his eyes glow in return. He was in time, after all-- as ever, and he now accepts this as his right. He now believes he can never not be in time, for he, the Angel of Death, is time.
With a wave and a flourish he takes her away, into her dream and his.
IV
The Dream
Her talk to the Moon interrupted with a smooth flash of surreality, the girl finds consciousness next in front of a brick structure she seems to remember. She is unable to strain her memory at present, though, so she reads her bearings instead. She is improbably dressed in white, but it is not the colour that is her primary reason for disbelief: she wears a bridal gown of exquisite make, simple and deadly in that very quality. Inspite of all her befuddlement, the girl smiles.
She looks up, and remembrance strikes like a clarion call. This is the building in the centre of the garden, the building that is in fact the cause the garden was built: the chapel.
There is no one around, no one to explain to her the happenings of the last few moments, but that seems no bother, for she knows there is just the one thing she can do. She takes a few steps forward and enters the chapel through its simple wooden doors.
It is dark inside, but the Moonlight filtering in through the high windows is enough for her to keep walking. Her left hand, by her sides thus far, now rises to display the bunch of black roses she carries: roses that not only smell of nothing in particular, but of nothing at all.
The aisle is reached, and her true walk begins.
At exactly the count of seven a choir starts to play. It is easy to recognize the song as a symphony of despair. Music never stays floating around the girl, and as she walks she lets the notes steal through her walls. In moments she begins to cry, but her sobs are inaudible even to herself, and she walks on.
As her legs take her forward, her life plays through her mind. Blinking sparks of memory and sentience show her the picture of her mother holding her crying after a failed examination, of the Virgin cradling baby Jesus in her arms, of her father entering the house with a puppy as her birthday gift, of the peace and unwavering faith in the illuminated eyes of the Magi painted on the ceiling, of her sister smiling and hugging her in return for her daily gift of picked flowers, of the twin candles by the Holy Sculpture burning with life and defiance, of the moment when she uncertainly kissed her first lover, and of the tales of holy love impressed on the chapel's windows. These images fill her with hope, and the girl feels less of her tears with every passing moment...
Soon the rows of pews are outnumbered by her steps, and the altar is upon her. She stops. Soaked with life by her tears, her gown has begun to glow. She is smiling still, and there is something decidedly wrong.
Behind the altar stands her groom, dressed in a suit of blameless white. She looks at him with her unfaltering smile, and his own, unshakable so far, falls a distinctly observable notch. The music turns sadder still, seemingly attempting to mask the growing incongruity. But to no avail, for the sum of the smiles has started to look constant as the guiding star. The rolling tears are constant too, but the girl seems not to care. She begins to walk again, and climbs the steps to the altar.
The groom relinquishes his stillness and approaches his bride. They meet in the centre of the space, and the music stops. The tears do too, and in the quiescence that follows, the marriage vows are silently exchanged, eye to eye. The man pronounces the girl his wife, and girl him her man. And then, in an absolute retraction of expectance, the girl pulls her groom by his suit and kisses his lipless mouth, seeming to drink his soul from him. The man, taken aback, recovers and kisses her back, for he believes this is still another fait accompli. With visible passion they stay intertwined, apparently consummated in matrimony. The groom's eyes, invisible till this moment, begin to smolder like embers in waiting. His task seems done.
The girl suddenly breaks away, still smiling, and the next instant pulls the curtain off the pinnacle of impossibility. Considering there is no crowd to receive her bouquet of black roses, she, with every ounce of force she can muster, thrusts its end into her groom's heart. Her fate seems fulfilled.
There is no blood, finally as expected, and the man falls without even a whisper. He has been defeated in a manner numb to belief. The altar resonates with a thud as he hits the ground, and lays on his back. The black roses protrude from his lifeless heart, and look infinitely more beautiful than his anguished countenance.
Death can't die, just as time, and so his pain is forever. The girl, looking down on the man she just married to destroy, keeps smiling. The music returns, and this time it is spring music.
V
Destiny
A garden one moment, a graveyard the next. A ledge in one world, a tombstone in another. And then a chapel in each. The dream is done, and the girl wakes up at the stroke of midnight, having had perhaps the most peaceful sleep of her life.
The Moon is shining still, and so is her smile. The Sky had erred in interpreting her call as pleading. Death had been wrong to think he had come in time. And if anyone had not been mistaken, it was the Maiden's Moon, when during their conversation as fated lovers, he had said--
"Death shall kiss you tonight, be sure to kiss it back."
It was only destiny that Death arrived the very next moment. Only destiny too, surely, that he perished in a dream of his very own desire. And perhaps, as the Sky had so fondly remarked, there is, in all we know, nothing more decided than destiny.
Presently, the Moon and his Maiden recline in voiceless conversation, and Death, equally silent, lays vanquished nearby in his flowered pool of bloodless ruin. And as the curtain to this tale descends, the night Sky, ever efficient in part, gently smiles, twinkles a smattering of stars, and looks on.
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