Her Grave Memoir

This is a tragic drama best told under the light of a full moon, by the warmth of campfire, while a distant storm echoes the senses of the audience.

The five characters (in mentioned order): the Grave Robber (or the teller), the Brother (or Him), the Old Man, the Author (or Her), and the Mother.

‘Here is the chilling tale of “Her Grave Mémoire”:

‘From here I aim to reach the northernmost tree line in thirty minutes, but the air moves slow, forbiddingly so, like step sticking molasses. I see a deep, ether veil cast before me. Foreboding grows, and time spaghettifies. I step ever closer while the dark waits; then, through Alice’s eyes, I see them waiting as ever they have. "No different than in light."

‘The trees form a wall, barring my sight. Close enough now, I extend an arm forward; castaway, I grasp for my buoy, then sigh in respite. To the tall, gnarled one I bow my head and tip my hat in thanks, "for the ride across."

'A town’s cemetery could be called a bed if you could avoid the keeper and stomach the dead. The grass is kept well, and most will avoid them, so you can sleep soundly on a warm summer’s night. This, however, is a graveyard, where dark is snared and festers. Ghosts are seldom seen by few, and if there was a time that I should ever see one, then it would be tonight.

‘Staring out, I wait. The air is warm, while a chill crawls under my sleeve. My depth perception stabilizes as I make out the tree lines by their silhouettes on my left and right; the one ahead is too far to see. Disdainfully, I sigh, "I forgot my gloves." I think that on a night less nebulous than this I would have not. I cannot go back or the dawn will come too soon, but, alas, tonight's is the last chance I allow myself. Blind, with a sure foot, I renew my repeated rehearsals of the route made during the light of day. Counting the steps, I feel my way slowly through this shadowy sea to the grave.

'I see it clearly; its stone awaits the coming dawn; its divot, like a shadow, adjoined at our feet. I can see him under the ground, waiting one man deep. I then resign my pack, open it, and retrieve the one thing I need: my folding shovel. With the rest, I toss my bag and coat out of the way.

'"Just the two of us. Or three, I suppose? Ready? Might as well."

'After taking one last look around, I begin. I decide to make a separate pile for the grass, though I doubt I will go through the effort later to make it neat. The topmost layer is tough, and the dirt is more foul than fragrant. My kerchief will suffice as a mask.

‘Now a soft breeze begins; it feels nice.

‘After some time, urgency creeps in, because I fear I am naked in the dark. “I must finish; I have my pride on the line; he has waited long enough, and I would rather not spend more time than is needed in this place.”

‘Gradually, I speed up.

‘Though preferable to its otherwise, the mask’s use increasingly challenges me. I near my limit; I know this, yet, still, I hasten. Impassioned, I throw my mask, heaving the earth in masochism. While in my hysterical fit, the risen wind kicks up dirt and chokes me. Losing my balance at last, I fall to my back. Like a turtle, I lie inverse and trapped.

‘I am tired. My hands tingle. “My palms are... black? No, they’re red.” I thought they were sweating. I thank that the pain is dull. Behind my fingers, through a thinning in the overcast, the Moon’s light peeks. Now in a clear, hypnogogic state, I think of my employer, the Old Man, and his story. Seven nights have since passed. It was, as I remember, quite tragic:

'"It was my brother who was favoured, you see, while I was slowly estranged. I loved my brother's wife. Her feelings, it seemed, were unclear until she heard falsely from him of my death while I was in a prolonged, absent, incommunicable state. It was then by dreadful coincidence that he should die the same day she takes her life. I felt betrayed, while left bereft. Our mother found her, along with her memoir.

'"I only recently learned of its existence from Mother's executor. In her will, she left to me a letter. I think she blamed me for their deaths, and waited, in spite, until now to tell me: In Her memoriam, she had the book sealed in a bronze capsule and buried with Him. She then saw to it that I be incapable of interring his body, thereby retrieving the book."

'He pauses.

'"You need me to get it."

'"I am an old man. I have little left besides my own memory."

'He turns and walks to his study's rain streaked window on his desk's left and gazes out. How many times had he done so?

'"I want to remember...”. Then, looking at me,” I know there is substantial enough risk, though through my wizened eyes I deem you fit. My concern is the matter of incentive. What is your fair price?"

'"My price is ten thousand dollars."

'"I'll give you twice that (minus a tax)."

'"I'll take it."

'"When can I expect your return?"

'"One week."

'"Then I shall await you here, with my dept."

'He would have doubled any reasonable value I gave, I am sure, to quantify his sentiment against it.’

‘Now back to my cryptic crusade:

‘This is quite comfortable: a good footrest and a nice view.

‘”She trusted her husband, though she assumedly loved his brother? Took her life thinking he was dead, with no proof? It doesn’t make any sense. Curious. How do I solve this riddle?” Like Sylar, I need to know.

‘”I need to know, even if it kills me; even while blind; even if my shovel breaks; even if my fingers break off. I will finish. I must figure this out.” Truth waits below, while I ponder above. Renewed, I stand once again.

‘”It’s not much farther anyway.”

‘I proceed, while the wind rises even more, until I hear that telltale metallic tick. From here, I unearth as much as I care to, until I see Him. Here he lies, cradling his charge. Though time and water have worn the walls, the box is seamless, as if unnaturally preserved; hermetical. The dawn approaches, though I cannot see it.

‘”Good morrow, you are lucky to carry something worth the effort which gives you another breath. Even if I am here to rob you, I take what doesn’t belong to you; or does it? In any case, we share this grave, therefore a proximal bond. Further, in exchange for my request, as tribute to my sincerity, I offer you the blood from my blistered palm.” I squeeze my outstretched fist above his jaw.

‘”Speak, Brother! I come to release you from that which binds you! Grant me your consent!”

‘I sit for a moment, holding my breath, seeking for any perceptible whisper behind the wind: the final croon of a bound soul’s remnant; it is more likely that in stupor, my unconscious mind impulsively constructs a whisper in my ear, the very word I long to hear: “Read”.

‘”I have my permit; now I need the book.”

‘With the box in hand, I measure its intrinsic strength with the other.’

*Knock, Knock, Knock*

‘Someone has turned on the light; I see everything, all around me, all at once; the yard has brilliantly come out of its hiding. The light shuts off again. I stand amazed. Deceptively long seconds lead the thunder. I have to break the capsule before the rain. The curtain lifts again, then, at the boom, I crack it over the stone revealing its yolk. It was kept well enough to be read.

‘”Enough; I have both of them.”

‘The rain now strikes at the height of the wind’s fury. I first wrap the book in my jacket, then in the bag, and hurry to reset the ground.

‘Tipping my hat at the close, I leave the yard.

‘”Goodnight!”

‘Later, I tend to my hands, and return to the old man’s study after reading the memoir. As promised, he waits. His body lies on the floor next to his desk, on which sits my fair due. I find it flattering that he should have a confidence in my retrieving the memoir well enough to grant his sleep. Resigning the book to the desk, I collect my bounty, and turn at last to see the old man standing next to his window to look out once more.

‘“Ah, memory... Memories; I fear mine slip; I feel them rearrange; I’ll have put one here, only to later find it somewhere over there... and there are others I now see clear which I thought were lost... Still, something escapes me...” A flash illuminates his countenance. His pleading eyes meet mine. Desperately, he says, “I want to try again; to go back. Please, will you let me go back?”

‘”My duty is fulfilled; your debt is paid. You have only your binds now, not mine.”

‘Neither can I grant him his wish, nor do I owe it to him. Adjacent his body, there is a table which extends under his window’s right curtain, looking out; there sits a lit candle, precariously perched. With my bread, I turn and leave.

‘The book revealed that the old man was once indeed her husband, not his brother--whom she had truly loved. She wanted to leave, so he killed his own brother in jealous rage. It was the author’s (or her) dying act to record this solemn memory: preserved by the mother, entrusted to the victim, cursed on the husband, allowed to me, and told to you.’

END