My father would have credited thestory immediately. He knew he had drilled me to be valiant, or as much as anymere female might be; to resist my own whimpering physical failings. Perhaps hewas even proud of me a moment, even if my victory over self had led to mydeath. How often he has assured me my mother was “brave...” Never a complaint,even near death. “Her eyes released no single salty drop.”
I must also admit I do not thinkhe mourned me much at all, and then, his gorgeous mistress, Pomponia, was athand to console him.
Why did she kill me? I have nodefinite conclusion, despite the time I have had to consider one. I think possiblyonly because I depressed her, in my unimportance, much as that weighty,highly-valued translated German tome had dragged down my own spirits. I was aset task for her that was, not merely unachievable, even for such a paragon asherself, but both intensely repellent and dull. I was therefore better closedand laid back on the shelf. In other words, dead.
My Prayer
AfterI died, I found myself in a long room, whose many windows were flooded by soft,clear light that did not dazzle, but neither was anything visible outside. Iwas on a bed, I thought. There were other beds, too.
At first some figures in longgowns seemed to pass to and fro, and I took them for women who nursed us. In theother beds seemed to be other figures. Then, gradually, as I came more and moreto myself, I found nobody else was there, and the other beds were empty.Nothing in any of this disturbed me. I seemed to have been enjoying thesweetest rest, and now I was myself again, and I rose up, straight off the bed,and the light was warm and soft.
Aside from this very firstmemory, which still seems quite clear, any other things that happened for atime are blurred and I cannot remember them, certainly no details, only vaguehints of colour, light and shade, or feelings – and the feelings were all pleasantones, calm and happy. This is rather like a dream one had and then cannotrecollect, only vague little scraps that drift and float away. And once, muchlater, I believe, I saw a man in an old-fashioned coat of green brocade, and dearHeaven how he scowled at me! But then he too was gone.
The next solid memory I have isof standing outside the nursery, upset it had altered, and not to find my dolls– although, as I have said, I did find them later somewhere else, and couldnot hold them any more. As I stood there, a young lady came along the corridor,in a dark blue costume, which shocked me slightly because it showed, quiteclearly, her ankles, as only a young girl child showed hers. I particularlynoted it, I think, since I myself had only just attained grown-up clothing. Ihave grown accustomed, obviously, to such hemlines by now. Even those of thelater ‘modern’ women in the pictures, even Elizabeth’s, which are only just belowthe knee; she has assured me that, when younger, she wore skirts even shorter!
Nevertheless, the young woman inblue stopped instantly and stared at me. “Are you here?” she asked. I said toher, “Yes, this is my home.” And then she reached out, and her hand passed throughmy shoulder, and both of us sighed, knowing, even I, the reason. (This meetingis strange too, because it transpires Laurel died after I did. But then I mighthave lingered in that other place of light and unmemorised memories, and onlycome back here years after. I sense there was no true time there, in that place,no time as we know it here, alive, or dead. I could have returned at anymoment. I am glad I did not do so while Miss Archer was still in residence.)
I pray for Laurel every evening,just after the sun sets. Awake during day or night, there seems no point inpraying later, or by a bedside prior to unnecessary sleep. I pray forElizabeth, too, and since he arrived, for the old man from the library. I neverpray for the warrior from the 1300’s. I can see him nowadays, of course, and Iam shy of him, and he makes no proper sense to me when he speaks, although Iwish him no ill, poor thing. Do I also pray for myself? I do not. My prayersfor myself seem always to have been pointless.
Nor, naturally, do I ever botherto pray for them – those others who sometimes invade our grounds. They areMonsters. One does not pray for a monster, only to be rid of it, yet that tooseems useless. So many people must have prayed for that, and it has neverworked.
There is some frightening joke Icame to hear, in ‘modern’ times, that God had died. Perhaps He has.
Before the Tvie apparatus failed,as did the lamps Elizabeth and the old gentleman could somehow persuade to comeon, I had already seen appalling images of the creatures, which we are to callZom-bees.
If I had been only somewhatyounger, and, of course, alive, I should have suffered horrible nightmares ofthem. I always hope they will go away as suddenly as they come, and leave notrace. But if one tide of them draws out, another high Zom-bee sea replaces it.In addition, now some of them do not go at all, but loiter around the grounds,occasionally stumbling and crashing against the doors and lower windows. So faronly in two places did they gain access, and this, thank Providence, only in a partof the house none of us much visit; besides, it is becoming derelict. Nor didthese Zom-bees linger indoors. They appear to prefer the open spaces, even ifthe weather is inclement. Yet,
