Death Watch (21 page)

“After the families left, other people began to come. Strangers
mostly. Rather like pilgrims. They’d come to touch the hand of a corpse. That’s so old-timey, don’t you think? Used to be believed, so I learned, that to touch the hand of a corpse brought good luck and could heal many afflictions. People used to come once or twice a week. I should have hung out a sign and charged a fee.

“And let me assure you, my boy, this is not by any means a Lichport-only phenomenon, though, generally speaking, it happens only in the best families. What do you think all those royal mummies are in Egypt? I’ll bet they started out just like me. Made a little fortune all their own, nice things around them, a fine home. Who wants to up and leave all that behind after you spend a lifetime winning it from the world? I’ll bet you a hundred dollars some of those ‘mummies’ locked up in their tombs or in museums could speak if they wanted to. Bet they are still dreaming away, even now, in their bodies. Wouldn’t knowing
that
wake people up to their obligations!”

“Obligations to what?” Silas asked. “What do you mean? If someone’s dead, what else are people supposed to do for them?”

“I mean: Families don’t die, Silas. I mean: We have obligations to our kin, to our ancestors, whether they are with us bodily to remind us or not. We don’t just stop at our skin. We go way back. Every one of us. I have had a bit of time to think about this, and the new fashion for abandoning ancestors troubles me, even though I’m not really part of the world anymore and, obviously, can’t really be objective. Silas, a question?”

“Certainly.”

“Have you ever seen anyone like me before today?”

“No, sir. I most certainly have not.”

“What do you make of this?” The corpse gestured to himself. “You seem to have inherited the brains from our side of the family, and goodness knows your father is a learned man regarding such
arcane matters. Have you come across this sort of thing much in your literary adventures? Or has your father spoken of it to you? ‘Restless,’ we’re sometimes called, but the word ‘Restless’ has never sat well with me, and I’d like to know what else people in my particular situation might have been called.”

“I think,” said Silas, hoping this would be taken the right way, “I think you are what used to be called a
revenant
.”

“That’s not some kind of zombie, is it? I am mortified by such indelicate associations.”

“No. No. Not at all. A revenant is just a person who’s died, but who hangs around for a while, that’s all. I think there are other names in other places. I read about these things in ancient Greece called the
ataphoi
, and it just means people not buried in their ancestral tombs.”

“Were
they
dangerous?”

“I think so,” Silas admitted, self-conscious now for mentioning it.

“Perhaps revenant is more appropriate then.”

“Yeah, those are more like people—well, they are people, some nice, some not so nice, but they just won’t lie down when they die.”

“Yes, that sounds right.”

Silas was utterly riveted watching and hearing his great-grandfather speak, but he couldn’t help thinking, as he looked at the corpse, wouldn’t death be better than what he saw before him? Continuation, yes, but in this way? He had to ask:

“I can see how it would be very lonely … are you happy like this? Happy to continue in this way for as long as it lasts? Other than the family not coming around anymore, is there anything that troubles you? Does it, well, does it hurt?”

“No, it doesn’t hurt, but there are some problems, I’ve found.
For one thing, I don’t sleep anymore. That’s the only thing that troubles me, really. It’s all one long day now. Drowsy dreaming and wide-eyed awake, one and the same. I look out the window some days and see my children come up the street toward the house, toward my steps, though they’ve both been gone for a while now. Other days, I see folks I don’t recognize coming and going so much faster than before, so I know days have passed, passed me right by because I am not moving. Not really.”

“And my vision and hearing have changed. Seeing is different now. When I focus on something, there is a sort of shift, and it’s like I’m both here and there, subject and object, all at once. I see something, but can very keenly see and feel myself seeing it. Maybe that’s death encroaching, the moment—for me, a long one—where one distinct being becomes part of everything it’s ever known, everything it’s seen, smelled, experienced. Also, I don’t get around much anymore, and I used to enjoy a walk after supper. Sometimes I hear things. Voices. And I know they are not from anything around me in this world. I think that’s because I have one foot here and another there, so I can hear things in both.”

All the fear had left him, and Silas’s heart had grown very tender toward the old man. He was nodding in understanding all the while as his great-grandfather spoke to him.

“I know what you mean,” Silas said. “I have trouble sleeping sometimes too, these days. And when I do sleep, I have strange dreams.”

“About your father?” his great-grandfather asked.

Silas nodded at the directness and accuracy of his great-grandfather’s question. “Why do you ask that?”

“Because no one comes here unless they’re looking for something, because the dead sometimes visit the living in dreams, and
because we’re family, and so I can hear a little of your heart and can tell that an absence has broken it.”

“Yes, I’ve been dreaming of him a lot lately, although in one particular dream, everyone was there but him. I can’t stop thinking about him, because I don’t know where he is.”

“Your father came here on several occasions, you know. He would sometimes stop here on those rare occasions when he’d be called up to the great house at the end of the street, the old Umber place, though he wouldn’t say much about his business there, and I’ve never been farther than Arvale’s front gate. Amos always had the most interesting questions, and he was extremely polite and gracious. Most of those flowers on the porches of this street were put there by your father. I think I was a help to him, but again, that was long ago.”

“Have you seen my dad recently? He disappeared last year and no one’s seen him. Maybe you have, or know something about where I might find him?”

“In that time he has not come here, Silas. At least I don’t think I’ve seen him. Hard to say anymore because minutes, hours, and days don’t mean the same to me as they used to. I can see some things far off, but it’s mostly my own kin I watch, coming and going about their business. When I see them, it’s a long way away and always through a mist. But if you like, I can try to catch sight of him, though I can’t promise anything will come of it. I can’t see things just because I want to, and sometimes it’s like staring into a sky without stars. If you want me to look
away
, to look for your dad, you’ll have to help me, because he’s not a blood relation to me. Would you like me to try?”

“Yes, sir. Please. I’d be very grateful.”

“Then why don’t you sit down next to me. It may be easier if I hold your hand, since your father’s blood is in you and not
me …” His great-grandfather paused and looked down at Silas. “May I ask you something?”

“Of course,” Silas replied.

“You are kin, my great-grandson, and I am glad to try and help you, but I wonder if it wouldn’t be too much to ask for something in return?”

“If I can do something for you, I will.”

“No one comes here anymore, Silas. Everyone is gone, and no one comes back. I understand. They want to get on with their lives. And no one wants to be reminded of the inevitability of death every day by a corpse sitting with them at the dinner table. Still, a visit every now and then would please me very much. Every now and again, I would like a little news of the world. Some gossip.”

Silas smiled at his great-grandfather, and the corpse’s face became just slightly more taut and seemed to be smiling back. A bargain had been struck.

Silas extended his arm, and his great-grandfather slowly took his hand.

It was a very strange sensation, Silas found, holding hands with a corpse. His great-grandfather’s skin was very dry, but a little waxy on the surface, like a candle. It still had just a bit of suppleness left in it, which explained how he could still move. Silas felt the nails right away. They were long and sharp at the end because some had broken off, or had been broken off, when they got too long. On his middle finger, his great-grandfather wore an ancient-looking gold ring, set with an enormous blue sapphire. Silas’s eyes were captured by the stone’s pale light until he felt the corpse’s grip close in on his own hand. It was not painful, but it was very strong, and Silas knew that if he had wanted to pull away, he very likely would not have been able to do it. Already, even as he continued to speak, a change was coming over his ancestor: The color of his
eyes had dissolved, turning first to spheres like clear quartz, then becoming milk-white. His mouth stretched open, and the words seemed to come from deep within his torso, like they were spoken at the bottom of a well, no longer formed by his dry lips, tongue, and whatever was left of his vocal cords. His voice came up in a low, hollow rasp and yet seemed to fill the whole of Silas’s hearing.

“Silas, you may ask me questions. I’ll try to answer. I don’t know what I’ll say when this starts, so prepare yourself. This is just the damnedest thing,” said his great-grandfather, and with that, the corpse went completely rigid, as though he had been poured full of cement. Silas looked down at his hand, held firmly in the corpse’s stonelike grip, and then up at the corpse’s face, and when he began to speak, it was not in the voice of a moment ago—familiar, familial—but something else, far older, far stranger, the combined voices of every ancestor with whom Silas shared blood speaking in chorus.

“You stand in the house of the long line, the full glass, and the word of welcome. Yet the ebony chair is empty. The chair of the Janus … who shall take this perilous seat? Where is the wanderer? Where is the lost one? Who—”

“Yes!” Silas cried out, interrupting. “That was in my dream!”

“—shall sit in the accustomed place of his kin? The hall is full, yet one is absent. The chair of ebony is empty still. Bestir! Bestir! Why do you wait? The Road of Virgil stands open! The Orphic strain pulls at the soul’s strings and draws the listener toward the abyss! You ask for words, but I shall say no more!”

“Wait, please, I—I don’t understand….”

“In the hall are those bound by blood, bound by the pact. You seek your father but cannot see him. And all the while, the ebony chair is empty! Who shall hold the threshold when the Door Doom comes? I have given you words, but I shall say no more.”

“Do you mean my father is there in the hall? Why can’t I see him? Is the hall this town? Lichport? Why isn’t he there, in the empty black chair, in the place across from me? Is he still here in Lichport?”

“He is where he has always been. The ebony chair waits for another in the hall of Arvale, though you cannot see the matter aright. Enough, I shall sink down!”

“Wait! Please! Can you just tell me where to find him?”

“Long is the son’s way, and it is fraught with darkness. Those who see absence know only longing. The sun sinks down into the sea. The dog howls from the cave of bones. The earth roars at the sin of Cain. The ship of souls lies at anchor, waiting. Those who are lost shall be doomed to wander. Only those who know their own place may seek the place of another. The ebony chair awaits its owner. Look behind you to find what you seek. Take up the mask of Janus and your work begins! You must look behind to see ahead. Before you stands the ebony chair and the dark hall. Seek not to see your father in that hallowed seat, for it is thine own…. Now I sink down….”

And with those words the corpse closed its eyes, and its head rolled to one side and did not move for many moments.

Softly, Silas leaned over closer to his great-grandfather and said. “Are you okay?”

The mouth of the corpse began to move, opening and closing again like an automaton, before speaking.

“I am all right, just not entirely myself for a moment. Was I able to help you?”

Silas felt embarrassed, because he was sure there was something his ancestor had said that would be helpful, but he would have to think about it and try to untangle the threads of what he’d heard.

“Yes, I think so,” Silas said.

Perhaps sensing Silas’s confusion, the corpse said, “Give it some thought. An oracle can be a damned obscure thing. I am sorry I couldn’t be clearer, but this kind of thing goes its own way, and I have no power over it once it starts.”

“I’ll try to see what I can make of it.”

“I will think about it too. There may be some other folk here in Lichport, or close to Lichport … I’ll try to remember. There are three women who I think knew your father. By rights, you may inquire of them, though they may not be easy to find. I expect their old house still stands at Coach and Silk, but wait a bit. Be here more. Maybe you know someone who can show you around. See more of the town, and you will have an easier time finding folk who may help you. I suspect when the ladies who dwell in that mansion are ready to see you, that’s when you’ll be able to see them.
Wait for the light
. …” But his great-grandfather’s voice was getting thin, and he said, “I don’t think I have it in me to say much more just at present. Perhaps we could talk about that another time? I will have to rest now for several days.”

Silas thought maybe his great-grandfather was holding something back, maybe just trying to ensure that Silas would come back and visit again, although he could see his ancestor did indeed look tired: His head hung forward, shoulders slumped, and his arms hung limply from his shoulders. Whatever force it was that animated his body, it had clearly been exhausted.

Before Silas turned to go, he said “Great-grandfather, thank you so much for your help. I have very much enjoyed my time with you.”

“That is very kind of you to say, Silas.”

Silas began to turn away, but then looked back at his great-grandfather.