"England and Scotland slid past the litter of the king of the Shadows. ...The sea was not frozen; for all the stars shone as clear out of the deeps below as they shone out of the deeps above; and as the bearers slid along the blue-gray surface, with never a furrow in their track, so pure was the water beneath, that the king saw neither surface, bottom, nor substance to it, and seemed to be gliding only through the blue sphere of heaven, with the stars above him, and the stars below him, and between the stars and him nothing but an emptiness, where, for the first time in his life, his soul felt that it had room enough."
-- from "The Shadows," by George MacDonald
For now it's enough to see his shaking hand as he writes. Do you see it? Just above the paper, hovering: The pen scratches out words, stops. How the hand trembles! If you watched long enough, you'd see how the flicker of his oil lamp keeps time for him. The pen, the hand, the flame -- when he writes they are in step, moving to a music not heard but felt. Shadows soon take up a fluid dance along the wall; it is a moonless, starless night, and the fire burns low. And so the shadows dance.
Rain. Is it that he writes of rain, or does it fall upon his thatched roof, trickle down the walls, sizzle in the fire? No matter. It takes up the tune one way or another -- rain upon the paper, rain outside; he writes of it, he hears it within, without.
He shivers but does nothing to warm himself, not while the words come. Later, when his hand ceases, he will pull his hood up over his stinging ears, but now he's lost to everything but the hum and flow gathering within him. So out with it. A wild dance, and the shadows approach, reach out, touch the ache in his shoulder, his wrist.
***
(A weekly meeting between two men in a crowded tavern -- one is called Sands, the other McIntosh. They sit in a back room along an inside wall; the noises from all directions, even within the wall, don't distract them.)
Sands: I've written so many other things. This one...it holds me up.
McIntosh: Holds you up?
Sands: The image. It won't leave me -- but it won't resolve either.
McIntosh: (Nods as he sips from a sturdy tankard.)
S: (Searches the wall over McIntosh's shoulder, but he isn't seeing the wall.) I realized the other day, once you'd left, it reminds me of MacDonald's story --
M: The one about the shadows?
S: And Rinkelmann. Yes. I haven't read that in years. Yet, there it is.
M: The shadows in that story, they take him as their king, but why? I can't remember.
S: He's a poet. They come for him after he's made king, to pay homage. And there's something about his health; he's recovering from a sickness.
M: Quite the fairytale. But you hadn't read it recently?
S: (Shakes his head.)
M: And you don't know yet what your man's writing? -- A haunting business.
S: To me, yes. You know, the dark mood wasn't to be a haunting for him. But it certainly has been for me.
M: How long?
S: Months.
M: You aren't able to write anything else?
S: I can. But it's with the old man at the desk, always waiting for me to populate his 'wild dance.'
M: That idea -- that you're making him wait -- what does that remind you of?
S: Shadows.
M: No, I mean in general. (Waits a moment.) It reminds me of the fates.
S: (Nods in agreement.)
M: You used the word populate, and it made me think of times I've imagined my characters like you just said, waiting for me...
S: Yes.
(Sands and McIntosh are silent for a moment, both their minds busy. They both drink and pick at their food.)
M: She's gone, Sands.
S: What?
M: Rose -- she's left.
S: When? How -- I don't understand.
M: I don't either. Two weeks tomorrow.
S: You're telling me now?
M: I didn't think, I didn't --
S: No, sorry, I should've asked about her, about you.
M: I should have asked about her, it seems. Years in the same house, and -- (He motions with his hand) then she's gone. You know, the house is quiet. I hear things like a ticking clock, or the ducts popping. Last night I stood in the hall listening.
S: Where is she?
M: I don't know.
S: I'm sorry.
M: Yes, me too.
(A crash from the kitchen, a loud crash of platters and pitchers, glass and metal together clattering -- both Sands and McIntosh turn at the commotion, unable to ignore it. Silence follows before the normal noises resume.)
M: What if she's waiting?
S: (He looks at his friend, brows furrowed.)
M: That's the thought I just had -- what if she's waiting like your man waits?
S: I --
M: No, I know, it's wild. -- Do you have the time?
S: Quarter past. Why don't you stay with me for the weekend? We can walk in the morning. Or --
M: Sands, it's okay. I'm okay. -- Sorry, that was a strange thing to say. Didn't mean to worry you. Listen, I'll be here next week and you'll see; I'm --
S: Stay and finish your food (He leans over the table on his elbow).
M: No, I'm going. Thanks for the evening.
(Sands watches his friend walk away, his arm still resting on the tabletop. When McIntosh is out of sight, his fingers search out his forehead with a steady pressure. He is motionless until his waiter is convinced he's fallen asleep; as he goes to check on him, however, Sands uses both hands to rub his face. Then, quickly, he finishes his drink, leaves some money, and walks out.)
S: Shadows.
M: No, I mean in general. (Waits a moment.) It reminds me of the fates.
S: (Nods in agreement.)
M: You used the word populate, and it made me think of times I've imagined my characters like you just said, waiting for me...
S: Yes.
(Sands and McIntosh are silent for a moment, both their minds busy. They both drink and pick at their food.)
M: She's gone, Sands.
S: What?
M: Rose -- she's left.
S: When? How -- I don't understand.
M: I don't either. Two weeks tomorrow.
S: You're telling me now?
M: I didn't think, I didn't --
S: No, sorry, I should've asked about her, about you.
M: I should have asked about her, it seems. Years in the same house, and -- (He motions with his hand) then she's gone. You know, the house is quiet. I hear things like a ticking clock, or the ducts popping. Last night I stood in the hall listening.
S: Where is she?
M: I don't know.
S: I'm sorry.
M: Yes, me too.
(A crash from the kitchen, a loud crash of platters and pitchers, glass and metal together clattering -- both Sands and McIntosh turn at the commotion, unable to ignore it. Silence follows before the normal noises resume.)
M: What if she's waiting?
S: (He looks at his friend, brows furrowed.)
M: That's the thought I just had -- what if she's waiting like your man waits?
S: I --
M: No, I know, it's wild. -- Do you have the time?
S: Quarter past. Why don't you stay with me for the weekend? We can walk in the morning. Or --
M: Sands, it's okay. I'm okay. -- Sorry, that was a strange thing to say. Didn't mean to worry you. Listen, I'll be here next week and you'll see; I'm --
S: Stay and finish your food (He leans over the table on his elbow).
M: No, I'm going. Thanks for the evening.
(Sands watches his friend walk away, his arm still resting on the tabletop. When McIntosh is out of sight, his fingers search out his forehead with a steady pressure. He is motionless until his waiter is convinced he's fallen asleep; as he goes to check on him, however, Sands uses both hands to rub his face. Then, quickly, he finishes his drink, leaves some money, and walks out.)
***
A wild dance, and the shadows approach, reach out, touch the ache in his shoulder, his wrist. The touch, it startles him. His chair rubs against the floor at his sudden movement, but soon all is well, all is as before -- the lamp still burning, the shadows, receded to their places, dancing, dancing along the wall.
He writes.
***
(Sands is speaking into the phone. It's late, his work is on a desk in the other room. He hasn't slept.)
Sands: It's a vague notion. Yes, I'm well. (Listens.) No, I don't think I'll sleep. Not tonight. Sorry I called so late. I -- I needed to hear the words aloud is all, and, yes, I know when I hear them again in the morning they'll be unmasked for what they are -- yes, I know. (Listens. Rubs his eyes, nods his head.) Right -- thanks. No -- no need to check on me. I'll let you go. Yes, goodnight. (He hangs up, then faces the desk that holds his writing.) But what if she does wait? But for what? -- Finish. I have to finish.
***
...dancing, dancing along the wall.
He writes. Long enough to outlast the rain, he writes. The night lengthens.
[Do you see it? Just above the paper, hovering: The pen scratches out words, stops. How the hand trembles!]
The fire is all but out; the lamp has almost burned its fuel completely. Shadows deepen, advance. Without the rain, sounds of night crawl under the door, first sounds he knows: owl call and swoop, scratch of racoon, coyote whine; but then one above the others, one that stops him in his work: a wailing song -- of woman.
On his feet -- yes, he's heard a wail, outside not within -- his lamp trimmed and filled, he ventures past the threshold. One look back at his work; it shifts in the new breeze from the open door, settles. At his elbow he feels a pressure, soft, compelling. He pulls away from what he knows into the darkness.
The garden gate creaks as it swings at his own hand -- and always, ever urgent, the attendant at his arm. Footsteps ahead! He calls for her to stop, for in his mind an image has sprung up, a picture of a lady running from -- what? -- now running from him; he calls again and rushes forward.
Sands: No, thank you, I've had enough. (He drains his final drink and produces the pages he's been laboring over. As he reads them, he forgets himself and his surroundings.) ...A wild dance.
On his feet -- yes, he's heard a wail, outside not within -- his lamp trimmed and filled, he ventures past the threshold. One look back at his work; it shifts in the new breeze from the open door, settles. At his elbow he feels a pressure, soft, compelling. He pulls away from what he knows into the darkness.
The garden gate creaks as it swings at his own hand -- and always, ever urgent, the attendant at his arm. Footsteps ahead! He calls for her to stop, for in his mind an image has sprung up, a picture of a lady running from -- what? -- now running from him; he calls again and rushes forward.
***
(Sands sits in the same tavern, at the same seat, but this time alone. He suspected as much, but he came with the hope of McIntosh arriving.)
Sands: No, thank you, I've had enough. (He drains his final drink and produces the pages he's been laboring over. As he reads them, he forgets himself and his surroundings.) ...A wild dance.
***
[A wild dance, and the shadows approach, reach out, touch the ache in his shoulder, his wrist. ...The night lengthens. ...he calls again and rushes forward.]
But for the two hurrying figures, the night is still; the cold has settled the air, the ground, and as it advances its icy fingers, the nocturnals retreat into their dens or under their downy wings. This, it seems, lends to the feeling both woman and man have growing within them, that they are watched -- that they are pursued.
He calls. And calls again. Upon a hill covered in heather, he stands to let his breath return. He hears only his own heart, and the darkness fights against his lamp. This is where the stars look down upon the lace that forms here: When the clouds are held back, and the moon is but a sliver, those distant flames commune with the fog laying like a blanket upon the heath. Together they weave the lace that covers everything, a lace of frost.
How do such thoughts come as fear rises? Here, standing, watching, his mind gathers his surroundings and in wonder his thoughts are of stars and foggy lace.
She's gone.
He goes back. At the door, his eyes catch sight of the coals just beyond the hearth; he knows what lies behind him, and he knows what lies beyond the masses of cloud above him -- but here, in this small room, on that desk (within those pages!), a constriction, a tight hold. How his hand trembles.
He looks over his shoulder for only a moment before closing the door.
***
(All the tavern-sounds one would expect pulse and throb around Sands: talk, both low and loud, laughter turning to shouts turning to yet more laughter, clinking of glass on glass, thudding of glass on bar or table. Does he hear any of it? Or does he stand amid the heath, fog's lace around his ankles?)
***
(The hall stretches the length of the house. It is narrow and light from different rooms flickers across with ease: soft candlelight, white electric light toward the kitchen, dying orange glow from the fire. Sands sits at a half-table under the phone here, where the light is varied, where reminders of daily worries brush against the deepest kinds of anxiety. He's been here, the receiver at his ear, a length of time of which he's unaware.)
Sands: Two weeks. And I haven't heard. Let me ask you something, what did you feel as you sat here? Did you have a weight on your shoulders, or the back of your neck, maybe just along your sides? And did you feel it directly once you came in? Yes, I know, you didn't stay long. But is that why? (Listens. He bends at the waist so his elbows can rest on his knees.) No, I understand. (He hangs up the phone.)
(He shivers but does nothing to warm himself...and there he sits, staring at his hand as it begins its tremors. Finally, he grabs the phone and dials.)
Sands: Come on, be there. (Several moments pass; he hangs up.)
(He shivers but does nothing to warm himself...and there he sits, staring at his hand as it begins its tremors. Finally, he grabs the phone and dials.)
Sands: Come on, be there. (Several moments pass; he hangs up.)
***
[He calls. And calls again.]
He has spoken into the night. Firelight and warmth at his knees, his face buried in his arms, he has spoken these words: May the night be endless until she returns; may its length be untold and may she be gathered in with the embrace that brings her back.
***
(A knock on the door. Sands opens it to find McIntosh.)
Sands: McIntosh! Come in! I've been trying to reach you --
McIntosh: Yes, I know.
Sands: Your eyes, they're weary. Sit. Here, come next to the fire, and I'll build it up.
M: Thank you, Sands. (He leaves his coat on and sighs as he settles into a wingback chair.) How long did you wait for me these two weeks?
S: Not sure. It's no problem.
M: All the same -- I'm sorry. Listen. I need to tell you some things -- well, and I thought you'd like to know what's been keeping me away.
S: (Nods and sits across from M.)
M: Not sure how this has anything to do with Rose; I can't help but think so. You remember, a few weeks ago, you brought up the MacDonald story? Well, when I went home, I found a copy of it -- sorry, do you have a drink nearby?
S: Yes, of course. (He heads to the cabinet on the far wall and pours two drinks from a short bottle.)
M: Thanks. (As he sips, he stares into the fire.)
S: You're a changed man -- and I'm not sure I'm glad to say so --
M: Oh, I know, but hear me out, Sands. I'm sure I've aged double or more, and not all's been pleasant. But, just listen -- the story, about Rinkelmann, I read it the same night we last talked. Do you remember the passage, toward the beginning, when the Shadows carry him across the Northern Sea?
S: Could never forget it, "...seemed to be gliding only through the blue sphere of heaven."
M: Yes! That's the one. I read it that night, and that scene, it came back -- it's come back every night since. That idea of space. Not outer space, mind you, but, what is it, that he had room enough -- that his soul finally had room enough. And there I was, stuck in an empty house, but everything -- everything closing in on me.
S: I need a second drink, you?
M: Thanks.
S: Strange.
M: Yes, I know. (Looks at his friend.) But which part do you mean?
S: The part about closing in. -- This may seem like changing the subject, but I'm not so sure. Hear me out. I'm still trying to put an end to the piece I told you about.
M: Your man at the desk.
S: Right. And I've gotten him up and outside a bit. That pressure you spoke of -- he felt it.
M: And you?
S: Yes, me too. And it's always worse, as I'm here alone, writing -- in the very act of composing -- and I'm thinking of you, and Rose; now this.
M: And you see, none of this seems odd to me, or fantastic, not after the things that've happened these last few weeks.
(The fire pops, and both men become aware of the following silence; both know the other's thought.)
M: You remember what I said to you, don't you?
S: I do. (The weight was back. It sat like an ox yoke across his neck, forcing him to bow his head.)
M: What if she does wait?
S: (Sands barely whispers.) How can that be?
M: Sands, I don't know -- I'm hysterical about Rose. She was simply gone. No note, no fight, no warning. I thought at first that I was dense, blind to her and us -- but what you said the other day, that your man waited, that idea ate at me -- and the story of old Rinkelmann being carried to such an open place, a freedom, why, I realized why it haunted me so: each day she's gone, the more things -- oh, Sands, it's deafening, like walking in a tunnel with the engine rushing at me --
S: What do you need me to do?
M: You don't know how those words comfort me -- I'm not mad, am I?
S: Maybe we both are. Yet --
M: Yes, yet, there it all is -- and it won't pass.
S: No, I'm afraid it won't.
M: I'd like to think she's being whisked along just above the ground in a queen's litter.
S: Yes, keep going. (He walks quickly to his desk.)
M: You know, with a crown. Jewels on her head, jewels in the night sky.
(Do you see it? Just above the paper, hovering: The pen scratches out words, stops. How the hand trembles!)
M: Her face, it feels the wind, and though it's icy, her eyes close for the joy of it. She can't see those who bear her, but she knows them without fear. The furs. They surround and warm her. And -- ah! Sands, won't she return? Won't she come back to me?
S: She does -- she will -- keep going!
(A noise outside stops them. They listen with an intensity that grows by the moment. Finally, Sands goes to the door and, while he thinks about opening it, McIntosh walks slowly toward him, his hand tracing its way along the wall.)
M: You have to write it, Sands. You must. Go. Rose returns -- write it! Oh, the absurdity of it all -- but I know you must!
(Sands rushes back to his pen and paper.)
S: "Rose returns." (He repeats the phrase, and his face is so close to the pages on the desk that he can feel his own breath. He writes and repeats the words aloud.)
M: I'm going to open the door, Sands.
S: Yes, I'm here.
M: Rose, she returns.
S: Yes, McIntosh, Rose returns.
(McIntosh flings the door open upon a clear sky wheeling with stars, and the two men stand in the doorway, their hearts full of storybook hopes. They wait.)
M: Thank you, Sands. (He leaves his coat on and sighs as he settles into a wingback chair.) How long did you wait for me these two weeks?
S: Not sure. It's no problem.
M: All the same -- I'm sorry. Listen. I need to tell you some things -- well, and I thought you'd like to know what's been keeping me away.
S: (Nods and sits across from M.)
M: Not sure how this has anything to do with Rose; I can't help but think so. You remember, a few weeks ago, you brought up the MacDonald story? Well, when I went home, I found a copy of it -- sorry, do you have a drink nearby?
S: Yes, of course. (He heads to the cabinet on the far wall and pours two drinks from a short bottle.)
M: Thanks. (As he sips, he stares into the fire.)
S: You're a changed man -- and I'm not sure I'm glad to say so --
M: Oh, I know, but hear me out, Sands. I'm sure I've aged double or more, and not all's been pleasant. But, just listen -- the story, about Rinkelmann, I read it the same night we last talked. Do you remember the passage, toward the beginning, when the Shadows carry him across the Northern Sea?
S: Could never forget it, "...seemed to be gliding only through the blue sphere of heaven."
M: Yes! That's the one. I read it that night, and that scene, it came back -- it's come back every night since. That idea of space. Not outer space, mind you, but, what is it, that he had room enough -- that his soul finally had room enough. And there I was, stuck in an empty house, but everything -- everything closing in on me.
S: I need a second drink, you?
M: Thanks.
S: Strange.
M: Yes, I know. (Looks at his friend.) But which part do you mean?
S: The part about closing in. -- This may seem like changing the subject, but I'm not so sure. Hear me out. I'm still trying to put an end to the piece I told you about.
M: Your man at the desk.
S: Right. And I've gotten him up and outside a bit. That pressure you spoke of -- he felt it.
M: And you?
S: Yes, me too. And it's always worse, as I'm here alone, writing -- in the very act of composing -- and I'm thinking of you, and Rose; now this.
M: And you see, none of this seems odd to me, or fantastic, not after the things that've happened these last few weeks.
(The fire pops, and both men become aware of the following silence; both know the other's thought.)
M: You remember what I said to you, don't you?
S: I do. (The weight was back. It sat like an ox yoke across his neck, forcing him to bow his head.)
M: What if she does wait?
S: (Sands barely whispers.) How can that be?
M: Sands, I don't know -- I'm hysterical about Rose. She was simply gone. No note, no fight, no warning. I thought at first that I was dense, blind to her and us -- but what you said the other day, that your man waited, that idea ate at me -- and the story of old Rinkelmann being carried to such an open place, a freedom, why, I realized why it haunted me so: each day she's gone, the more things -- oh, Sands, it's deafening, like walking in a tunnel with the engine rushing at me --
S: What do you need me to do?
M: You don't know how those words comfort me -- I'm not mad, am I?
S: Maybe we both are. Yet --
M: Yes, yet, there it all is -- and it won't pass.
S: No, I'm afraid it won't.
M: I'd like to think she's being whisked along just above the ground in a queen's litter.
S: Yes, keep going. (He walks quickly to his desk.)
M: You know, with a crown. Jewels on her head, jewels in the night sky.
(Do you see it? Just above the paper, hovering: The pen scratches out words, stops. How the hand trembles!)
M: Her face, it feels the wind, and though it's icy, her eyes close for the joy of it. She can't see those who bear her, but she knows them without fear. The furs. They surround and warm her. And -- ah! Sands, won't she return? Won't she come back to me?
S: She does -- she will -- keep going!
(A noise outside stops them. They listen with an intensity that grows by the moment. Finally, Sands goes to the door and, while he thinks about opening it, McIntosh walks slowly toward him, his hand tracing its way along the wall.)
M: You have to write it, Sands. You must. Go. Rose returns -- write it! Oh, the absurdity of it all -- but I know you must!
(Sands rushes back to his pen and paper.)
S: "Rose returns." (He repeats the phrase, and his face is so close to the pages on the desk that he can feel his own breath. He writes and repeats the words aloud.)
M: I'm going to open the door, Sands.
S: Yes, I'm here.
M: Rose, she returns.
S: Yes, McIntosh, Rose returns.
(McIntosh flings the door open upon a clear sky wheeling with stars, and the two men stand in the doorway, their hearts full of storybook hopes. They wait.)
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