Sepulchral

Aberdeen, photo by J.R. Forbus

A man walks quietly on rustling leaves. The moon is full tonight; heartless clouds had tried to imprison it, but a gentle nocturnal breeze came to its rescue, dispersing them across the sky.

Mist and silence creep about. The only sound is the crackling of the leaves beneath his feet. No wind could ever sweep through the alleys of this place, where the foliage is so thick and old it has become one with the ground. Yet, he doesn’t seem to mind the mist, which he considers his friend, his accomplice—his shield from prying eyes.

As if a heinous crime were to be committed on this cold night of moon and mist, the two lovers meet. They look at each other for a moment without speaking. And when their silent embrace happens, it feels like a dreamlike rite—both the first and the last after ages of solitude.

Now, the perfume of her hair, the color of her eyes, the savor of her kisses, the touch of her caresses all come rushing back to him in a flood of memory. Yes, he considers himself fortunate in his adversity: most lovers have no shrines where they can cry over memories and consume the fiery passion that burns their souls.

Ah, but that body slipping through his fingers is not the woman he loves—it's her tombstone. Forbidden dreams rise from the grave as she remembers. When she whispers his name, the leaves at his feet begin to dance, and the skeletal trees stretch toward him as if to greet him: "Welcome, Sir, welcome to this ball."

"Do you remember, my love, the beauty of the storm? The sweet terror of the night, the warmth of wine, the pallor of our bare feet?"

For a moment, her buried arms break free from their prison of dirt to embrace him fervently. The man sobs, begging her, “Please don’t go.” He prays as he did on the day she died, lying on the same bed where they had once made love, now surrounded by her looming relatives.

"I brought you some flowers… they’re your favorite."

But why do we adorn death with flowers, if they too must wither?

When the moon falls, his time with her ends. Through tears, the young man bids his lover farewell, promising her eternal loyalty.

And so he goes, walking quietly on rustling leaves, a sinister shadow towering over him. There will be no warmth from a fireplace, no love of a wife, no affection of children to console his dark sorrow. As the years pass, the wide rooms of his palace will remain empty and silent, and the portrait of the woman he loves will watch him grow old and die alone.

Until another moon like this rises, and once again we will see a man and a woman walking quietly on rustling leaves…

by Jason R. Forbus