The Tent

Listen: the leaves no longer rustle, the wind no longer sighs, our hearts no longer beat. They’ve fallen silent. Fallen, as if into the earth. Or is it we who have fallen? Perhaps it’s not the world that is soundless but we who are deaf. What membrane seals us off, from the music we used to dance to? Why can’t we hear?

NIGHTINGALE

People die, and then they come back at night when you’re asleep. By the time you’re my age this happens more frequently. In the dream you know they’re dead; funny thing is, they know it too. The usual places are a boat or a forest, less often a cabin or an isolated farmhouse, and, even more rarely, a room. If a room, there’s often a window; if a window, there will be curtains—white—or heavy draperies, also white. Never venetian blinds: they don’t like that kind of lighting, the day or night falling in slantwise through the slats. It makes them flicker even more than they normally do.

Sometimes they’re friends, and they want you to know they’re all right. That kind might make a remark or two, nothing earth-shattering. It’s like the screen when you turn off the television, one of them said—it’s just a loss of contact. Another one—the setting was a woodland walk, in fall, orange and yellow leaves, that crisp smell—this one said, Isn’t it beautiful?

Some don’t say anything. They might smile, they might not; they might turn away once they know you’ve seen them. They want you to see them: that’s the point. They want you to know they’re still around and they can’t be forgotten or dismissed.

Procne turned up the other night. Got in through the window, as she always does. Right away I wished I’d taken a sleeping pill: that would have shut her out. But you can’t take pills all the time, and she waits. She waits until I’m unconscious.

You shouldn’t have let him lock me up in that shack, she said.

The location was a room; the window in question had white curtains. We’ve been through this before, I said. You weren’t locked up. You could have opened the door. Anyway, I didn’t know.

You knew, she said. You repressed it, but you must have known.

I knew you’d been his first wife, I said. Everyone knew that. But according to him you were dead.

That’s what they wanted you to think, she said. I might as well have been, but I wasn’t. Meanwhile, you were getting ready to take my place.

I had to, I said. I had to get married. He raped me. What else could I have done? Don’t tell me you were jealous.

Jealous? she said. She gave a kind of caw. Not for an instant! I knew his dirty ways, he could never leave me alone. Believe me, you were welcome to that part of it. I only wish he hadn’t cut out my tongue.

That is a lie, I said. He never did that. You made the decision not to speak, is all. The tongue part of the story is a misreading of a temple wall painting, that’s what people say now. Those things weren’t tongues, they were laurel leaves for the priestess, so she could hallucinate, and prophesy, and—

You and your archeology, said Procne. He cut out my tongue, all right. He knew I’d tell stories.

Maybe he had his reasons, I said. If he did cut out your tongue. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that. I’m not excusing his behaviour. It wasn’t good. None of us behaved very well, and I regret that now. The two of us never got along when we were young, but you were always my sister and I loved you. That’s why he kept you a secret from me.

I knew you wouldn’t excuse it. His behaviour, I mean. That’s why I sent you the message—to let you know I wasn’t dead after all. Procne is among the slaves, is all it said. I didn’t write, Set me free, I didn’t want to influence you one way or the other. I didn’t want you taking any risks on my behalf.

Then why did you send me the message?

I wanted you to avoid the mistakes I made, that’s all.

What mistakes?

In answer she lifted up her hands. They were wet, they glistened. Our son, she said. I couldn’t stop myself.

The window was open at the bottom, there was a breeze, the curtains were blowing. The air smelled of apple blossom. I wish you’d leave me alone, I say. It’s over, it’s long ago. You’re dead now, and he’s dead, and there’s nothing I can do. It’s only a story now and I’m too old to listen to it.

You’re never too old, says Procne. Her voice is so sad. Then she starts turning into a bird, the way she always does, and when I look down the same thing is happening to me. This is when I remember the two of us running, running away from him, and I know in the dream that I’m dead too, because at the end of the story he killed us both.

Then Procne flies out through the window, and so do I. It’s night, a forest, a moon. We land on a branch. It’s at this moment, in the dream, that I begin to sing. A long liquid song, a high requiem, the story of the story of the story.

Or is the voice hers? Hard to tell.

A man standing underneath our tree says, Grief.

WARLORDS