'Twixt night and morn, upon the horizon's verge.
How little do we know that which we are –
How less what we may be!
– LORD BYRON
"Would you like your eyes to be bandaged?"
What was that? Words that he remembered, words that someone once said. He was sure that someone had answered that question, but he couldn't remember who, or the circumstances in which it had been asked in the first place. Why would someone want to have their eyes bandaged? Was it someone he knew who had said those words, or a stranger? The query had swum up out of the dark, and he heard it so vividly that someone might as well have whispered it into his ear.
Everything's so confused . . . He remembered being in a dark place and hearing a voice that called him out, and something had pushed him outwards and upwards and then he had been in the rain and cold air and he had fallen asleep. I'm so cold.
well you would be it's raining and you've been lying there for at least half an hour
The man's right eye flickered open. There was that Voice again, the voice that came from the black crow sitting in the tree. And the crow was still there, despite the rain. It looked like it hadn't moved at all.
i hope you are feeling somewhat refreshed
No, I'm not, actually. I'm as tired and I'm as scared as hell and I don't know who you are or what is happening to me. I can barely see anything for the rain and it's so cold. "Who are you?"
The crow felt glad to hear the man speak. All right, it had taken him several seconds to form the question in his mind and twice as long to choke it out, but it was a very good start. The man's voice was raspy, as though rusted from lack of use, and he was still spitting flecks of mud, clearing his mouth of the soil. But that was to be expected. Thank Heaven he hadn't asked where he was.
It was always so much more difficult when they had been dead for this long. The crow didn't have as much experience with these ones. They didn't always remember what had happened, and, what was worse, you couldn't let them remember too much at a time. The crow knew it was going to have to take this very calmly and very patiently – the boy still seemed fairly docile, but that wouldn't last for long. It never did. Some of them burst out of the ground – or whatever – already filled with rage against some nameless evil, and it was all a crow could do to direct their anger towards its intended target. With others . . . well, it took longer. But there was a pattern to the way this happened. Soon he would remember sadness, and he would remember pain and he would remember anger. He had remembered that bit about bandaged eyes a lot sooner than expected, that was for sure.
Oh yes, the boy had asked a question, hadn't he?
i don't expect you to understand completely but let's just say that i am a friend and i am here to help you
Could have picked a better word than "friend", come to think of it. It watched the boy as his brow furrowed and he digested that new piece of information. It was painful to watch. Yes, some things simply never get easier.
"Friend . . ."
The man understood all of that, and he understood the meaning of "friend". He seemed to remember having had friends once, being somewhere with them where it was warm and safe and everybody laughed and talked at once. But where were they now? Were they here with him? Some vague and senseless instinct told him that perhaps something had happened to them, but . . .
hold that thought boy
Indeed, the boy did hold that thought and looked up at the bird expectantly. The crow knew that the boy was still shrouded in his confusion and that the thought probably would have unravelled and collapsed on itself before the dread conclusion was reached, but better to be safe than sorry. Actually, his placidity was beginning to become a concern. Surely he wasn't simple-minded, was he? No . . . just confused. Wisest to take advantage of that before it wore off.
things are still a bit confused now aren't they but don't worry just listen to me and everything will be all right
But it wouldn't be all right, would it? The boy said nothing, but he looked moderately satisfied. That was another thing about humans. The popular idea was that they were terribly suspicious of everything, and maybe this was true – where other humans were concerned. But in the crow's experience, they had a tendency to become remarkably trusting once they realised that there was more to this world and the next than they could possibly dream of, and things were completely out of their two hands with their wonderful opposable thumbs.
Would this rain ever let up? It had been going longer and heavier than the crow had expected. But, as it had thought before, this could be a good thing. Blurred the boy's vision as what he had endured blurred his reality, made him easier to control for the time being.
The man watched the crow steadily, occasionally blinking the water out of his eyes. He was still conscious of being cold, but it wasn't so bad. The crow shuffled about on its perch now, shook its wings, flicking tiny droplets of rain off its feathers.
was that little rest enough for you are you ready to start moving now
"Move? Where?"
well away from here would be a start
What was here that needed to be got away from? The man frowned as he thought that one over, but he kept his eyes fixed on the crow.
Yes, that's right, the crow thought, keep looking up at me. Don't look around you, don't see that great hole in the ground beside you with the mud streaming and clumps of grass ripped and thrown about, don't even start thinking about the fact that you are naked and you are sitting in a cemetery. Oh dear, I think that's a skull lying a couple of inches away from your right foot – no, don't look at it, look up at me.
It knew that it should get its precious charge out of Sainte-Marguerite before he realised where he was. The crow wasn't entirely sure what would happen if the boy started remembering too much too fast, but something warned it that the results would not be pleasant, and would not help the boy to carry out his mission any faster. Not that he had any idea he even had a mission. Best to keep him distracted with the little things. Sometimes it is best not to see the wood for the trees.
do you think you can walk boy do you think you can get up on those two feet and walk run even running would be good
"I think so."
give it a try then
The man looked down at the ground. The rain had made it slippery, but he was certain that he could manage this. Slowly, carefully, he rose to his feet. It wasn't as difficult as he'd thought it would be. But then again he hadn't tried to walk yet. Putting one foot out in front of another, he carefully made contact with the earth. Everything was all right, he was balancing, perhaps this wouldn't be so hard after all.
careful careful careful
The warning was unnecessary, the boy seemed to be coping fairly well. It was interesting to see what memories they carried with them from beyond the grave. Most did remember how to walk – how to run, even – and how to think, how to speak and how to listen. If they did not know how to fight before they died, they nearly always did afterwards. After that, it got complicated. Once the crow had helped a woman who remembered how to play the harp but did not recognise her own husband. Another time there had been a man who could think and speak in English, but not in his native tongue, Spanish.
Now the boy was looking about, trying to get his bearings, or at least work out where he was exactly. Not a good thing.
don't you worry about that boy I'll see to that all I want you to do is listen to me and do as I say just walk away from this place and don't look whatever you do don't look just follow me
"Yes, I understand."
The crow gave a low croak, spread its wings and flapped into the air. It flew low and slow, staying a few yards ahead of the man, and above his head. In order to keep the bird in sight, the man had to jog along, his eyes raised and averted from the sight of the graves with their stone markers and angels with drooping wings and bouquets of wilted flowers.
At first, the crow tried to keep the man off the gravel paths, knowing that they could cause discomfort to his bare feet. But maybe it was the cold, or maybe the man's sense of displacement, but these things did not seem to matter. After guiding the man through the first section of graves, it decided to just take the fastest route away from here. It wasn't too afraid that the priest in his church would see the naked man fleeing the cemetery. The rule of thumb was: if you don't look at them, they won't look at you.
I wonder how long I have been running for?
It felt like an age. The man was sure that he had never run for this long before, but was aware that he didn't feel tired, and was not having trouble drawing his breath. The crow remained ahead of him, maintaining its speed and encouraging him to do the same. The man flicked his gaze to his bare feet – watched them hit the uneven cobblestones of the alleyway, watched the dull light reflected in the shining stones.
He was no longer cold. This was partly because he was now up and moving, and partly because he had found an old, tattered coat lying in a heap of sodden rags at the mouth of some tiny street. The crow had stopped here, advising him to wear the garment. He had obeyed – by now he had realised that he was naked.
The man couldn't remember if anybody had glanced at him oddly. He seemed to remember seeing a few other people on the streets in his steady journey from that place with the tree, but could not remember their faces or their reactions to him. Hardly faltering in his pace, he wrapped the coat around himself even tighter, and listened to the sound of his beating heart.
Streets, streets and more streets. Some of them felt vaguely familiar, but if he tried to stop and look at street signs, or painted images hanging above shop windows, the crow had called him to hurry along. But now he was fairly sure that he knew this place. It was just taking him a while to remember it.
I wonder what happened . . . ?
As he ran, following the crow, he thought about the things that could make one forget. A blow to the head? He remembered a man – one of his friends, surely, the one who had talked about hearts and salt and butter – discussing what could happen if one was struck on the head. He had said that you could get headaches again and again and forget entire days at a time, or wake up and remember nothing, even your name. Then another man, bald but not old, had laughed and said that explained a lot and –
how are you holding up
"I'm all right."
Obviously, but the crow had wanted to divert his thoughts away from his friends for a moment. It was clear that he was beginning to remember more and more; soon the process would become automatic and he would perhaps begin to fight it. They all did, because memories always brought them great pain. That is why they were here, after all.
Time for the interrogation test – see how much he really remembered. It would keep the boy's mind off where they were headed, at least.
do you have a name
Name, identity, label. The man understood the question, but he couldn't answer it. What was my name? Why does "wine-cask" spring to mind? That's not a name, surely. Wine . . . that's something that I remember. The squeak of a cork as it slips out of a bottle, the taste of wine in my mouth . . . splashing into glasses, glowing as red as . . . What had the crow asked, again? Something about names. It asked if I had a name.
"I'm sure I do."
can you remember it
"I don't think so."
Blast, the crow thought, the identity crisis. It was easier if they understood at the start. Later on, when things started falling apart, it gave them something to hold on to.
you think about your friends do you know who they are
"I remember having friends, but I can't remember their faces. I remember voices, though."
any names
The man thought about that hard. His first impulse was to say "No," but then he thought that perhaps he could remember after all. Voices whispered to him in the dark, and every now and then he caught the flash of an eye, a smile, a lock of bright hair. A hand gesture, the creak of a chair as the speaker sat back, their spiel complete. What were their names? All right, the one he remembered most of right now was the one who had talked about hearts and heads. Surely I could remember his name . . .
J . . .
Why did he want to think of Djali? That couldn't be right, that was the name of that gypsy girl's goat in that book by Hugo, the one where everybody died in the end.
Did I read that book . . . ?
No, he hadn't, but he had heard others talking about it. Somebody mocked its sentimentality, and someone else, gentle and wistful, had remarked that he had thought it a beautiful story. But Djali . . . That was it! That friend who spoke of hearts and heads and always looked at his tongue in a mirror, they liked to call him Djali because it made him angry and he was funny when he was angry! So his name must sound something like that, surely.
J . . .
Such a sad story, that one. He seemed to remember agreeing that it was overly sentimental, but secretly admiring Quasimodo for his devotion to the little gypsy girl, when she was hardly aware that he had existed. That was right, she had been in love with a soldier or something like that. For some reason, remembering the story of the book seemed incredibly important. The gypsy – Esmeralda? – had loved a handsome soldier with bright blond hair.
Apollo . . . ?
No, that wasn't it, it was Phoebus. But why had he thought of Apollo? That name seemed familiar somehow, had he known somebody called Apollo? Fair hair and blue eyes, a sonorous voice that could become cruel . . . but he couldn't have been called Apollo, that was the name of a god, and why couldn't he remember his face . . . ? No, that train of thought was lost now. Agitated and more confused than ever, the man turned his thoughts back to the book by Hugo. The gypsy hadn't loved Quasimodo, but he had died with her in the end. He had gone to the mass grave at Montfaucon and lain down beside her cooling corpse and wept and . . .
"Do you permit it?"
Sadness suddenly choked him. It made him falter, he nearly stumbled. A tight band gripping around his chest, like before when he couldn't breathe. Why did that story have that effect on him? All of a sudden he remembered being sad, and he remembered an aching empty feeling inside him. Where had this come from? The sadness was making it hard to think. It felt like a dark cloud that surrounded him on all sides. He felt like he was trying to fight his way through this dark cloud and it was choking him, burning his eyes and his throat. The sadness filled the air and made it smell bad, it smelt like . . .
It smells like gunpowder . . .
But why do I remember what gunpowder smells like . . . ?
Because it was the last thing I smelt before . . .
It was as if someone had punched him in the stomach. He stopped dead in his tracks and fell to his knees.
OH GOD!!!!!!!!
The crow sensed the boy had faltered, and landed on a lamppost, turned around and looked. The process of remembering had begun. That was a relief in a way, but now there was the delicate task of controlling the rate that memory returned, not letting the boy remember too much at once. The boy was in a very bad way now.
The man knelt on the ground, his arms wrapped around his heaving chest, eyes bulging as he gasped for air. Locked in desperate battle with some nameless horror he could not yet understand.
WHAT HAPPENED???????
The scent of gunpowder still filled his nostrils and it terrified him, but he could not understand why he smelt it. The blinding cloud of sadness was beginning to solidify and grow translucent, giving his vision more clarity than he could ever remember possessing. Something had happened to his friends. Even though he could not yet visualise them or remember their names, he knew that he had loved them and something had happened to them. It wasn't the crow who told him this – it was something deep inside him, which made him who he was, that warned him of the darkness and its gripping shadows.
He remembered a large room with two windows and a map of France on the wall. He remembered laughter, the clinking of glasses, the clapping of hands and the stamping of feet on a wooden floor. Bright eyes and bright smiles flashed in the darkness. He felt somewhat distant from it all, as if he was somehow apart from all the others. The cool hardness of a glass bottle as his fingers wrapped around its neck . . . why did he remember that?
A stare boring into the back of his head, but it wasn't the crow, it was . . . somebody else. Those blue eyes again, why did he remember blue eyes and a level stare? He wanted to turn around, but somehow knew that whoever was behind him would vanish as soon as he moved. Had this person hated him? Had he hated that person? No, he hadn't, he had admired this person but now he couldn't even remember his name.
But the frightening thing was, the man was sure that he could remember if he tried. Something told him not to try, that in remembering this, he would remember much more, remember things which would cause him terrible pain. If he dared to remember his friends, he would remember more, he would remember a raging red wind that reeked of blood and gunpowder . . .
The man remained hunched on the pavement, letting the cold rain hammer down from above, letting hot tears stream from his eyes and cool immediately in the air. I don't want to remember any more . . .
but you must
The man looked up. The crow had hopped to the ground and was standing a few feet away, looking up at him with its black eyes.
if you are to complete your task, you will have to remember
"Remember what?"
The crow cocked its head. This was going to be a very long haul. The boy was hurting, and the memories were starting to return to him. However, if he was to have the faintest hope of understanding them, he would need a focal point. Good thing there was one so close at hand.
Come with me boy can you walk now you must
The man swallowed and nodded, rising to his feet once more, and sweeping his dripping hair out of his eyes. "Yes."
It is only a little further down the street
Not necessary to fly now. The crow fluttered up and perched on the man's shoulder. It was such a little thing, but perhaps the contact would bring him a small measure of comfort.
Feeling a little calmer, but no less afraid, the man walked steadily through the driving rain. It was almost too dark to see, but this did not worry him. The crow was there, and it would guide him. He felts its warm little claws digging into the material on his shoulder, felt it shake itself now and then to relieve itself of the excess water.
They stopped in a narrow street with a single lamp. They were standing before a flight of stone steps leading up to an iron-bound door set into a wall. I know this place . . . The man frowned, searching for the source of the familiarity. He remembered walking down those steps on many occasions, staggering even. But what could lie behind that door?
The crow's feathers looked slick and oily in the yellow light as it looked up at the man.
do you know where we are
There was a street sign, but the man did not need to read it. "The Rue de Gres. Outside the Café Musain." Two names, that was all. He wasn't sure what had happened here, but he remembered the names all right.
how about we go inside then and get out of this rain
The man had no idea what the time was, but he suspected that the café would not be open. In a way, that was a good thing. Something told him that this was not a good place, that he would not want to go inside. Something warned him that nothing lay beyond this door but pain and loneliness and a dark sad story he would not want to know. "I think it's closed."
not a problem boy not for the likes of us put your handle on the door and open it boy go on go on go on
Even though every fibre of his body screamed at him that this was not the thing to do, the man obeyed the bird. As soon as he placed his hand on the doorknob, he heard a faint click as that which was locked against him surrendered to some unknown force. He turned the doorknob. Yes, the door was open now, no mistaking that.
But he hesitated. He did not want to go inside.
what are you waiting for boy go on in
Why was the bird so insistent? "I . . . I don't want to."
you don't have a choice i'm afraid you will have to see these things in order to understand who you are and why you're here
So the man opened the door and entered into this new darkness.