LIFE
There was a light rap at the door.
"Come in, maman."
Ysabeau entered the room to find Matthew kneeling at the side of the bed, head bowed in supplication. He was praying. She crossed the room and stood behind him, placing her hand on his shoulder, and spent a few moments looking down upon Diana's lifeless body, saying her own silent goodbye. At length, Matthew made the sign of the cross and raised his pitiful face to Ysabeau, smudged with stuttering streaks of dried blood from his tears. Ysabeau stroked his stained cheek.
"How did you bear it?" Matthew whispered. He'd witnessed her grief and despair when Philippe died. He'd done his utmost to help her through it. He saw the continuing effect that his loss had on her. He thought he'd understood. He'd had no idea.
"It will take time." Matthew recognized her response as the evasion that it was. "Rebecca and Margaret are waiting downstairs with three witches I do not know. They have come to prepare Diana's body. Shall I send them up?"
Matthew's eyes closed in pain. "Very well," he replied. The response was inaudible, but Ysabeau could just make out the words on his lips.
Ysabeau nodded approvingly. "Now, you must clean your face before they arrive. I am so very proud of you, meu car." She turned and left the room.
Matthew stroked Diana's hair, and then rose and made his way to the en suite bathroom. He examined himself in the mirror. Dried blood clung to his eyelashes like clumpy mascara, soiled his cheeks, and trailed down his neck. In all his centuries, there were only three times he'd seen this face reflect back at him in the mirror. The first was Eleanor's death. The second was Hugh's. And the third was Philippe's.
He took a plush white washcloth and ran it under the water. He scrubbed his face, rinsed the cloth, scrubbed again, and repeated the process until all traces of the blood were gone. He looked at his face once more. This is my face without her. It looked the same as it did before, but it wasn't. He draped the blood-stained washcloth on the towel rack, went back to the bedroom, and waited for the witches to arrive.
"Come," he said when he heard the cautious knock on the door. Margaret peeked her head in. Matthew's face softened at the sight of her. He had known her since infancy, and her status as a witch born to two daemons, one of whom was the son of a Congregation member, unavoidably thrust her, like Philip and Rebecca, into the spotlight as a poster child for the creature rights movement before she could even write her name. Her parents, Nathaniel and Sophie, and her grandmother, Agatha, fought side-by-side with Diana and Matthew, and became lifelong friends as a result. Margaret grew up to be a formidable activist and author in her own right, and was a weaver like Philip. She was just a few months older than the twins and the three of them shared a unique bond since before they could remember. Sadly, Margaret's mother and grandmother were deceased, but her father was among the visitors who were gathered at Sept-Tours.
She entered the room carrying an enormous wicker basket containing candles, flowers, oils, and linens among other things. She set it on the floor next to the bed, then went over to Matthew and they kissed each other's cheeks. She looked at him sympathetically and clasped his hands. "Matthew, I am so sorry. The world is a different place without Diana in it."
"Yes, it is. Thank you."
The three witches Ysabeau didn't know were actually close friends of his and Diana's, two of them from Oxford and one from New Haven, but this was their first time at Les Revenants.
"Agnes, Elizabeth, Mary, thank you for coming," Matthew said softly, and they each kissed his cheek and hugged him in turn. He then addressed his daughter. "Rebecca, how is your brother?"
"Pretty much the same. He's with Gallowglass and Fernando." Matthew nodded in approval.
The witches glanced at each other questioningly, but Rebecca just said, "Later," and they put their curiosity aside to perform their task.
"Matthew, you are free to go or stay, whatever you'd like," said Margaret, her manner striking a sensitive balance between comforting and authoritative.
"I'll stay."
"All right. The first thing we will do is set these candles around her bed," she continued in her subdued tone. "Rebecca, you can help with that." Rebecca had chosen to be there as Diana's daughter, but she was unfamiliar with the pagan ritual they were going to carry out. She took the candles from the basket and positioned them equidistantly, lighting the wicks with conjured fire as she went along. Margaret retrieved two picture frames from the basket, one containing a picture of Diana's parents from their wedding, and the other with a picture of Sarah and Em taken in Madison. She placed them on the nightstand next to Diana. "Now we are going to remove her clothes and wash her body. Matthew, would you like to help with this?" He nodded self-consciously. "Okay." She rummaged through the basket until she found a wide but shallow wooden bowl. "Can you fill this with warm water please, and bring some towels?"
Matthew obediently took the bowl into the bathroom and filled it with water as instructed. He brought it back and set it on the dresser, along with a handful of washcloths and bath towels. "Thank you, Matthew. Now we are going to undress her. Rebecca, would you like to come help too?" Rebecca approached the bed, standing opposite her father. "All right, Matthew, it's time."
Matthew leaned down and placed a lingering kiss on Diana's forehead. He stroked her hair, and then gave a slight nod to Margaret. Agnes, Elizabeth, and Mary were burning incense, and the aromas of myrrh, frankincense, and sandalwood were suffusing the air.
"All right, why don't you two hold her up while I take off her nightgown?" said Margaret, having folded the duvet down to Diana's waist. Rebecca and Matthew slid their hands on either side of her shoulders and gingerly sat her up. Margaret tugged the nightgown up and worked Diana's stiffened arms through the sleeves until they came free and she was able to lift the garment over her head, leaving her upper body exposed. Matthew and Rebecca carefully laid her back down. Margaret folded the duvet again, this time removing it from Diana completely. Matthew reflexively worried that she'd be cold. Wordlessly, Margaret indicated that Rebecca and Matthew should lift Diana's waist up so that she could work her underwear down, which she did, and removed the slippers she wore as well, so that she lied naked on the bed. Diana's appetite had slowly dwindled over the last weeks and she stopped eating altogether a few days prior, so her hip bones jutted alarmingly out of her midsection. Her ribs were visible, and there were deep hollows between her clavicles and her shoulders. Her elbows and knees looked too large in comparison to her wasted arms and legs. Her cheekbones were harshly angled and cheeks were sunken in. She was beautiful even in death, but her body had reached its end. "Mary, can you please bring the bowl and the towels?"
Mary approached with washcloths for Rebecca, Matthew, and Margaret and held out the bowl for them to wet the cloths. Both Matthew and Rebecca looked nervously at Margaret, who nodded. Matthew wetted the washcloth and folded it loosely, and began caressing Diana's face and neck with it while Rebecca started on one of her arms. Margaret looked on, but let Matthew and Rebecca carry on by themselves. They worked in silence, occasionally rewetting the washcloths when they started to dry out, their motions smooth and deliberate. When they'd washed her shoulders, she and Matthew looked at each other in unspoken agreement that they would tilt her up once more so that Matthew could wash her back. It was still a work of art. A shadowy firedrake bit into the ridged pink scars that swooped across her back in the shape of a crescent moon and a star. The tree of life hadn't disappeared when the Book of Life transferred to Philip, nor had it faded with her death. The browns and golds of the trunk fanned out into luscious greens and silvers and reds of the leaves and fruit that bloomed on the branches in the style of a medieval illuminated manuscript. He pressed the washcloth down the length of the tree, swooped it along the curves of the crescent moon and firedrake's tail, traced the six-pointed star on her shoulder blade. He drank in the sight of her beautiful back one last time, tried to imprint it on his memory, and then resigned himself to the fact that he would never see it again. He and Rebecca lowered her back down to the bed. Matthew continued down Diana's arm and when he reached her hand, he cleaned one finger at a time, from her palm to her fingertips. Her weaver's cords too were still as vibrant as they had ever been. He kissed the pads of her fingers, and set her hand down by her side. The last thing to clean was her feet. Rebecca took one and Matthew the other. When they were finished, Agnes, Mary, and Elizabeth came forward with vials of oil. Matthew looked at Margaret questioningly. "Oils to prepare her feet for the journey ahead," she explained. Matthew and Rebecca each held out their hands for a drop of oil. Matthew recognized its earthy, spicy scent as angelica as he massaged it into her feet and ankles. When he was done, Mary offered him a towel to dry his hands, and then poured another oil into his waiting palms, this one smelling of tobacco. He repeated the process, massaging Diana's heels, the arch of her foot, in between her toes. Mary offered the towel again and poured a third oil into his hand. This was sweet, and smelled of blackberry. Rebecca performed the same ritual on Diana's other foot, and when they were finished, Margaret brought out the folded piece of linen.
"Her shroud," she explained.
The very word struck a bolt of pain through Matthew's heart. To cover up her body was almost too much for him to endure. He dropped to his knees at Diana's side. Rebecca walked behind him and placed her hands on his shoulders and they both looked down at Diana's body for the last time.
Matthew curled his hands over Diana's arm. "Comfort me from wherever you are–alone, we are quickly worn out," he breathed. "…if I place my head on the road, let it seem softened by you. Could it be that even from afar we offer each other a gentle breath? Goodbye, mon coeur. I love you with all my heart, I am yours forever. I am yours forever."
Rebecca recognized the Rilke, and replied with, "We need, in love, to practice only this: letting each other go. For holding on comes easily; we do not need to learn it." Matthew managed a faint smirk, his usual reaction when his children beat him at his own game by parrying his poetical observations with apposite but opposing quotes by the same poet. He placed his hand on top of hers and squeezed. "T'aimi, maman."
Matthew rose and embraced Rebecca, and she began to cry into his shoulder. He rocked her back and forth, stroking her thick ebony hair. "There, there," he cooed, just as he had when she was young. "Your mother loved you more than you could ever imagine." They remained entwined until Rebecca's sobs slowed, and then he pulled back from her and cupped her cheek, looking warmly into her eyes. His lips twitched into a small smile. "I love you so very much, ma petite."
Margaret had waited patiently, holding the linen. When Rebecca and Matthew looked over at her, she asked if they would like to help shroud the body. Neither of them felt they could manage it, so Margaret and the other witches wrapped Diana's body in the linen, tying ribbons around her feet, waist, and neck. Mary took the flowers out of the basket—hydrangeas from the garden at Les Revenants—and placed them around the body.
Once complete, Margaret walked over to Matthew and Diana and placed a hand on each of their shoulders. "Thank you for your help. You both did beautifully."
Matthew stared at the shrouded figure on the bed. He felt a powerful sense of rightness. "Thank you," he choked out. He pulled Margaret into his arms in gratitude and love. "Thank you."
