Her emaciated body scarcely causes a ripple in the heavy blankets that cover her. I can see the motion of shallow breathing only if I watch intently. I fear it will stop while I'm here.
The room reeks with that acrid stink which so often precedes death. There has been no effort to mask the smell. Darkness will soon displace the greyness of a despairing autumn day, so maybe I should go now, come back in the morning when there may be sunshine, and perhaps she'll show some sign of improvement.
Janice's mother glares at me while I make preparations to leave. She barely tolerated my presence when Janice first came to me for help; I was too old, too filthy, and in love. The wisdom of the aged spotted this easily. Janice could not. She was ill, and my potions were the only medicines left to help her.
"I s'pose you'll be back with the sunrise."
I whirl around, startled. The hatred in her black eyes crackles more intensely than I have ever seen. "Yes, M', with your permission." I must remain humble in my thoughts and words.
"I wish you wouldn’t," the elderly woman mumbles as she shuffles away and lights two thick candles set on a low table at the foot of the bed.
"Tamar might answer my call tonight, and Janice can be saved," I respond hoarsely.
She scowls. I don't think she is a cold woman. Maybe she has resigned herself totally to Janice's condition in a way I cannot. Perhaps she is too acquainted with death ... her husband and two sons, gone in the past year. Does she have anything left to give?
"It's too late for your friend to come," she says, her voice tailing off into silence.
I paint Janice's lips with the last of my herbal balm and return the empty container to my medicine bag. "I'm not the only one who failed her," I try to explain. "You tried the physicians."
She looks down at Janice. "I can tell your feelings. Do you really think she would have returned your love?"
Of course, I think, but cannot say it. "You helped me at first. We fed her together. I was the only hope left."
"Yes." She pulls a handkerchief from the pocket of her apron and wipes the balm off. "I only went along with it for Janice."
"I took no money."
"I would give no money to a fraud."
"My feelings for her only helped me to try harder."
"For what? To have her reject you if you succeeded. Perhaps your idea of love is to share coldness with a corpse."
I leave without another word, pulling on the thick black coat that Mr. Mayfair the undertaker gave me. I live in a corner of his basement. He took me in when I was very young, many years ago. I think I lived in an orphanage before that. I don't remember. Mr. Mayfair and his wife never showed me much affection, and after she died, he became even more distant. But I really didn't care. Janice brought me love though we never touched. Her eyes told me in their innocent ways. It could not have been the love of desperation. I could sense it too, in her voice, when she could still speak.
Before Janice, Tamar was my only friend. He is dead now. I met him in the wood behind the church cemetery. He taught me the arts of healing that our physicians do not practice. Sometimes people would come to me for a cure when all other hope was gone. For some I succeeded, for others I did not. People feared dealing with me ... I frightened them ... but desperation continued to bring them. Janice came to me, and I fell in love with her. I should have been able to help her.
Mr. Mayfair has removed the candle from over the door to the basement. Its light has been the only welcome beacon left. I think my time here nears its end.
***
I am crying now as I have been for most of the night. My tiny bottles of herbs, spices, oils, and ingredients taken from the dead who constantly pass through this house lie scattered in their uselessness on the floor. I cannot shake the damp cold, though the snows of winter have yet to fall. Maybe I'm just too old. Even the warmth radiating from the bright flame of my lantern feels cold on my hands.
My heart suddenly races. Breathing becomes difficult and I feel faint. A buzzing in my ears sounds a warning as my being slips away. I find myself in a world of shadows flitting about in a silent, grey mist. The fingers at the end of my outstretched arm are scarcely visible. Faces appear to me. I should recognise them, but don’t. Then Tamar approaches. He hands me a tiny leather pouch. His fingers are ice. Words enter my mind and take the form of sound in Tamar's voice.
"You were my one friend," he says. "This is the favour I owe." Then he vanishes.
I wake and my body aches with the stiffness of cramped muscles. I didn't realise that I'd fallen asleep. I feel a growth of stubble on my face. Three, maybe four days have passed.
Outside, the full moon brightens the darkness. I run, clutching the leather pouch, to Janice's home. Her mother must have seen me, for she intercepts me in front of the house.
"Come no more." She smiles through rotted teeth. "Janice is dead."
I cannot collapse, though I wish I would, to blot out the meaning of her words. Janice's image aches in my mind; not what she had become through the ravages of sickness, but the beauty she radiated only a few short months before.
"Where?" I gasp not knowing what I really ask.
"In the cemetery, fool," she spits. "For two days now."
I stagger back to the home of the undertaker. I visualize Janice in the silk of her coffin, and curl up into my corner of the basement. Her lips shine full, moist. The ravages of disease vanish as my mind watches.
The leather pouch comes alive in my clutching hand. I open it and reel backwards as a metallic spider, beautiful in its grotesqueness, crawls out. Shiny spindly legs hold a pulsing silver body. An emerald, faceted eye stares at me.
"I am for Janice," it whispers and leaps onto my forehead, "and for you."
A gold stinger vibrates menacingly over my left eye. I freeze in terror. Then the spider hops back to my hand and into the pouch, leaving me shaking but hopeful. Perhaps this thing will bring Janice life, and with her, love will return again.
I stuff the leather pouch into my pocket, pull on my coat, and grasp the rusted shovel and lantern. No one sees me walk to the cemetery.
I find Janice's grave under a tormented tree that seems ill able to survive until spring. I set down the lantern and begin to dig. The going is easy, the soil as yet unpacked. Suddenly I am afraid. This is evil. I stand, gasping for air, and lean on the shovel. The spider bolts out from the pouch and lands on my forehead again. I sense the deadliness of its stinger.
"Are you truly for Janice?" I ask.
"I'm death for you, or life for her. You are to choose."
I start digging again. The shovel strikes the coffin and I stop. I cannot decide. To join her in life ... or death.
The spider waits.
END
© 1998 David Shtogryn
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