Aria Remains

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‘And he said no more?’ Bridgette asked, agitatedly unfolding and then refolding bed linen.

William shook his head, although she wasn’t looking at him. Aware that he had angered her again, that his actions had led to yet another problem, another impossible situation, he decided it best to not speak until she had taken the time to think about this latest revelation. A revelation that brought with it the most significant issue they had ever faced.

Eventually, having completed her work with the clean sheets, she said, ‘So, what hast thou decided? Wilt thou dispense of those yonder, enjoying their lives, innocent and ignorant of thy suspect dealings? Or wouldst thou pay no heed to what is to come, continue the pretence that tomorrow be too far distant about which to worry?’

‘Bridgette,’ William said, ‘it be not that my dealings be suspect, as thou wouldst have it. As thou knowst well as I, there hath been no vexations from the old woman for so many years that, we can be certain, our lives shall go on unaffected in this regard. This new proviso of which Travet hath spoken be something of which I hath no prior knowledge, as I had no knowledge that our lives would go on for so long, that time and age would affect us not. For that, wouldst thou agree, we ought be grateful?’

Bridgette snorted, looking around for something else with which to busy herself. She, like everyone, had not considered the fact that none of them had aged, that not even the centenary celebration had caused her to think of what that number actually meant, that they had all lived as they were for a great deal longer than they should have. She felt duped, that she had, one more, become unwittingly involved in dangerous, unbidden mysticism.

‘And,’ William continued, ‘none of us gave a moment’s consideration to this fact, this longevity. Indeed, had it not been for Travet, I dare say we wouldst still not have even noticed, would still have been blissfully unaware. Aye, we now be celebrating our centenary, yet not one of us gave thought to the notion that we, all of us, hath been here for that length of time, that we be living in our second centuries.’

‘And what trickery be that?’ Bridgette snapped, turning to face him and causing him to shudder. ‘That we hath been unaware that we be so old, that so much time be gone. Dost thou not wonder what such chicanery hath done to us, to our bodies, to our minds? For, I ask thee, canst such doings be good for us?’

William looked down, shaking his head.

‘All that I knowest for certain be that, despite some weariness, some torpor, I feel just as I always hath, as I think dost thee, likewise. We had not perceived such passing of years and months and so, I believe, it hath blighted us with no ill-doing. It simply be, as Travet hath implied, that such prolonging and twisting of time, of the perception of time, be an incidental effect of any such agreement as that I hath made so long ago. I hath come to reason that it be not a result directly of that agreement but it be, rather, the requirement of something greater, something a good deal more universal. It hath been, after all, time itself with which we hath been at play, and so it may be that it be time itself doth require its compensation. And we hath,’ he went on, raising his hands, ‘discussed the subject of my arrangement far too many times, I wouldst say. We hath, all of us, received much benefit from those dealings. Thou cannot argue that.’

Bridgette said nothing, instead approaching William and, with a great sigh, she asked him to follow her. Once outside she sat on one of the stools and gestured for William to take the one beside her and together, without speaking for several minutes, they looked to the stars above them. It was very quiet now, the celebrations of the day finally done, the final lingerers now away to their beds. There would be much to do in the morning, much to clear and tidy and, no doubt, many sore heads to manage. There would be little of their usual work done, that was certain. William gazed towards Sirius, the Dog Star, the brightest of all the stars, and wished with all he had that those were the only problems with which they would have to contend.

‘She sleeps?’ William asked, as they watched a shooting star dash across the dark blue of the night sky.

‘She hath been running around, busying herself for the whole day,’ Bridgette replied, her voice now softer. ‘I expect to hear nothing more from her until the sun next be at a fair height.’

She smiled and, smiling at her, William took her hand.

‘What dost thou think I should do?’ he asked quietly. ‘How must I measure the benefits against the loss?’

‘Dost thou think we shall all still be living, after another four hundred years?’ Bridgette asked. ‘And if it be so, what condition wouldst we be in? As we are now, only suffering greater torpor, as thou hast said? Otherwise, might we be nothing but skin and bone, unable to move at all, so close to the grave just one more step wouldst see us fall away forever?’

‘Forever hath become something so greatly changed,’ William said, ‘that I knowest no longer what it might even mean. Such time, such a span of centuries. Before these days it was nothing but a thought, a far-flung, incomplete idea, something that might as well be tangible as the Fairy Clocks in the meadow or the Unicorns in the fields. But now, as forever seems to have shrunk to a size so much more estimable, I wonder if it be better for us to live and then perish, having already stood beyond the reach of death. To then wantonly sacrifice ourselves so that those to come and, indeed, the village itself, might go on to survive and thrive, to stand for what may be the rest of time?’

He shifted upon his stool, stretched his back.

‘I hath heard it said on many occasions that we be an inspiration for others, that there hath been great change out in the world and that we, in our little village, hath played more than a tiny role in such transformations. Should it not, I wonder now, be allowed to continue, so that it might, perchance, offer hope and inspiration for many others to come? Many others who shall go on to populate these grounds forever? We hath seen, now that we come to consider it, how speedily one hundred years can pass. Four hundred more? Be that all we shall allow before our dream, and all within and a part of it, be dispatched unto its extinction? Tossed headlong into the void, yet while its heart still resounds strongly with the pulsations of life?’

‘But thou knowest,’ Bridgette said, her voice now little more than a whisper, a slight tremble to the hand she now placed upon his leg, ‘that this means we, too, shall be forsaking ourselves, leaving our daughter to face the future alone.’

William nodded sadly.

‘It doth appear to be an impossible choice,’ he muttered.

‘An impossible farewell,’ Bridgette said, looking to the sky again.

They once more fell into a long period of silence, both thinking deeply, trying to find a solution to the unbearable quandary they were in until they both became aware of something happening high in the atmosphere. At first, two bright patches of intense white light broke through to the north, followed by the profound spectacle of auroras suddenly spreading across the sky, huge streams of charged plasma immersing the village in an abundance of beguiling colours. They stood, moved around the side of their home and observed their colony, their community. Their Easthope.

They looked at the houses and buildings, at the carefully-tended open spaces, the orchard to their left, the Tavern further ahead. They saw the flags and banners, the pennants and ribbons, all hung in celebration of the one hundred years of hope and happiness, of love and peace they had all relished so very much. They thought, then, of all they had achieved, all they had accomplished. They remembered the lives they had left behind them, the oppression and squalor that had once blighted them, that seemed to have their fates already sealed, from which they had never even dreamed of escape. It had been the darkest, most execrable subsistence. They had been pitched upon an endlessly deep ocean, consigned to a caliginous, numbing half-life from which there was no way to climb, it being all they could do to stay afloat. It had been so dreadful, so brutal a time that, looking back upon it now, it almost seemed inconceivable that it had been so hard, so very difficult to even survive.

They had been beaten down by those who laid claim to ownership of the land, had been riven by their undemocratic and selfish laws and regulations. They had been forced to work from first light until far beyond the hour of the setting of the sun, slavishly toiling in the most adverse conditions, attempting to utilise the most impracticable, insufficient tools and materials. They lived amongst the animals, settling onto the straw-strewn floors of their inadequate huts, being bitten by fleas, eating the slop those who lived in far greater luxury deigned to provide for them, castigated and untrusted, battered into surrender, into believing they were worthy of no better lives.

And then, in the midst of such grievous austerity, one man got to his feet to stand against them. One man with an idea, a calling that he would not deny. A man within whom had grown the unignorable urge to make a difference, not just for himself but for all those who suffered as he had, all those he felt he could trust to make his vision come to reality. A man who would no longer allow himself to be treated as though he was worse than any other, who would no longer merely watch those around him, both men and women, suffer such cruelty, forced to think of themselves with only shame. He saw that things could be different, that things should be different, should be better. That everyone should be equal, that they should all work as one, together, with a common goal in which they could all invest and from which they would all be benefitted. He was a man who saw a bigger picture, who could discern a brighter future.

Bridgette, wiping the tears from her eyes, put her arm around William.

‘This all be because of thee,’ she said, looking up at him. ‘If it should not hath been for thee we would all have perished some fifty, sixty years prior. We would, most likely, not hath our daughter, as so many others would not hath their children, children who now know their grandmothers and grandfathers, children who be able to live with optimism, with peace. We would have ended our lives in decay, in filth and pain. We, not a single one of us gathered here about, wouldst ever hath known such a time, such a cloudless, promising future if it had not been for thee.’

William placed his hand at the back of her head, stroking her hair. He was about to speak but, instead, Bridgette said, ‘And I knowest I hath perhaps been unfair to thee, that I hath brought upon you disagreement and sorrow, due to the fact that I worry so, and for that I be sorry now, more sorry that thee canst know.’

She paused as the light show before them grew brighter, its colours deeper, the character of Easthope lit upon its stage.

‘This, I think, be a sign. It be showing us all we hath done, all we hath accomplished, and it maketh me see, now, that I should never hath been so quarrelsome, so quick to apportion blame, to cast thee out for doing nothing more than what thee thought to be the best. I should, as should we all, be indebted to thee forever, for all thou hast done for us. I see that now. I see what is truly all that thee hast done, what thee truly be. Thou be a great and noble man, a man who hath brought so much more than life to us all and so I knowest, William East, that whatever thee should decide upon shall be the right thing, the best thing for us all.’

William, embarrassed, wanting to remind his wife that it was not just he but that all of them had played their part in making the village what it had come to be, nonetheless felt grateful and relieved at her acknowledgement that he had, after all, been trying to do no more than the right thing, that all he had ever wanted was to secure a better future for them all.

‘Thank you,’ he said, looking into her eyes. ‘If it be not for thee, my dear, my sweet Bridgette, I wouldst hath been without both the heart and the stomach for undertaking such work, such a labour. Thee be right in saying that what I hath done, I hath done for us all but, if it were not for them, if it were just thee and me, I wouldst still hath done all I could, wouldst still hath put all at risk if it were to guarantee that the smallest happiness, the swiftest respite be bestowed upon thee.’

As the lights began to fade they stood, entwined in an embrace, unwilling to let one another go, unwilling for now to think what it was that, they both now knew without saying even one more word, had to be done. Just for a little longer, just for the slightest fragment of time they would stay like this, just the two of them, as they had always been, so close, so loved. Everything they had done, everything they had worked for and accomplished, the long, happy lives they had shared, it all came down to these brief moments. Moments in which they could feel the beating of each other’s hearts, the singing of each other’s souls; the truth of their love, the honesty of their affection. And for a few seconds the stars above them held their breath, suspended their journeys, just so they could watch them as they had been watched, with amazement and wonder, unable to measure the depth that existed between them. Just for this short time they stood as one, the entwining embrace now drawing into it the whole of everything, the completeness of time.

Eventually, as Easthope fell once more into darkness, William slowly released his hold on Bridgette and began to slip away.

‘I knoweth,’ she said softly, gently. ‘I knoweth what thee must do, what must be done.’

William nodded. He knew instinctively that what they had both silently decided was the right thing, and he also knew, without fully understanding how, exactly where he needed to go so that he might make his decision known.

‘I shall return to thee once the resolution hath been reported,’ he promised, turning slowly and walking in the direction of the Tavern, passing it by and heading then into the trees beyond.

Bridgette watched him until she could see him no longer, her eyes blurred with tears, her heart charged with pride.