Afterlife Lessons

It is always quiet here, and I can see in her eyes whenever she enters this place that she loves it almost as much as I did. I have read all of these books; this place holds no secrets for me. She is eager to learn more, too eager, and I should tell her so, warn her of her folly; but it is not my place. She is not even of my house, so why should I concern myself?

Ah, but I do, for how can I fail to recognise myself in her? The Friar, in one of his rare moments of lucidity, held his not inconsiderable belly in both hands and roared with laughter at the thought of another life wasted while I watched, my hands tied by my own curiosity. I always give them far too much credit, you see; I always assume that they will somehow pull back from the pursuit of knowledge for its own sake before it is too late. And they never do.

Her friends cannot influence her, her will is too strong; as was mine. Oh, I had friends for a time, many of them; I was useful to them, after all, but her friends care more for her than she knows. They left some time ago, heading for the village along the lane and shaking their heads in rue at her stubbornness. The shadows have lengthened since then and still she sits, deep in concentration. She has no idea that I sit a little way down the room and watch, and she has forgotten that her good fortune lies outside of herself and in the careful hands of her friends.

I learnt all the quiet places so jealously guarded by this castle, and made them my own. I memorised every crack in the stone-flagged floors, every twist and turn of every corridor, for how else could I have paced safely between lessons with my nose buried in a book? Now, I have an eternity to roam this place and remember my mistakes.

I drove them all away, you see, even the boy, nearly a man, who thought he could hold my heart. He could not, for he was fashioned from flesh and blood and bone, not parchment and ink and pigskin. By the time I realised my mistake it was too late and he was gone, illness stealing the life from him as it did from me soon after. He left, glad to be free of the constraints of Academe, even in so final a way; I remained, wanting nothing more than to wander here for all Eternity and even glad of the solitude I had attained at last.

I should warn her. I should sweep the books from her table, blow the pages shut with an arctic breath, send her scurrying to retrieve them and then fly through her, chilling her, sharing myself and my history with her, giving her the one moment of perfect clarity that will make crooked the otherwise too-straight path of her existence and give her a life!

The last time I encountered one such as she was a quarter century ago, and he lives here still. I see him often but he does not see me. He sees no one, for no one is good enough for him to see. He has friends but cannot see that they are such and so acknowledges them not. He saw the light too late, as did I, and he was swallowed whole by the dark. He has tried to escape its grip but its hold will always be too strong no matter how he strives. I could have acted years before and saved his fall, but he reminded me of another boy and another time and I convinced myself that he would prevail without my help. I have been so wrong, so many times, and yet I am doomed to watch and wonder.

I do regret my inaction, sometimes. There have been too many lives spoiled, over the centuries, and in sufficient number to make me realise that my own mind was not so special. Intellect is a gift, a prize, a means to an end that should not be its own. There is more in life. I know that now, now that I am arm in arm with Death and cannot experience it for myself. It is perhaps the most important lesson she will ever learn, if I choose to tell her.