G H O S T    S T O R I E S T H E    B R I D A L    B E D by John Connolly Oh, such promises we make in the heat of our passion, when our breath catches in our throats and our bellies tremble. Lured by the warmth of another - the scent of her, the strength of him - our tongues betray us and the words come tumbling from our mouths; the act indistinguishable from the intent, the truth confused with lies, even to ourselves. Do we say these things because we truly believe them, or do we believe that, by saying them aloud, they may become true? And, when tested, how many of us can say that we fulfilled our vows, that we did not turn away, that we did not renege on the promises we made? When our partners grow old and slow, when the light in their eyes dims and their ardour cools, how many of us are not tempted to turn away and seek our pleasures elsewhere? Not I. I kept my vows to her, and she her vows to me, in her way. I recall her now, her long dark hair flowing, her lips slightly parted, a promise unspoken in her eyes. She is beautiful, and she will always be beautiful. She will never age, never be remembered as anything other than the radiant young woman that she is now, as she stands before me and says: "Do you love me? Will you always love me?" "Yes", I answer. "Yes, and yes again." "Even when I'm old and grey, and I have to undress in the dark so I don't frighten you?" I laugh. "Even then," I reply. She slaps me playfully, and pouts. "That was the wrong answer, and you know it. Tell me truly: if I were to change, if I were to lose what looks I have, would you still love me. Would you still be mine?" I reach for her, and she struggles a little in my arms before succumbing. "Listen to me", I say. "I will love you no matter what, and I will always want to be with you. Would I have waited so long if I didn't feel that way about you?" She smiles and kisses me softly on the cheek. "Yes," she whispers, "you have been patient. You know I want it to be special. I want our wedding night to be our first time together. I want to be with you then in my bridal bed." It was two weeks to our wedding day, and a year since we had first made our vows. Our house was built and furnished, the house in which we would raise our children and grow old together. There would be flasks of wine and her father's carriage, and feather bedding on which to lay her down. Fresh flowers would be cut, and their scent and hers would mingle in the morning light. I walked with her to her father's house, through fields of sheep laurel and rosebay, through beardtongue and blazing star, the wind casting seeds on the air and carrying them away to fall where they would. The sun was setting, and the crows were silhouetted against the red sky like black stars gliding slowly through the firmament. Her hand was warm in mine as she walked softly through the fields of wheat, the long stalks springing back nce again behind her, covering all traces of her as though she had never been. I left her at his door after one final kiss. And we never spoke again. * * * Even now, in the darkness, I see them. I see us all, a line of men moving through the fields, sticks in our hands, the dogs baying by our sides. We strike firmly at the thickets and the grass, exposing dark earth and fleeing insects. There is no wind now, no breeze. The world is still, as if the life was taken from it with her passing. We trace paths like locusts through the wheat fields, crushing the stalks beneath our feet. We search for two days without result, and on the third day we find her. A cluster of men gathers at the entrance to a copse of ash trees, and the dogs beside them howl. I run to where they stand and, when I see her, I try to push them back, to make them turn away. I do not want them to look upon her, for she would have hated to be exposed in this way, her pale skin torn, her clothes bloodied, her hair tangled with leaves and twigs. Her eyes are half-open, so that she seems for a moment to be emerging drowsily from some deep, peaceful sleep, frozen forever in the false hope of a new dawn. I strike at the man nearest me and he absorbs my blows, strong hands closing upon me, leading me gently away. They carry her from the field in a clean white sheet and lay her down in the back of cart, and a trail of men follows her to the village, their heads low and their dogs silent. We bury her in the small, raised cemetery to the north, on a patch of higher ground beneath a willow tree, and earth and rain fall together upon her casket as they cover her up. I am the last to leave her. I wait in the hope that some terrible celestial error has occurred, that the sun will shine through the clouds and warm this place, that the sound of her voice will rise from beneath the ground. I will call the others to me and we will tear the earth from above her, our bare hands clawing as we dig down. And we will lift the lid and she will be there, gasping, panicked, yet alive. But no sound comes, and at last I turn away and follow the crowd away from the churchyard. They tracked him down within the week: a drifter, a stateless man. They hunted him for miles, through streams and forests, until at last they cornered him by an old mill. He had taken a lock of her hair and tied it with a ribbon made from the hem of her dress. There were many such ribbons in his old brown bag, encircling the hair of murdered girls. They hanged him for what he had done, and he smiled on the gallows. But I took no satisfaction in his end, for no matter how much he suffered in his final moments it would never bring her back to me. She was gone, taken from me, and now we would never be together. For one week after she was laid to rest I did not eat, and drank only water from an old tin cup. I slept with my knees curled into my chest, in the hope that it might ease my pain, but the pain never went away. I dreamt uneasy dreams, in which the past that tangled itself with a future that now would never be, and I woke to an empty bed and the knowledge that it would always be empty. And yet I came to love those moments when I wakened to a new day, for in that instant desire and reality were briefly one. I would hold myself still, my eyes half-open in a strange imitation of my lost bride, as if by doing so I might become one with her, that I too might be taken and join with her in another place. On the eighth night, she called to me. I woke from a fitful sleep and heard the wind in the trees and the crying of an animal, except no animal had ever cried this way. It had a strange yearning to it, and a sweetness that sounded somehow familiar to me. Weakened by my lack of food, I walked unsteadily to my window and looked out upon the darkened world half-revealed. There were swaying branches and unlit windows, silent streets and the great spire of the church. Beyond lay the churchyard, the graves spread out upon their expanse of raised ground, the dead keeping watch over the living. Something flickered among the headstones, enclosed by the branches of an old willow tree: light and more-than-light, form and less-than-form. It hung suspended above the ground and I knew that beneath it was a pile of newly-turned earth, the flowers not yet entirely wilted upon it. I tried to make out features in the glow, to find some echo of her presence within it, but I was too far away. I opened the window, and the wind carried her voice to me, calling my name. A tendril extended itself from the centre of the light and seemed to beckon me towards it. I backed away, wanting to go to her but desperate also not to lose sight of that wondrous light. I felt a strange warmth on my body, as if the naked form of another was pressed hard against it. It seemed to me that I could smell her scent and her hair brushed softly against my cheek. I was almost at the door when my legs failed me and a terrible nausea gripped me. I collapsed even as my hand reached for the handle, my fingers scraping the metal. I cried out in desperation and then I was falling; and as my head hit the floor her voice faded and the light of her was lost as the blackness encroached upon me. They found me stretched by the door early the next morning. A doctor was called, a kind man who told me that, despite my grief, I must try to eat. He seemed surprised when I quickly agreed, and a thin soup was brought. I tried to keep down as much of it as I could, but my stomach was weak and rebelled against its first taste of food in so many days. But, later that day, I managed a little broth, and some dry bread. I walked stiffly from my bed to the jug and bowl upon my dressing table and tried to shave myself, but my hand shook so badly that I drew blood from my cheek and my eyes struggled to focus on the task in hand. I splashed water on my face to wash away the blood and soap, and when I lifted my head she was behind me. I saw her reflection in the glass as she moved about the room, folding clothes and humming softly to herself. I heard her bare feet padding across the floor, and a soft hiss as the cotton of her nightgown brushed against the foot of the bed. When I turned to speak, the room was empty. That night, she came to me. At first, I thought it was the moonlight glowing through my window, creating phantasms from the branches of the trees. But then came the tapping on the glass, and when I rose from my bed I could see her face beneath the veil, the whiteness of her fingers as they scraped against the glass, the pattern of the lace at the neck of her wedding dress, the swell of her breasts beneath. She opened her mouth, revealing the redness within, and her tongue played across her lips. Her feet were bare and cast no shadow on the ground many feet below, and her eyes were dark and hungry. "Do you love me?" she whispered, and the hunger in her eyes found expression in her voice. "Will you always love me?" "Yes," I replied, the word catching at the desire I felt for her, and she for me. "Yes, and yes again." "I wanted you to be the first," she said. "I wanted it to be special." An image flashed before my eyes: her body against the green grass, her torn dress, her exposed skin. All gone, my love, all gone. "It will be," I promised her. I fumbled with the latch and pushed the window open, the cool night air rushing into the room, bringing with it the smell of trees and flowers and damp, exposed earth. But even as I reached for her, she drew away from me, the light fading as she was drawn back to the place from which she had come, her hands beckoning me to follow. The shape of her disintegrated, the raw redness of her mouth lost in the glow, until there was just a shimmering on the hill behind the church, and then she was gone. On our wedding day, I ate a slow breakfast, forcing myself to keep down each morsel. The doctor returned and pronounced me much improved, even in that short period. I dressed and lunched later with my family, fortifying myself with a glass of red wine. I took a walk alone that afternoon and made my preparations before returning home. After dinner, I excused myself and went to my room. There I waited, sitting silently on my bed, still clothed, until all was quiet and the rest were asleep. Then I slipped from the house and made my way through the streets to the churchyard. The gravediggers kept their tools in a small hut by the cemetery gate, and from them I took what I needed. The place where she lay was not yet marked by a stone, but I knew where to find her, knew that she waited where the willow branches caressed the grave. Already, the light had begun to form and her voice was calling to me from above and below. I laid my coat to one side, and began to dig. The ground was still soft, the earth still loose, and as I drew nearer to the coffin I heard a sound like fingers scraping on wood. I dug faster, scattering the dirt in great arcs over my shoulder, until at last I could see the name on the small metal plate and the dull gleaming of the screws. By now, the sounds from within had grown more frantic and I moved quickly for fear that she might damage her hands. I placed the crowbar beneath the lid, and heaved. It moved slightly at first before it came away with a sharp crack, and she was revealed to me: Her hands clasped across her belly, the rosary beads intertwined with her fingers. Her eyes closed beneath her veil, her lips pale. Her skin, once flawless, now strangely tainted. She was still my love, as she would always be. I had promised her that I would love her, no matter what. Nature will have its way with us all, and time will wither us all. I raised her up and clasped her to me. Some faint trace of her scent still lingered, I thought, as I brushed a beetle from her brow. I kissed her gently, and though her lips were unmoving, yet I heard her voice murmur to me. Do you love me? Will you always love me? "Yes," I said. "Yes, and yes again." And she said no more as I drew her from the ground and carried her in my arms through the silent streets. Once, I stumbled and almost fell, for my body was still weak from its privations, but I regained my balance and held her closer to me. She was cold, but it was a cold night. Soon, she would be warm again. A lamp burned in the window of the small house as we made our way to it. Inside, cut flowers stood in vases, filling the rooms with their perfume, mingling with the scent of my bride. We stood upon the threshold, we two, gazing upon the white sheets, the plump pillows, the feather mattress that would cushion us on this, our wedding night. Softly, I kissed her cold cheek. "Welcome, my love," I whispered. "Welcome to your bridal bed." © John Connolly