Aria Remains
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

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Beckett took hold of Aria’s hand and pulled her though the expanding crack in the cave wall.

‘Hurry,’ he half-whispered, as though speaking more quietly would confuse the old witch, would make it more difficult for her to replace them.

They entered the enormous cavern, Aria’s cold feet slipping against the damp rocks, Beckett dragging her forward. All around them the bright light began to pulse, to flash on and off, as the bats swirled in fright and confusion and the rock began to crumble from the walls. A tremendous sound engulfed them, a roaring, rumbling clamour, while the breeze had become a portentous and powerful gale, whirling around the space as it tried to replace direction, pressing against them for a moment before surging at them from behind. They stumbled as they went, catching themselves on the stalagmites and on the uneven surface of the cave floor, changing direction to avoid the huge chunks of rock that began plunging from above.

‘The steps,’ Beckett shouted, terror now superseding caution though his voice was almost lost in the cacophony, pointing to where they had first come into the cave.

They went as quickly as they could, Aria doing her best to ignore the agony of the sores and cuts on her feet and the tightness of Beckett’s grip on her hand. As they reached the base of the steps they looked back, seeing the small, secret room where Beckett had revealed the truth to Aria, had opened her eyes to the viable impossibilities of existence and to the static and variable, calculable and indefinable path of time, its twists and turns, its journey into the beyond and back again. The wall, where the crack had began to break open just minutes before, was now completely gone, kumulipo flickering faintly inside the room, resolving itself, recouping its strength and its infinite attainability.

Trailing behind like impedimenta, Aria lost her footing and scraped her shins against the sharp edges of the rough, unshapely steps as Beckett pulled her up and along them, yet still they climbed, their desperate escape from the shattering cave now within reach. And then, at last, as the roof of the cavern finally gave way, and as the bats soared to safety above their heads and the spiders and salamanders and beetles and centipedes and millipedes scuttled around and between their feet, they were free, back in the open air, close to the edge of the river that rushed by as though it, too, were attempting its own abscondment.

They stood by the water, gasping for breath, and it was then that Aria saw watercraft battling the tide, boats whose decks were filled with sacks and barrels, goods arriving from all corners of the world, seamen and merchants standing nearby, laughing and pointing in their relief to have finally found the village of Easthope. All seemed calm, all seemed unaffected by, and unaware of, the disastrous collapse of the cave, of the only shelter from the old witch now breaking apart like porcelain, the clouds of dust that circled, that rose and fell in the air around them now all that remained of the ancient and glorious chamber. Beckett, still tightly gripping her hand, turned to Aria and asked if she was all right, if she had been injured. Pulling up the legs of her pyjamas, she bent slightly to examine the cuts and bruises on her shins and feet, then said, ‘Yes, I’m okay. Just a few scratches. So, what now?’

Beckett looked around, as though oblivious to the busy waterway, his hand against his brow to shield his eyes from the sun.

‘I think we can assume,’ he said breathlessly, allowing his eyes to land briefly upon the sunken hillside where the entrance to the cave had been, ‘that she knows we are here. Now it’s just a case of who replaces who first. But, it is certain to say, there will be confrontation, there will be some kind of engagement.’

No sooner had he let go of her hand and they had begun walking along the shore towards the dying valley, where the plants and bushes had been dry and brown since the beginning of time, near to where beetles were still attempting to break into the tomb of the half-consumed mother of the old witch, his prediction came to pass and she appeared before them. Although she had been aware of their presence she had heard nothing of which they spoke while they were in the small room, inside the secret cave, apart from the nervous utterance of her name. Angered by their subterfuge, by the way she was only now aware of the cavern from which Beckett had been making his escape from her, and disconcerted to replace the two of them together, she stood at the opening of the valley, staring at them, shaking with fury, deciding what she would do, how she would avenge such an unimaginable betrayal.

Aria, realising now that the boats had disappeared from the water as though hiding from the encounter, and having been unable to think of what else she could do, raised her hands in an intimation of acquiescence and began walking towards the old woman. Towards her sister, the sibling she had never known. Yet now, as she went, she was able to recall seeing her as a much younger woman, when she, herself, was just a little girl, siting together amongst tables and benches, the sweet smell of freshly baked bread seasoning the air, a gathering of bluethroats daring one another to move closer to them. Then the memory changed and they were together again, this time in the squalid, putrid little hut, her sister fumbling with dirty, acrid linen, a small dog at their feet.

‘Alice,’ Aria said, still walking, drawing nearer and nearer to the old woman who was now focused solely upon her, a quizzical expression blossoming in her face. ‘Alice, it’s me. Don’t you remember?’

She saw herself naked and alone, wakening atop grey, wet rocks, the ocean behind her crashing and spraying parts of itself onto her damaged skin.

‘I knoweth who thee be,’ Alice said, spitting the words, straightening her body while still bearing the same puzzled look.

‘Do you?’ Aria asked. ‘Do you really know? Think, Alice. Think back to when you were young, when you were a child. Think of the dreadful argument between your mother and that terrible, horrible woman. Think of what she did to you, what she turned you into. And think, again, of what you had been before.’

‘How couldst thee…’ Alice began, then paused, allowing herself time to interpret the faint glimmerings of memory that were developing like a long-forgotten photograph in her mind. ‘How couldst thee know about such things?’ she said, this time much more quietly.

Aria saw herself on a magnificent summer’s day, running across endless fields, a beautiful and intelligent terrier skipping along beside her, leaping the tall grass, its tongue flopping to the side of its mouth, its eyes big and bright and the most wonderful shade of brown.

‘Think, Alice, of what was taken from you. Think of the love that was stolen away. Think of your sister.’

At this Alice stepped back, almost stumbling onto the brown, dry grass that was now holding the last of its breath.

‘What be this?’ she muttered, awkwardly recovering her balance. ‘What trickery, what falsehood dost thee clothe thyself within?’

‘Your sister,’ Aria said again, now just a few feet from the old woman. She held out a hand to her then, indicating with her eyes that she meant no harm, that she was offering her hand in nothing more than friendship. In kinship.

‘What be this…’ Alice started once more, then quietened again, the photograph in her mind now fully exposed. Then another appeared to her, then another, until there was such a collection of prints they would have reached to the sky, would have circled the earth had they been positioned in such a way.

‘Sister?’ she said, her voice now tiny, her heart slowly beating again, having for so long laid comatose, insentient.

Aria nodded and moved closer to her still, so close that she was able to touch her hand.

Alice stared at her, seeing so far inside, so much of herself that it caught her breath. She could not recall the last time she had felt the touch of another until, just as she was thinking of it, she saw another image, an image of herself as a young girl, her arms wrapped around a sister - her sister - whose arms were similarly wrapped around her. It was the very last time she had felt another person’s skin yet now, as Aria lightly touched the back of her hand, it was as though she were a young girl again and that it had been only moments since they had last been together.

Centuries of pain and waste and depraved wickedness, of loneliness and torment, of broken hope and exhausted dreams, all those years that had happened so far in the past and so near to the present, each day and each hour, each tiny second now contracted, narrowed into a spear that pierced her, impaled her upon her own life and allowed her to see how terribly she had squandered it. She closed her eyes as the shaft drove even further into her, lifting her from the ground, twisting and pivoting her higher so that she would be able to see everything she had done and everything that survived despite her malevolence. And then, when she opened her eyes again and she did see, did realise and understand everything she had done, all of the foul deeds she had committed for no other reason than she had been jealous and lonely and spiteful and so very arrogant that it was only her feelings that mattered, the spear returned her to the ground, standing her gently where she had been. Standing in front of her sister. In front of the girl she had missed with such an agonising torrent of sorrow and bereavement that it had eviscerated her entirely, had exsanguinated her heart, had left it merely a shrivelled, torpid bundle of fibrous tissue.

‘Sister,’ she said, and she allowed her hand to move so that it covered that of Aria’s, so that they were now holding each other’s hands and were standing in the bright sunlight, beneath a cloudless blue sky by the edge of a charming, glistening river as sisters, just sisters, and they were experiencing what it was to have family and what it meant to belong, to no longer be alone.

‘What…’ Alice said, ‘what hast I done? What wretchedness, what fiendishness hast I been responsible for? How canst it be compensated? What must I do so that recompense can be paid?’

Beckett, who had approached them without their notice, placed his hand upon Aria’s shoulder and smiled to the old woman.

‘And thee,’ Alice said. ’Oh, my boy, I am so very sorry, so very sorry for all that which I hath had thee do, with which I hath tarnished thy sweet soul. So blinded, was I, by my own anger, my own fear and loss, that it caused me to submit thee to a half-life of such cruelty, that it led me to steal from thee the very thing stolen from myself.’

She paused and, for the first time in hundreds and hundreds of years, since almost the same time that the very first stars broke free of their restraints and bestowed their glorious light unto the universes, she brought forth a smile not born from insidious satisfaction at the pain she had bestowed upon others, in the vein belief it would defer her own, but from a freshly recovered place of kindliness, of humanity. And as she smiled she released a part of herself that had festered inside her and tormented her for so long that, as it found its egress, as it rushed forth from her mouth and from her eyes, rushing across the landscape like a thick black smoke from an extinguished wood fire, the dying plants and bushes and trees in the valley became vibrant once again, began to experience the force of life, the potency of being.

‘Things shall be a great deal different now,’ the old woman said as she, too, began to transform, to evolve.

The tone of her voice had changed from its previous scratchy, snarling snap and was now softer, richer, more euphonious and, as Aria and Beckett watched on in silence, they noticed her physicality, too, began to modify; the deep lines in the skin of her face, that had only moments before resembled the thick repairs of the bark of an oak and, like the oak, now forced out the multitude of insects harboured within, scattering across her face as though spilled from a can, now became smooth. Her pallor, for so long a dull, grey gloom that had made her resemble an etching in charcoal, now shone with a warmth, a clarity, the skin becoming a lustrous peach-pink, her aura growing brighter as the souls she had collected sped forth to replace their true domains and her own settled back into its proper place.

‘Alice?’ Aria said tentatively, still holding her hand. ‘Are you okay?’

Alice nodded but was now looking mournfully at Beckett, an expression of deep regret on her face.

‘Wouldst thou hath me return thee, to set thee free so thou canst replace thy family, be reunited with thy sister and mother?’

Beckett, surprised by this offer, removed his hand from Aria’s shoulder and stepped to the side, closing his eyes as he considered her question. As he thought, the world upon which they stood continued to reclaim its innate disposition. Birds of many species appeared in the skies, swooping and rising in the air, as a tremendous diversity of insects set about their industry; the valley completed its renaissance and was now the most exquisite, most tranquil place Aria had ever seen, its lush vegetation reaching proudly for the sun which, in return, smiled down upon them affectionately, welcoming them back to their lives.

Meanwhile, Beckett, although aware of the magnificence emerging around him, was concentrated on the proposition he had been posed, weighing up what he should do. Despite the torture that had afflicted him, the grave pain with which he missed his mother and sister, it was almost as though they were now better suited to him as a memory and that they were better suited to themselves where they were, that they should be allowed to stay amongst the stars, part and particles of the universe. He knew they would not return as spirits, as the ghosts of Easthope had returned, since they were at rest and at peace, untarnished by the intense desire to make amends, to pass on messages of warning. He was also aware that he would not see them again, whichever option he chose, since the passing of souls and their subsequent journey into the beyond allowed for no such reacquaintance.

It occurred to him, then, just how important the old woman had become to him, how greatly he valued her companionship and how much he would miss her should he leave. Despite everything, the terrible things she had made him do, the corruption and pain and misery she had forced him to promulgate, still he could not imagine his life without her. He had seen, deep amongst the darkest days, almost hidden within the darkest deeds, a small light of goodness still struggling for sustenance within her and now, he thought, he would very much like to feed that light, to nourish and bolster it so that it might be put to use, so that he and she might, together, turn their hands to perpetrating goodness. There was one thing, however, that still weighed upon him, that still caused him great concern.

‘I know what thee be ruminating upon,’ he heard the old woman say, even though she was not speaking with words but was, instead, communicating directly with his consciousness. ‘I know the wounds that continue to suppurate inside thee, the wicked actions for which thee can see no salvation, and I know, of course, it was the unforgivable manipulation of myself that propelled thee to such degradations.’

‘How can I tell her?’ he thought, knowing she could hear, that she could understand. ‘How can I reveal my part in the death of those she held most dear? My conspiratorial hand in the events that led to the passing of her parents, the abhorrent butchery of those young men, in whom she saw the opportunity for renewal, for life and for love - how can I even begin to explain such turpitude to her?’

‘Must such awareness be granted?’ Alice said into his mind, into his heart. ‘Would it allow any goodness to serve as replacement for such pain? It is I, do not forget, that be truly responsible. It be me who guided the strings in this diabolical puppetry. Thee may as well have been asleep, may as well hath been safely and quietly ensconced within a dream for all the accountability that falls at thy door. So, I sayest no, thou ought not recognise the desire to bear liability, ought not think of it a moment longer. Perhaps it shall be me who, one day, tells her of all I hath done. But not today, not on this most exceptional and significant of days.’

To Aria, these silent conversations passed without her noticing in just a second, and she did not see Beckett nod and smile to the old woman and did not realise they still had one further thing to discuss.

‘And no,’ Alice said without speaking, ‘thou needeth not tell her of that, either. Even if she doth still recall some parts of the lives she hath previously lived, even if there be things to come that spark such memory, she need not be made aware of the friendship thee and she once cultivated, that bloomed as the summer flowers that lined the fields through which thou didst run and laugh and care for one another. Aware of every moment, I didst see the hours thy spent at this very water’s edge, the way she loved thee and the way thou loved her. If it had not been for thee, then, I fear she wouldst not hath been able to survive that time for even as long as she did, that desolation into which she was thrust, from the unbearable slabs of rock onto which she was spat, naked and afraid, from the wild ocean to that lonely, loathsome hovel I hath referred to as my home for so, so long.’

Beckett thought for another period of time that was, to Aria, no time at all, such is the very essence of time itself, then nodded his agreement again.

‘She shall be cleansed now,’ Alice concluded, before the three of them wandered through the valley that was now so filled with beauty and life that none wanted to leave once they reached its end, ’as thee and, perhaps, even I shall be cleansed. Those ghosts of Easthope I so nefariously created, and those who hath come before, the great and noble William East and those with whom he shared his prototypical ideals, they shall now be at rest, their souls returned, their spirits forever in repose.

‘And she shall, like those who now prevail within the secluded walls and protective fields of that most sacred and virtuous village, she shall live as she be meant to live, shall experience all the joys and splendour this world canst offer and shall, once the moment of concluding termination is decided by that most gracious triumvirate with whom she hath, at times, conferred, once the thread is cut and the page is turned, shall be returned to those most majestic stars above, shall become a chorister within their glorious reverberation, shall become a blazing light that fortifies their supreme shimmer.’

And so it was, and was forever so. Easthope continued as it always had, valuing its successes and accepting its failures as all outstanding places must. Its borders, though still unseeable to those unworthy, burgeoning with effervescence and fertility, its paradigm of equality and fairness as strong and nourishing as it had ever been. Those blessed to have been born within its bounds even now remember and commemorate the man to whom they owe their most respectful gratitude and he, with Bridgette at his side, has occasion to look down upon the village with the deepest pride and most beholden satisfaction.

Alice and Beckett, both unwilling to part, both unable to imagine a life without one another, built for themselves a new place to live, a splendid residence close to the cliff’s edge, filled with light and air and hope, that was close enough to the village for anyone to visit, should they so wish, and far enough away for them not to be any inconvenience to anyone. They spent their days working the land, welcoming those who did call upon them and doing all they could think of to do so that they might, when the final tally was calculated, be responsible for more good than the bad they had previously executed.

On the twenty-seventh day of each month they were visited by a beautiful young woman, whose long dark hair shone like a thousand suns reflected from the serene surface of a thousand oceans, and blue eyes that evinced all the promise and resplendence of the world and the galaxies and the universes above. She would tell them of her life, of her friends and of the prosperity her work enjoyed. She would come to them eagerly, with deference and regard since she knew how hard they were trying to reconcile themselves with all they had done, and sometimes they would wander into the village and would sit on the green where once had been invented afternoon tea and sandwiches, where trade had been discussed and had been forged, where the gitanos had arrived with their exotic foodstuffs and the curious three-footed lady who had apparently envisioned no further use for her hands, and which was the centre, the heart of the village that had become such a paragon of rectitude. Every now and again one of the villagers would curtail their business just to say hello to her, would examine her with questioning eyes, uncertain why she seemed to be so important and what it was about her, what qualities she embodied, that they wished they, too, might realise for themselves. They had no way of knowing that she had been the daughter of the man who had established their beloved village, since she had never felt the need to tell them.

And so it was that, after all that had happened, after so many centuries had passed, years and months and days that continued still, yet were so very far away, and after all the joy and pain, the love and loss, after the village had been bathed in the most vibrant luminosity of life and had faced the worst depravity of darkness, and that had, even so, persevered and flourished and now stood, as fresh and unique as it always strived to be, and after so much had been forgotten, resigned to a synchronous past, the gentle shimmer of the stars reached across the universes and saw that it was and would always be Aria that remained.

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