The silver light dances across the white tiles of the empty hall. I am brooding, my hand clenched around a statue of dried clay, my gaze fixated unseeing upon the unfinished mural before me.
I have not set foot in this room for seven years, and apparently, neither has anyone else. The dust lies heavy upon the floor mixed with dirt and stone and dust, and cobwebs of lonely spiders straggle the corners of the mighty pillars.
I ran from my heart last night; I retreated from the starlit fantasy of a man I might be, and my mind will not leave me alone. All morning, in unending parade, memories of the woman have marched across my vision, refusing to cease their haunting. Not the pretty girl in the drawing room, nor the woman she loves more than me, but my own neglected mother.
My shadow. How she clings to my true self, and how I yearn to break free! At last I have fled to this place, the one place she cannot pursue me, because I have, in the end, come to her.
And now I find myself here, leaning against a makeshift scaffold, free of the ghosts and brooding like a haunt myself.
The mural is large and beautiful, of a meadow that my mother and I both loved. It was in this meadow that she met my father, and it was to this meadow that she would bring me and my small friend when we were young and unaffected. How we three loved to play and run and love each other there, and how she joyed to be mother for both of us. We decided to create our own paradise in the giant hall of my mother’s castle, a castle that was old, crumbling, and forgotten; a hall that reminded us of decay and loss, and we decided to transform it to a spring of hope and renewal. I was a sculptor, my mother a painter, and my friend a gardener, and between us we began the transformation, watching the magic unfold.
But in the midst of our building, of claiming a paradise on earth, of claiming a future of perfection for ourselves, she left me.
In the prime of her life she fled. In the midst of creating her greatest masterpiece, she quite. In the very process of raising a son into manhood, she died.
God took her in his infinite providence. And two weeks later, in his unending mercy, God inspired my best friend’s father to send my one companion abroad for an education.
And so naturally, after that, I shut up the hall and transformed my home from a sanctuary into a place of revelry, just to defy God. But I kept it respectable on the outside, just to defy society – let them think they know me; let them invite a son of the devil into their homes, to their tables, beside their daughters. I was a carefree, untamed, debonair scoundrel, just to defy my pain.
But the pain is there, it was buried deep, but I have not forgotten. And love is there, but that I had forgotten.
I stand and pace the long hall, running my hands along the unfinished painting, brushing my knees against dead plants that crinkle and turn to dust as I pass, and my fists are clenched and my knees shake from anger.
When I saw her last night, my heart tightened into a knot. And the moment she saw me, I knew she still loved me. But I have learned to shut out the world. I have learned to mask myself, and I lied to her all night.
All night, until the moonlight. And then I couldn’t.
And I do love her! I stand back to look at the mural, full of untamed flowers, birds, and wind. I look at the dead potted plants – one of the roses has dried on it’s stem. I look at the half-formed clay statue of a mother with two children, and then words from last night swim to my consciousness: “She must be my love, you know. For now.”
My mother had always been our love, our guide, but now my friend’s father has given my friend a new mother to love, but I only have the old, the dead, the forgotten. Rough as it is, my stone sculpture reveals my mother’s features – she had such hope for us – for me.
I approach with reverence and take the stone hand that she stretches out to me. I look into her eyes that plead for me. I look at her arm that encircles both children in an overflow of love, and she has reached me.
“I will make you proud,” I whisper to her. “I will learn to love again.”
Then I leap to my feet and without a glance at the halls of revelry and debaseness, I flee my home and my village forever. I descend to the seaport docks, hire myself out as a sailor, and depart on a schooner to the wide world.
To Be Continued…