The Lord Came at Twilight

by Daniel Mills

  “It’ll be but one night,” I added hastily. “And I’d pay you, of course. My horse and I will be gone by the time you wake.”

  “Will ye?” he sneered. “Listen to your beast a-breathin’—a sadder sack o’ bones I ne’er heard. Ye may wake, ‘tis true, but not afore me, and ye surely won’t be goin’ much farther on that.” He burst out laughing, slapping his thighs.

  As for me, I had endured as much as I meant to suffer.

  “Very well,” I said. “I shall seek help elsewhere. Good day.”

  As I turned away, his attitude changed abruptly. I had gone no more than five paces when he hurried out from the house, hobbling after me with the aid of a cane. When he reached me, he offered profuse apologies and grabbed at my arm with all of the strength that remained in his claw-like fingers. “Pay me no heed,” he said, “Please, sir, I beg of ye. I’ve forgotten m’ manners—I’m an old man, and visitors are few.”

  He made a pitiful sight: his lips upturned in entreaty while the eyes remained lifeless. For the first time I could see them clearly. They may have once been blue, or perhaps gray, but now appeared black, as though they had been burned out with a hot iron. A milky film covered the dead pupils and white flecks floated across the blackened irises. I looked away, feeling sickened and aghast; more charitable emotions were beyond me. Thankfully he could not see my disgust and instead squeezed my arm and asked again for forgiveness.

  “You’re forgiven,” I assured him. “But please—let me go!”

  “Ah!” he cried and dropped my arm as though scorched. This sparked another round of profuse apologies, the man seemingly near tears, and I turned away from him, convinced he was not only blind but mad. Again I pressed forward, sinking shin-deep in the foul mud, but this time the old man did not pursue me.

  “Ye’ll want to see Mary,” he shouted after me. “’bout a room.”

  I turned to see him hunched over his cane. Rainwater streamed down his face, twisting in channels past his dead eyes.

  “Mary?”

  “That’s right. And she’s got a stable too. For the horse.”

  “Where does she live?”

  He lifted his hand to point but quickly let it drop again. It was an unconscious gesture, I realized, one left over from an earlier life, before he had been blinded. “Up the road a-ways,” he said. “Hers is the third house past the church. She’s got chickens, she does, and she likes to sing. Ye’re sure to hear them, one or the other.”

  I shouted my thanks and began to walk again. I led the pony up the road past the church, the beast huffing beside me like a bellows, sounding as exhausted as I felt. Our route took us past the church, which existed in an even sorrier state of disrepair than I had first thought: the roof looked as if it might cave in at any moment, and the bell had fallen from the belfry.

  As we passed the church, my gaze lit on the heap of rubbish I had spotted earlier. At this distance, I could see that the pile consisted primarily of weeds and soil but with the bones of many small animals—chickens or rabbits—scattered throughout. Some bore the marks of fire as from a roasting pit.

  Past the ruined church, my ears picked up the faint strains of music—the sound of someone singing at their work—and I remembered what the old man had said. The voice was undeniably a woman’s, and though it was not a pretty voice, it possessed a certain feminine charm that was magnified twice over by contrast with the squalor that surrounded me.

  I drew up in front of the nearest house. The tiny cottage appeared as ramshackle and deserted as the rest of the houses in the village. But the voice came again, and this time, I recognized the tune as something from my churchgoing days. Encouraged by this sign of life, I rapped at the door and was answered by a cheerful reply from within.

  Moments later, the door opened inward and I found myself face to face with a woman of uncommon beauty. Her skin was exceptionally pallid, as smooth and white as unblemished alabaster, and her statuesque form called to mind the caryatids of Athens. Perhaps most remarkably, she wore a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles inset with black lenses. They made an odd juxtaposition with her physical beauty, and I realized then that she too was blind.

  “Yes?” she asked, her voice unusually rich and husky for a woman’s. “What is it?” She could not see me, but still she smiled—a smile so warm and welcoming that I could not help but feel at ease. I explained to her that I was traveling north when the storm fell upon me.

  “Where were you going?”

  “Vergennes.”

  She repeated the name with no hint of recognition. “I fear you may be lost,” she said. “There’s nothing to the north of us but mountains. Another village or two. Nothing more.”

  “And Vergennes?”

  She shrugged. “You must have taken the wrong path.”

  “Oh,” I said, recalling the mountain crossroads I had encountered earlier that day.

  “But do come in.” She stepped out of the doorway. The house beyond was as black as night, but I felt no disquiet in her presence. “You must shelter here tonight.”

  “And my horse?”

  “There’s a shed out back. It isn't a proper stable, but the roof’s intact. Give me the lead. I’ll take him there.”

  Naturally I protested. “But you—”

  I cut myself off.

  “Yes,” she said graciously. “You’re quite right—I am blind. But you’ll find I manage well enough.”

  Embarrassed, I handed her the lead. She took it from me and led the pony round the corner of the house. “Go inside,” she called over shoulder. “And take your rest. The wood box is well-stacked. Build up a fire to warm yourself.”

  “I am in your debt,” I said.

  But she had already gone.

  I left my boots in the entryway and entered the house in my stocking feet. Once my eyes had adjusted to the gloom, I found myself in the common room. A rectangular dining table occupied the center of the room while the walls were lined with bookcases. I approached the nearest of these and squinted to browse the titles. It was a strange assortment, encompassing old encyclopedia volumes, several books on astronomy and the movement of planets, and at least one scholarly work on optics and the properties of glass.

  Like the other houses in the village, hers occupied a single floor. Doorways placed along the near wall led (presumably) to the kitchen and to the bedrooms. The hearth was situated along the opposite wall and the wood-box sat nearby, filled with fresh logs and kindling. I stacked some of both inside the fireplace, added a fistful of tinder, and struck a long match.

  As the fire flared into life, the room took on color and dimension. To my surprise, I observed that the parlor was virtually spotless. Every surface had been carefully dusted and the floorboards gleamed, freshly polished. Even the books were in immaculate condition. The gold spines of reference volumes shone faintly in the dim light. Only her bible, a lectern-sized King James, appeared somewhat battered, as from lengthy and repeated consultation, but where the spine had snapped, so too had it been mended—and rather recently by the appearance of the glue. I found this last observation particularly poignant as I knew she could no longer read.

  I took a seat at the table and turned the chair to the fire, allowing myself to grow warm and dozy even as I wondered to where my hostess had disappeared. As if in response to my unspoken question, a door banged shut beyond the parlor—the back door, I assumed—and Mary soon entered the room, her darkened spectacles glinting in the firelight. I made to rise from my chair, but she waved me back into my seat.

  “You’ve made a fire,” she remarked. “Good. A house is nothing without a fire.”

  She approached the hearth and ran a hand through her wet hair. One or two drops gathered at her fingertips and fell away, gleaming as they caught the light so that I thought of precious stones. It was a lovely sight, and I was suddenly sad that she could not see it.

  The storm had not let up. Rain drummed without abatement on the wooden roof, and the lightning came frequently w
ith thunder following hard behind.

  “Your horse is stabled out back,” she said. “He’s out of the rain now and has plenty of food—for the first time in months, I’d wager, given the state of him.” She waved off my gratitude and proceeded to raise the subject of supper. “Will stew be alright?” she inquired. “It’s rabbit,” she added. “I don’t need my sight to empty a trap.”

  I thanked her and again she smiled. As she retreated through the doorway, I was struck—though not for the last time—by the confidence with which she walked and the grace this imparted to her every step. In any town or city she would have been beautiful, but here she seemed singularly unearthly, simultaneously real and unreal in the manner of a dream: the muses that had come to me in the stillness of my father’s library. She vanished through the doorway, the damp hem of her dress leaving a trail of raindrops, and I disappeared into my thoughts.

  After a time she returned from the kitchen bearing a tray on which was set a wooden bowl and a mug of cold water. She placed these before me on the table, and my stomach lurched at the aroma that wafted from the bowl. I was ravenous. The stew was plain , unseasoned, but on that night it seemed to me the most exquisite meal that I had ever eaten. I finished my bowl with the speed and manners of a man long starved.

  All the while, she sat across the table with her spectacles fixed on me, and though it was quite impossible, I felt as though she were watching me, calling to me from the depths of all that darkness. Trapped in this mountain village, she was isolated many times over, alone in a truer sense of the word than I had ever thought possible, for all my youthful loneliness. I felt pity for her, of course, and something more, something I cannot describe. When I was young, I did not have the proper words. Now that I am old, I find I cannot utter them.

  She waited until I had finished eating before attempting conversation. “I take it Obadiah must have sent you?” She went on to describe the filthy old man in some detail, omitting only the horror of his damaged eyes.

  “Yes,” I said. “That’s him. Bit of an odd sort, isn’t he?”

  “The poor man,” she said. A sadness fell across her features and she sighed heavily, as a mother might when discussing a wayward son. “He doesn’t look after himself.”

  “No,” I agreed. “I thought him mad.”

  “He is,” she said. “A little.”

  She did not elaborate.

  Firelight streamed over her glasses, a rippling sheet that warped and shifted as the fire flared. Their black depths swallowed my reflection.

  I changed the subject. “I couldn’t help but notice your library,” I remarked. “It really is impressive.”

  “It is,” she agreed. “But it isn’t—not in truth.”

  “No?”

  “The books belonged to a traveling preacher. A German. These spectacles were his. This house too. Here he taught me all he knew about science, philosophy: the will of God and the path to sanctity. From the beginning, I believe he saw me as a kind of student—even more so when I consented to marry him.”

  “He was your husband?”

  She shook her head. “We never married.”

  “Oh.” Her lack of emotion surprised me. Awkwardly I shifted my gaze to my lap. “I’m—sorry I raised the subject.”

  “There’s no need,” she said neutrally, her voice unclouded by anger or regret. She tapped the bridge of her nose, indicating her spectacles, the blindness they hid.

  “He did this to me,” she said. “To all of us.”

  “But—how—”

  “Not deliberately,” she added quickly. “You mustn’t misunderstand me. You saw his books on astronomy? He believed he had determined the date of the world’s rebirth and the coming of the Christ. Of course he could have done no such thing—isn’t it written that none shall know the hour?”

  Confused, I murmured my agreement.

  She went on: “As the appointed day drew near, he bade us dress in robes of white to meet Our Savior. My own robe was meant as my wedding dress. I was to be his bride that day—my purity a sacrifice offered up to Heaven—and in the stillness of this house, in the dark of the long night, he showed me the path to sanctity.

  “On the next morning we ascended the mountain. There he promised us that we would see the Risen Lord and greet our loved ones as they stepped from their graves. But the Bridegroom never came—at least not in the form that we had hoped.

  “A marvelous thing happened—a miracle, some might say—but we were struck blind. Abandoned by God, we sought comfort with our pastor, but the German had gone. For a time we even believed that he’d been taken up bodily, just as he had promised us. Now I know that he simply fled.

  “When we returned to the village, we discovered that we had been robbed, our houses emptied of all valuables—everything but these spectacles, which I found on the table, and the books you see around us. He left them behind for us—for me. This alone was a blessing for it allowed us to understand.”

  “To understand? But surely you cannot—”

  “To never forget,” she said. “Our sacrifice was inadequate. Our sanctity, for all of his assurances, was flawed. The Lord was swift and unsparing in His punishment.”

  “And the preacher?”

  She shook her head. “We have no pastor now, nor do we need one. The German taught me all he knew. It is only a matter of time now before we are forgiven. Like Paul, we have reached Damascus. But our sight has not returned.”

  She fell silent. Plainly her story was at an end.

  Did I believe her? I did not. I was too young, I think. Certainly I was too beguiled. A wiser man might have fled the table then and there and run off into the night. Had I done so, my life might have proved a happy one. Death might be far off yet instead of drawing near, as it is, in the quiet of this dead season. But I chose to stay: to smile at her from across the table although she could not see me—to change the subject once more—to continue in idle conversation when what I wanted most of all was to touch her hand and confess I found her beautiful.

  It was a foolish decision, yes, but even knowing all that I know today, I believe that I would make the same choice again. In fact I am certain of it.

  “Is that why you keep them?” I inquired, shifting the topic of conversation as casually as I could manage. “His books.”

  She nodded. “Of course. I may need use of them. One day.”

  “And the bible?”

  “That too was his. He left it to me.”

  I nodded. “It’s a marvelous volume.”

  “Isn’t it? I’ve done my best to mend it.”

  “You’ve succeeded beautifully.”

  Her forehead wrinkled. “Despite my lack of sight, you mean.”

  “Beautiful by any standard.”

  “You flatter me.”

  “I do no such thing, I assure you.”

  “Thank you,” she said quietly. “You’re very kind.”

  She blushed and averted her face. The crimson rose and followed the curve of her neck, darkening her features in the firelight. Where she had appeared beautiful before she was now truly radiant: bathed in the light of other days and utterly transfigured. In that moment, my dreams invaded the waking world, my youthful muses clad like the Word in flesh, and I ached with the pain of an unacknowledged emptiness, a sea of desires too long unfulfilled.

  “Come,” she said. “I have made up your bed.” Rather unexpectedly, she extended her hand. She bade me take it. “The hall is dark,” she said. “And I have no candle. Let me guide you. Otherwise you’ll surely fall.”

  What choice did I have? I took her hand and followed her into the darkened hallway, where there was no light save the fitful flash of distant lightning—already more gray than silver—and though the roar of the storm shook the house to its foundations, I walked beside her without fear or hesitation and allowed her to lead me into an unlit bedroom.

  The lone window was shut, permitting neither light nor draft, and the air inside was suffocating: as blac
k and stifling as the deepest bowels of the earth. Still I held fast to her hand, cold and clammy in my own, and dared not let her go.

  The heat was unbearable.

  *

  My sleep proved fitful and restless, my dreams blurred and tangled. The sky poured out in torrents on the roof, a ceaseless cacophony accented by occasional bursts of thunder, and I moved in and out of sleep with the passing of the storm.

  Many hours after midnight—after the thunder had passed and a hush had descended from the mountains—I woke to an empty room and the murmur of soft voices from somewhere close by. In the hallway, a man and woman conferred in serious tones, whispering so as not to be overheard. The woman’s voice was low and gravelly and uncommonly deep. Mary. The man’s voice gave me no trouble either, for it was as shrill as hers was husky, as rough as hers was refined. Obadiah. Instinctively I wondered what had brought him to the house at that hour.

  I did not rise or stir but lay abed with my thoughts and pretended to sleep, watching from the corner of my eye as moonlight streamed through the cracked window and crept along the floor. With my eyes closed, I listened hard but could not make out the thrust of their conversation. Some time passed—how long I cannot say—and then the two fell silent, a decision evidently having been made. I heard Mary enter the bedroom and the subsequent sound of her feet on the floorboards. She came to the end of the bed, where she halted, and I opened my eyes to see her standing there, revealed in a wash of moonlight.

  She had taken off her spectacles. In the wan light of the moon, I saw her eyes for the first time and knew why she had hidden them from me. For her eyes were identical to the old man’s in every detail: black and clotted and horribly damaged. She was naked, her dress lying cast off and discarded at the foot of the bed, and in her right hand she held a sickle above her head. In that moment she was fair as the moon, clear as the sun, more beautiful and terrible than armored Athena in all her glory. The blade caught the light again as it descended, brought down hard in an arc toward my leg. She meant to hobble me, to cripple me so that I could not flee, and I rolled away without thinking, crashing to the floor as the blow fell.