Mrs Death Misses Death

by Salena Godden

  Has Mrs Death gone now?

  Has Mrs Death left me?

  Where did she go?

  Will she be back?

  I don’t know any more. I miss her so much.

  I miss Mrs Death, does Mrs Death miss me?

  When tea is made I leave the kitchen and walk along the corridor and towards the first set of narrow and winding stairs. There is a raven above the dungeon door and I say kraa-kraa-kraa. The raven isn’t real, or is it? The dungeon door is open, a black mouth, an alarming gaping darkness. I walk into the dungeon. It is cold. I sit in the gloom and drink my tea for a while. I have put myself in prison.

  My first thought: who has been here before?

  If you sit in a prison, you think, who was here before me? Were they innocent? Were they guilty? Did they die in here? Were they changed and reborn? Did they walk out of here a new person? Who decides how long they stay in here? And what is law and what is wrong and right and what is guilt and what is innocence? Who decides who is imprisoned and who is free? Who keeps the key and keeps us captive? Do we imprison our own selves? Like me right now sitting in this dungeon and sitting in a cage in my head. I sniff. It smells dusty in here. What is the meaning of freedom? Who is truly free? I ponder on all of this for a long while, sipping my tea, and the tears that fell have dried on my cheeks.

  I leave the dungeon to walk along the corridor and climb the narrow wooden stairs. The steps creak with each step. The tower is strong and square, a window on each side. I gaze down and out of the four windows. I look north, south, east and west; I can see everything from up here, I feel like I am in a lighthouse. I peer at books on the shelves and art and paintings left by the last visitors here. I look around the room and think about setting up a good place to do some writing. There is a green desk by the easterly window that’ll do nicely. But then I decide to go for a walk to see the sea and check out the beach. I decide to write a poem on the tongue and to record it, looking out at the sea and the sky. I lock the door and leave the tower. The fat robin stares from the lavender. I nod to the robin, We

  will be friends, I tell it, don’t you worry, I will feed you toast crusts every morning. The robin makes as though it has heard and understood, it nods and hops along the wall before perching back in the lavender. I pull the old creaky gate to and head down towards the beach.

  Outside and walking I go: Left leg, right leg, one foot in front of the other.

  It is a windy afternoon, above me a hazy sky and a taste of salt. There’s nobody around, not really, it’s dead, dead quiet. I walk and listen to the world, to birds, to seagulls and a distant crashing of waves. I walk down the lane and towards the sea. Take it all in. Breathing in and exhaling, in and out, whilst watching the froth and crash of waves. This is a magic place, the colours are beautiful, the sage, virides-cent sea and pale lilac skies, with a shock of yellow gorse on the cliffs and banks. I keep walking and take the high road up the cliff path, up and up and upwards to get a panoramic view, higher and higher, up and upwards towards the church ruins. Slippery. Be careful. Should have worn boots . . . yes, but I don’t own any boots. It is all very well saying should’ve worn boots when even I know I don’t even own any boots even, even . . .

  I walk slowly, take it easy, stopping once or twice to look back down at the bay of Cushendall beach. So still, so peaceful. I gaze ahead and out to sea. In the far-off distance one can just about make out the Mull of Kintyre. I reach a peak, a curve in the cliff face. I sit on the edge, on the soft green grass, the lush and new springy grass. I need a smoke. I look for a cigarette, something to smoke, did I bring smokes? Do I have any tobacco left? I cannot remember. I feel in my jacket pockets, ripped pockets, the pockets of the jacket lining are destroyed, my things get lost inside the jacket lining fabric, I tut, and no, and then, hang on, maybe in my jeans, jean pockets, something, and there is something and it is then I find the locket, that silver locket. The silver locket with a rabbit engraved on the front. I put it on, I feel it around my throat. Ha! So there is some proof it was real, it is real. I am real!

  Tilly Tuppence, she was real. Martha and Marsha, they were real. They are all in me. It was ALL me and it is real. The desk is real. Mrs Death is real. Not a dream. And not a manifestation, not a hallucination, but a real, real, real, real . . . memory.

  Mrs Death, can you hear me? You were real! We were real! Mrs Death, are you going to talk to me? We were all here, all of us live inside me here, all of us live always!

  My feet dangle. Rocks. Jagged. Rocks.

  There is nothing but miles of air and the thundering waves below me. The water is smashing and crashing at the sharp rocks, miles beneath my feet. A strong sea wind picks up and whips the vivid yellow gorse bushes that line the rough cliff face. My hair is wild and in my face; it’s getting in my mouth. There are thick prickly hedges and the deep sea froths and crashes to rocks below.

  I could jump now.

  Unwanted thought.

  Is that what you want?

  Jump.

  Unwanted thought.

  No.

  That was an unwanted thought.

  Just one wrong foot.

  Unwanted thought.

  Just lean forwards.

  Just let go.

  Give up!

  I imagine it.

  Wolf. Imagine it.

  I imagine falling. Vividly. Why? Just imagine it. Why? Look down. Vertigo. Stomach flips. I feel dizzy. I see the rocks. I see coloured spots. What kills you? What would kill me first? The rocks, the water, the current, the fall, the shock, the cold, the tide, the sharks? Which would kill me? Would it be the rock smashing my head open or the waves dragging me under? Drowning is a beautiful death, isn’t that what everyone says? What if I misjudged it? What if I didn’t even hit the water and landed all crooked there, on those rocks and gorse bushes? What if I landed on the rock and broke my back and had to lie there as eagles swooped down and feasted, picked at my eyes and ate out my liver and kidneys? What if I lived only to be drowned a few hours later as the tide came in and pulled me away under the waves? And what if they never found my body, like my father? What if I leave my clothes, folded neat, so it looks like I dived in, like a mistake, like I’m a healthy joyful person who likes swimming? They would find my phone and shoes and know I am vanished. I imagine that too much. I could do that, I could fall and I could disappear under the surface like my father.

  Listen to the ocean. Listen to the water. The ocean never changes her mind, the ocean, she says what she wants to say. Today we shall say what we mean to say. Say what we mean to say. Say it.

  I know a lot of living people now.

  I hear a voice:

  I know a lot of living people now.

  She speaks to me:

  I know a lot of living people now. And I know living is inevitable and necessary. Without breathing you wouldn’t live; without knowing you breathe this would be endless. That is why you need to breathe. Without breath this would be a never-ending conveyor belt of sensation. You would be nothing without living in your breath. So breathe. Take five deep breaths. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.

  Breathe. To imagine your own life is to be living. To be friends, to be friendly with the knowledge, the knowing that living is now, this should make you try harder to be living, to be fully alive and lively. Surely you know you are alive? You know, you all know, that you’re here and now and only here and now? This should make you want to be good, to be better. You know, since you are here and shit, you may as well give a shit.

  To imagine your own life is to imagine that this is all. To visualise the life of your elders, your parents, your siblings, your children, your lover, your world, to imagine these loving lives should make you try harder. In theory. It should make you try hard to be a better person. What a glorious mess this living is. And you can call me Life.

  Have we met before?

  I’m not sure we have, Wolf.

  Are you Life?

  Yes. Are you alive?

&n
bsp; Who, me?

  Yes, you. Yes or no? It’s a very simple question I ask. Walk with me, come and walk with Life. I am Life and I am here to be with you. I am I. I am me. I am you and you are alive. I am your Life.

  Smell that sea salt on the air. Remember salt is in everything. Take everything with a pinch of salt. Open the windows in your head and let the light in. Let the light in your head pour into your beating heart. Can you feel me? Come with me, Wolf. Walk one step at a time. It is your turn now. This is your life, your one precious life, it is your time to walk with Life, this is your time, time for the time of your Life.

  And the light of your Life, I can see it, it is here inside you, you have so much Life ahead of you.

  So, it’s an easy choice, yes or no, is it yes or no? Do you want to walk with the living, to really live your one Life or will you continue to pretend to live? Do you live a lie or do you live your truth? Think about it, take your time, take all the time you need, take one day at a time. Do your lifetime in your own lifetime.

  It’s a very simple question that Life asks: Will you walk with me?

  Wolf’s Tower Diaries

  Ireland, April 2o18

  April 1st

  I walk along

  a cliff path

  sea salt and

  yellow gorse

  I’m on my own

  and

  I don’t know

  where this path

  will lead

  but

  I am here

  and

  here

  I am

  April 2nd

  At night

  the tower

  comes to life

  the walls talk

  a fear

  consumes me

  my heart is loud

  dum-dum

  dum-dum

  no sign of

  Mrs Death

  it’s dead quiet

  I miss Death

  April 3rd

  In the village

  the florist

  sells sad tulips

  and candles

  of St Francis

  I tell her

  I stay in the tower

  the look of dread

  on her face is priceless

  she shakes her head and

  forewarns me

  666 is written in Layd

  April 4th

  Fear of solitude

  fear of the dark

  fear of the unknown

  fear of the dead

  fear is in my head

  tricks of the mind

  tricks of light and shadow

  the heart is a mimic

  boom boom boom

  the heart goes

  thumping like a rabbit’s foot

  but there’s nothing there

  nothing but your own fear

  April 5th

  The butcher

  sells me

  five sausages

  and an onion

  as big as my face

  he knows

  I stay in the tower

  the look of joy

  on his face is priceless

  he smiles his big smiles

  have you been to Layd

  666 is written in Layd

  April 6th

  In the village

  I go to the library

  and read the

  local newspaper

  Thirty years to this day

  when she was last seen alive

  the police say they

  have fresh leads

  What happened to Inga

  the girl

  they found

  in the woods

  April 7th

  I climb the path

  to visit Layd

  old church ruins

  and a graveyard

  high on the cliff top

  beautiful view

  I’m roaring

  and it rains

  and it pours

  April 8th

  The china rabbit

  sits on my desk

  I can do this

  I slept well

  last night

  no nightmares

  my feeling today

  I can do this

  my own heart says

  live, live, live

  I am alive in here

  says the rabbit

  April 9th

  The fire is my friend

  glowing there

  in the corner of the room

  when the fire is

  roaring and crackling

  I am not alone at all

  I talk to the fire

  I am good at keeping

  the fire going

  the conversation

  with fire burning

  April 10th

  Today I wrote about people vanishing

  I wrote about disappearances

  as I walked down a sea path

  that led to nowhere

  the destination

  vanished off

  a cliff edge

  April 11th

  Time and Death are lovers

  Life will not concern herself

  with the romance

  between Time and Death

  Life loves a good Time

  Time is an unfaithful lover

  Time be just like my father

  Death be just like my mother

  April 12th

  Sometimes

  I think I can do this

  I fetch the coal or

  I make tea

  then a light bulb blows

  and I am lost

  in the dark

  again

  April 13th

  I don’t know why

  I put the china rabbit

  in my suitcase and

  brought her to Ireland

  I sit her on this table

  looking at me

  as I write this

  there are things

  that we hold on to

  we hold on tightly

  time can pass

  and years go by

  and these things

  and these objects

  and these people

  and these ideas

  that we held so tightly

  we have to let them go

  we hold them in

  hold them down to be

  who we think they are

  what we want them to be

  and what they mean to us

  and holding on to people

  like old ideas and bad habits

  or like china rabbits

  now we don’t need to be

  doing that now

  do we

  April 14th

  The tower is an old lady

  and she is full of wind

  she keeps popping her head in

  with draughts and spiders

  I try to be polite and listen

  she’ll let you know

  you’re in her home

  she makes her walls

  groan at three a.m.

  here is the murder hole

  here’s the dungeon

  here’s a ghost

  yes, I know

  but I’m

  trying

  to sleep

  April 15th

  I go to Ballypatrick forest

  where they found Inga

  I picture her running

  through the bluebells

  through the woods

  through the trees

  running for

  Life

  April 16th

  I thought it was a good idea

  to live in a tower

  with spiders and shadows

  and write about Death

  but the more I write this book

  the more I see the chinks

  of light and humour

  Death is not

  locked up in a tower

  she is dancing

  on the beach

  salt and sea sprayr />
  in the bluebells and woods

  the yellow moss-covered rocks

  the patches of blue

  above the green

  open sea

  April 17th

  In the village pub

  there is a man

  called Seamus

  he says he loves

  Dwight Yoakam

  but nobody else in

  Cushendall does

  he laughs

  he says he thinks he can sing

  like Dwight Yoakam

  but nobody else in

  Cushendall thinks he can

  April 18th

  We dance around

  a talk of Death

  there are so

  many words

  so many ways

  to avoid it

  passed

  passed over

  passed away

  what is this

  odd language

  we use around

  Death?

  these words

  we hide behind?

  she is dead

  he is dead

  I am mourning

  I say it to myself

  they died

  so I must

  be mourning

  say what has happened

  use the language

  the words you know

  we often hide behind words

  we often say nothing at all

  April 19th

  The dead of night

  the tower screams

  give up give up give up

  it shakes with the wind