I am Mercy

by Mandi Lynn

  “Leave!” I say, stronger this time.

  I feel Garren’s eyes on me, but I refuse to look at him. I wish his cheek bore the mark of my hand, just so I’m sure that this life we live is indeed real and that somehow it matters that we exist in the world.

  Garren walks off, leaving me behind in the cemetery, just as I had asked. I hear his steps as he leaves, making a trail of prints in the gravel that doesn’t grow green grass. The moment he steps through the gate of the cemetery, I feel alone but lifted. I come to my knees on the ground, the full passage of time falling over me in waves.

  I try to fathom it. How it is possible for almost four hundred years to pass and then to simply enter life again, like the act is so simple, so easy to do? But I guess that’s the point. It isn’t easy to simply enter life again. The world is a body, and I am the virus; the question is whether or not I will be rejected.

  ~~~

  Dondre’s grave is hidden between rows and columns of abandoned souls. It’s deep within the cemetery, so old that no one cares to visit anymore. The stone is nothing more than a thin plate of rock with words carved in its face. Names and dates label the lonely graves, but time has eaten away at the surfaces, making it hard to read the inscriptions.

  I pull away dead leaves and rotted plants to reveal the small stone. It is nothing more than a foot long, the most miniscule size possible for a grave. I can barely make out the inscription of the stone: Dondre Leland, 1336-1384.

  My legs collapse from underneath me. The ground seems too finite, so strong compared to how I feel. Even though I can’t sense touch, I run my fingers over the rough surface of the grave, imagining how the coarse stone may feel against my frail fingers. Dondre’s in there somewhere.

  I’ll never know his life after the pestilence. I will never see his face as more than the twelve-year-old boy I grew up with. He looked like Papa, talked like Papa, but acted like Mama. Where Papa was assertive, Mama was thoughtful. Dondre was a boy who took action with his thoughts. I imagine his life, how he may have looked. I see another version of Papa, but one wiser, sooner to stop and think before speaking or acting—that’s what Mama always taught him.

  My forehead comes to rest on the grave, waiting to feel something, to know my little brother is here with me.

  I wonder if he had forgotten me after a time, or cared whether I lived or died, or if he was relieved by my disappearance. All these years have passed, and it makes me wonder if over the course of time feelings can change. The last thing Dondre had said to me was spoken in malice. I was his damnation. I was the reason death was upon us and even though he couldn’t make sense as to why I would have caused the pestilence, he chose to believe it anyway, because that was the only answer he had.

  “Baby brother,” I say, my words a whisper, “can you forgive me?”

  And in my heart I know there is nothing to forgive. I had done nothing, caused none of what was a part of the pestilence, but I felt responsible for something. Dondre believed I caused the death, so his words became my truth. I needed his forgiveness, even though it may be something that cannot be gifted.

  “What is it like to have so many years of malice inside you?” Like a fool I wait for an answer that will never come. The cemetery is nothing but the sleeping dead.

  “I wish I could give them all back to you, Dondre. All those people the pestilence took, I would give them back if I could.”

  The words mean nothing and everything. A wind blows from the trees that line the cemetery’s perimeter, signaled by wisps of my hair moving. The breeze is at my cheeks, yet it does not affect me. My head is still bowed toward the ground, but I imagine it’s like I’m able to breathe. Like there is a freshness, a release, and when I look up I see the sun for the first time and know Dondre is here in spirit.

  A smile cuts the corners of my mouth, and I want to be here now, with my brother.

  XXXII.

  I find Garren not too far off. He sits with his back to me on some boulder outside the cemetery, shaded by scattered trees with overhanging branches. My footsteps are just a trample in a loud world as I approach.

  “I found his grave,” I say.

  Garren massages the palm of his hand but doesn’t look at me. His gaze is bowed toward the ground, listening, but not really hearing my voice.

  “Garren?” I put out my hand, touching his shoulder, but then too late I realize that, unless he is looking at my hand, he will never know I’ve touched him.

  But he looks up at me when I say his name, and his eyes linger on my hand where it rests on his shoulder. He doesn’t shrug me away; he just looks at my hand like my touch is a gift. He places his own fingers over mine.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you,” he says in a tired voice.

  That’s when I see just how exhausted he is. Time doesn’t take a toll on us, but here he sits, looking as if he hasn’t slept in days.

  I don’t say anything. Am I supposed to forgive him? Hundreds of years have passed and he didn’t tell me. He lied to me, letting me believe the world wasn’t able to pass so freely without me.

  “I didn’t know how to tell you,” he says, still looking at our hands. “I didn’t want to hurt you.”

  He looks at me, his eyes pleading, but I can’t find my voice. My lips waver, so eager to make the somber tone of his eyes disappear. We look at each other for a long time, each of us waiting for the other to speak first. Finally I look away, settling next to him on the boulder. Off in the distance an evening bird chirps its song, but here under the trees, the most definite sound is the rustle of leaves in the wind and the soft muffle of our breathing.

  “I just …” I say, but words fail me. A space sits between the two of us and I urge it to disappear. “I don’t understand what happened,” I say.

  I turn to face him, and when I do, I see he is already staring at me.

  “You don’t have to understand it. You just have to face it,” he says.

  My breath comes in unsteady rhythms, and I realize this is as close as I will ever come to crying again. There will never be that release I crave from my emotions, just the tease of pain. I close my eyes, wishing I were stronger.

  “Luna.”

  Garren’s voice is a soft murmur next to me. When I open my eyes, he smiles at me in a sad way. He looks down, and I follow his gaze. He has cupped my hand in both of his. “It’ll be okay,” he says.

  I stare at our contact and wonder if this is what it means to have someone care for you. His fingers wrap around mine, and even though I can’t feel it, I imagine what his warm skin might feel like against my own.

  “It will be,” I say, looking up at Garren.

  He smiles at me again, the light returning to his eyes, making them glow the translucent blue color of the ocean.

  I believe my words when I speak them.

  ~~~

  “So what do we do now?” I ask. The two of us walk through Marseille, the market in front of us. Stands are set up to the sides, merchants eager to trade their goods for money. Garren takes the lead, smiling and greeting faces I’ve never seen before. His ease with the world is astounding.

  “We live,” he says.

  My pace is slightly slower than his and I find myself struggling to keep up. Bodies move and stir around us, a constant hustle of people. Voices mingle, and people speak of the latest gossip and complaints about the merchants charging too much.

  “Forever?” I ask, dodging bodies and weaving in the market. Garren looks back at me and slows down for me to catch up. He offers his hand to me, smiling. I stare at his palm and long fingers, but I shake my head. If he’s bothered by my rejection, he doesn’t show it, just gestures for me to walk in front of him.

  “The thing about forever is it doesn’t last,” he says, pushing me forward into the crowd.

  “What do you mean?”

  He doesn’t say anything to me. People I don’t know walk by and make a small inclination of respect as they see Garren. Their eyes wander over to me, wondering w
hat lady Garren has found to occupy his time. Suddenly I’m pulled to the side, away from the crowds, stumbling over my own feet. When I look down, I see Garren’s hand wrapped around my elbow.

  “It means I thought you were gone forever,” he says, taking me from the market. Strangers pass and smile, saying a quick hello to Garren before making their own greeting to me, even though they don’t know my name.

  “I still don’t understand what happened to me,” I say, my thoughts lingering on the idea of centuries passing without my knowing.

  We meet at the edge of a tavern. Shouts can be heard from inside the stone walls, reduced to a muffled murmur of voices, people drunk over ale. When I look at Garren, all expression is gone. His lips lie flat, his hands fall to his side and the glow of his eyes is gone—an iris of nothing but pale gray, a ghost of blue.

  “I suppose I don’t need to understand it,” I say.

  Garren nods his head, leaning against the stone wall.

  Around us people still pass, but they don’t look our way anymore. We are cast to the side, nothing but a familiar shadow.

  “You haven’t accepted it yet,” Garren says abruptly.

  His gaze finds me and I feel as if I’m being accused of a crime.

  My mind chews on the words. I have to accept what has happened because I’m sure there’s no way to change it. Sometimes I wonder if it would have been better to have died along with my family. Succumbing to the Black Death seems so simple now, so final. It seems wrong to have my own death taken from me.

  “No,” I say, wrapping my arms around my elbows. I fight for some security, but in a world of so little sensation, comfort is lost within the shadows.

  “Luna …” he says, his voice choking on a lost emotion. “I’m so sorry.” His gaze lifts and bores into me and I want to make it stop.

  I want him to stop looking at me like I’m hurt, a lost girl who can’t find her way home.

  I shake my head, trying to ignore his words. “You had to save your sister,” I say. “You loved her.”

  “But that does not excuse the crimes I’ve committed against your soul.”

  I shrink from him. Why does he stay around me if all I cause for him is guilt from his own actions? Both of us have the ability to walk away and start new lives, lives without memories of the horrible things we have seen. I could step away now and pretend to be someone who lives and dies. I could make friends, fall in love, fall into life. But I will always continue on, and any bonds I form will be torn away because forever doesn’t extend to mortals. My life would be a life spent alone, and I wonder if that’s why Garren clings to me.

  But then I think of Lucie and how I was once his only hope of bringing her back. Mystral was using me for her own purposes. And when she couldn’t convince me to go to Tiboulain, she let Garren do it, claiming she could make Lucie live again. I was nothing but a pawn. Mystral lied to both of us.

  “Why don’t you leave?” I ask.

  His eyebrows furrow, confusion etched into his forehead. “What do you mean?”

  “All these years you have stayed in Marseille, when all that lies here are memories of the past, of what will never be. Why stay?”

  His expression softens but never truly disappears.

  I watch his thoughts dance over his mind, confusion and questions being put before him.

  “I didn’t want to leave,” he finally says.

  “But why?” I say, the tone of my voice on the edge of annoyance—and confusion.

  “Because, even though I thought you were lost forever to the moon, part of me always wished you would come back. And I felt responsible for what I had done. I wanted to be there, to help you, when you finally awoke to the world again.”

  When he speaks it is like he is speaking of Lucie—the way his eyes glow—but it is me. It is my name that crosses his lips.

  “Would you like me to leave?” His voice is small when he says the words.

  This time when I look at him, he appears broken, the years alone finally weighing him down. I see the fear of me leaving reflected in his eyes.

  “I don’t want you to leave,” I say, and as the words come I’m astonished by how true they are.

  XXXIII.

  “Garren!” someone shouts from behind us.

  We stop our course through the market to wait for whoever called out his name to catch up with us. Garren turns to look and I follow suit as he guides me.

  “Camila,” he says, recognizing the woman who finds her way over to us.

  I’m surprised by how fast she is able to catch up to us, a large basket in tow.

  “I’ve been looking all over for you!” Camila comes to a stop when she’s within arm’s length, taking a moment to gain her breath again as graying hair falls in curls around her face. She smiles when she looks at Garren, wrinkles forming around her eyes.

  “It’s good to see you again,” he says, a light laughter filling the air. “This is my friend, Luna. I was just showing her around Marseille.”

  Camila tucks hair behind her ear, noticing me for the first time. She adjusts the basket in her hands, nodding to me with a slight bow of respect. “Very well, Luna,” she says with a smile. Her gaze lingers on my eyes, but she doesn’t let her demeanor change.

  I mirror the gesture and notice how age has taken its toll on Camila. Her body is twisted and bent forward, her eyes a dim shade of green in the sun. Skin sags around her figure, but despite all this her spirit shines brightly from within.

  “I wanted to bring you bread, Garren—as a token of my appreciation.” She fumbles with the basket in her hands, uncovering it to reveal a large loaf of risen bread. My mouth waters at the sight, noting the value—what my family would have done for risen bread.

  “I told you it was not necessary,” Garren says quickly, holding up his palms in defense.

  Camila frowns for a moment, but she picks up the bread anyway. “Give an old woman peace of mind knowing you are well fed.”

  He surrenders, a small smile rippling across his cheeks. She wraps a cloth around the bread before handing it over, leaving the basket empty.

  “Thank you,” he says.

  “No, thank you for working my fields. I don’t know what I would have done without you. I can’t tend to my fields like I used to. I’ll have to sell it soon.” She says the words, saddened by the betrayal age has given her body. But then she comes forward suddenly, placing a hand on my shoulder. “He’s a good man, Luna. He’ll teach you this city well.”

  My head snaps up when she speaks to me. Her words are almost foreign, hard to comprehend. When she finishes talking, my eyes linger on her hand on my shoulder and the unfeeling contact frustrates me. I see her fingers skimming my clothing, but the moment is lost to me—no matter how hard I try, there is no sensation.

  Camila lets her hand fall away, self-conscious of something. When I look at her again, her lips are in a fine line, her arms limp at her sides. “I’m sorry,” she says quietly, taking a backward step from the two of us. “Thank you again, Garren.” And she turns to leave.

  Next to me all I hear is the faint rustle of fabric as Garren opens his coat to place the bread into one of the hidden pockets within. The next thing I’m aware of is being pulled away again, and when I look Garren’s hand is clasped firmly around mine.

  “Why do you help her?” I ask, trailing behind but keeping up a steady pace.

  “There’s no sin for acting with kindness—especially if you are given forever.”

  His words are simple, yet hurried, like this subject isn’t what he wishes to speak about. I hush up and follow him like an obedient child who’s trying with all her might to not cause trouble.

  We don’t rush through the market; we just pass through, like any other person, except we don’t gawk at the displays. The farther we go, the more secluded we become, until the market ends. All that is left is a sporadic group of commoners. In the distance is the beach, our small wooden boat pulled up on the sand.

  “Garren
?” I say, pulling back on his hand to show him I want to slow our pace.

  He follows my lead but doesn’t turn to look at me. Beats pass and our silence continues. We stumble forward, walking slowly, our footsteps a dying rhythm until I stop altogether. Garren drops my hand.

  “Do you ever get used to it? Never being able to feel anything?” I wrap my arms around myself, cupping my elbows, like I would if I were cold—but of course I’m not. The wind blows but I never shiver.

  Garren turns. He runs his hand over his face, like he could wipe away his exhaustion. He comes closer to me, releasing a deep breath.

  I look away, breathing in my own universe, trying to understand it all. I understand I wouldn’t feel his touch, but it still hits me like it’s something new I’ve discovered.

  “I don’t like it, Garren,” I say, closing my eyes. I imagine how my life had been once before—how I could feel the hurt of a leather whip against my skin. Painful as it was, it was real. But this, whatever this is, is not real. Nothing tells me that I’m standing here. I don’t know if I’m living anymore.

  “I know,” he says.

  I lift my chin and open my eyes to Garren’s hands cradling my face. His fingers stroke the skin I can’t feel, easing me into something I don’t believe in—life. His eyes are so kind, so full. I want to fall into them and hope he can take this all away.

  He leans forward and a fear awakens within me. I don’t want this. I don’t want him to touch me and have it mean nothing. But he does it anyway. His lips come to my forehead, and I pretend I can feel it—so I can have this moment, a moment I never had as a human.

  “I know,” he says again, a murmur against my skin.

  I close my eyes, trying to remember the touch of skin between two persons. At the time it seemed so unimportant. A shake of a hand, a brush against the shoulder, but now it means so much more than that.

  His lips linger on my forehead, and I imagine what it would be like to feel the warmth of someone else’s skin against my own. How radiant it must be. The fantasy grows and takes shape, until I convince myself of its truth.