The End Destination of the Dying Old Man

The canter of hooves sounded thin against the quiet of the pleached alley. Shafts of moonlight spilled through the branches and the preternatural chill of a midsummer night deepened until his breath frosted against the air. Both ends of the alley disappeared into darkness, and the monotony of it all was only broken by the occasional rustle of something in the underbrush.

The old man, bent over the saddle pommel, battled sleep. His eyes drifted closed from time to time and his grasp on the reins loosened, but just before he slipped deep into slumber, he would snap to attention and glance about furtively, chiding himself for losing his focus. Yet it would happen again, and again, until at last the pleached alley yielded to a meadow turned silver by moonlight.

The soft breeze sent ripples along the grass and for a moment the old man was sent far back into the days of his youth, sailing the seas. The silence was one and the same. He could almost smell the brine.

An ache stirred deep in his chest, the ache of the elderly, of days long passed. A day, in particular, of drowning and darkness, of death and love and loss.

An owl hooted.

The remembrance faded.

He urged the horse forwards along the gently beaten path. The grass whispered and the old man regarded the starlit sky, minding his attention to two in particular: one blue and one green, and they reminded him of eyes.

He wondered what it was that stirred all these memories? Disquiet stirred inside like a slow, churning mass of darkness. Were these just the fancies of a tired old man, or something more?

The meadow came to a sudden halt. The road snaked back and forth along a sheer cliff face bordering the grounds of a sandcastle.

The old man slipped out of the saddle and let the horse by the bridle. Something nipped at the silence and he though his mind was playing tricks, but slowly as the path neared level ground, he heard mournful singing. It was in no tongue he had ever heard, and its voice of blended humanity and the alien only heightened its beauty. And for a moment he stood at the base of the cliff face, transfixed by its beauty. Then the voice dipped into silence.

The sandcastle glimmered softly. It was strangely melancholic — those few lights amidst the dark.

It reminded him of a mirror.

As he came closer, it seemed to grow in size, the pennant of the highest tower framed against the moon. There were no lights in the windows. The wind whined through the staccato ramparts like the desolate call of a dying man. He almost thought he heard a name.

The portcullis lifted silently as the old man neared and a strange emptiness came over him as it closed behind him. The break between the walls and the castle was filled with dry rose petals that crunched beneath his footfalls. The old man’s horse tossed its head as though it did not want a part of whatever lie ahead, but he ran a soothing hand along its neck and led it through the yawning gateway into the castle.

The sound of rushing sand. The old man looked over his shoulder and found that the gateway had closed in on itself.

The cavernous foyer was dimly lit with a pale light. The domed ceiling glimmered a deep-sea blue and the air was moist, steeped in the scent of brine.

The foyer bled into a hall adorned with murals of fish on either side. And as he passed, he felt his mind grow dimmer than ever, as though he were peering at everything through a film of black cotton.

When he cleared the tunnel and stepped into a small and square room, he knew his journey was done. Moonlight spilled through the hole in the ceiling, landing upon the pool in the centre of the room, though the water itself was dark – almost like it fed on the light.

Ripples spread outwards from the pool and a glowing figure emerged from the waters, her hair and skin and dress all white, save for the eyes. Those were of the same darkness as the pool.

And it is then that the old man understood.

She smiled softly. “You’ve returned, at long last.”

The old man opened his mouth, but he could not speak. He had spent so long dreaming of this day that now, he could not help but feel that it was all a dream.

“Come,” she held out her arms.

The old man stepped forwards, but then stopped. He looked over his shoulder; where there had once been the tunnel, there was now only unbroken wall.

“Is this real?” He whispered. “Is it over?”

She nodded.

“When did I pass?”

“In the pleached alley. How innocently you fell asleep, never to know that you would never wake.”

“It is a better death than most.”

Again, she nodded.

The old man stared at her fathomless eyes. “I dreamed of this day. Ever since I left.”

“And I.”

“But I am old now.”

“As am I.”

“Ah,” the old man smiled. It felt strange, for he had not smiled in a long time. “Well, I suppose it’s time to say goodbye.”

The old man turned to his horse. It was not real, of course, but he could not leave it like this. He ran a hand along the stallion’s neck. “Goodbye, my friend.” And with that, he made his way to the pool.

The woman grabbed his hand, and pulled him under. 

Down, down, he went, into the realm he had visited so long ago as a sailor -- back when the ship had broken in a storm. Her hands had pulled him under then, just as they did now. He had loved and yet had to leave, for to stay would have meant death. But now, that no longer mattered.

He was home once again, and this time, to stay.