The clock struck three in the graveyard. The light, shimmering like pale lakes in the grass, made of the trees and leaves a sea of shadows. The steeple of the stone church rose into the clear blue sky, within which the ancient bronze bell was encased like an egg. Once, twice, the heavy pendulum swung, and the final chime pearled and ebbed in the country air. Beneath the earth, the buried dead might have stirred, but there were none amongst the living who remembered their names. Time and wind had sanded the inscriptions away, leaving the gravestones empty slates that marked only memory of memory.
Beneath a yew, a girl sat noiselessly. Her legs were folded on the bench beneath her, and her hand lay languidly open upon her knee. Her gaze rested lightly on the stained glass across the yard – a long panel of blistered colour, glittering like a window of jewelled ice. From outside the church, the figures in the scene were mere outlines, their faces and features turned inward towards a single worshipper. She could only guess at who they might be: Jesus, Mary, Joseph. Translucent in the light, diaphanous as silk. She ran her fingers softly up her arm and shivered in the early September warmth.
A rustle came from behind her but she remained still. Her fingers stopped where they had climbed to her collarbone. She did not have to turn to know: the way the foot pressed against grass, the measured pace as it drew near. She felt a breath against her neck, and then a single, cool kiss.
She turned her head up then, giving a small smile. A boy rounded the bench and sunk onto the seat beside her, unravelling his long legs out before him. Where the girl was stillness, he was all perpetual movement: his fingers knotted and unknotted themselves; his eyes skimmed across the graveyard like light against water; even his legs shifted and bent at the joints, his whole being made of static electricity. Side by side, the two inverted and reflected each other – a pair of not-quite mirror images.
How have you been? the boy asked.
Good. Busy, tired. Feeling a little worn through, at times.
‘Good’ still the word you would use?
The girl laughed. Maybe not quite – but some days are better than others.
The boy looked at her, and his eyes were like twin nebulae. She marvelled, as always, at the fullness of him: his exuberance and vibrancy, his totality of life.
It would be easier – if only –
She stopped. It was as if the words were amassing in her throat, unable to release themselves. Her hand fell to her lap, furling tightly until the knuckles were pale. She turned to the boy and opened her mouth again, but before she could speak, a rustling came from up the path.
They both looked to see the woman and her dog ambling towards them, slowing to a halt when they were near. The dog wandered amiably into the grass, while the woman gave the girl a friendly smile.
Afternoon. It’s a nice day, isn’t it?
The girl nodded politely, any intended words shedding like scales. The woman peered curiously at the bench she was sitting on, slowly reading out the small font cut into the wood: For the boy who never sat still.
That’s a rather lovely one, she said. Doesn’t it make you wonder who that was?
The sudden absence beside her, the nothingness of empty space. The girl’s fist unfolded like a dying moth, although an unmistakable scent of salt and ginger lingered in the air. Across the yard, the deities bent and folded, sending prayers in a language only they knew.
Yes. Yes, I suppose it does.
Caithlin Ng is a writer from Singapore, now based in London. She holds a BA in English from the University of Cambridge and an MA in Modern Literature from University College London. Having specialised in transnational feminist literature, she is interested in issues of identity and intersections. Her poetry and prose have been published in Rust + Moth, Notes, Footnotes, and the UCL Publishers’ Prize.
“September Again” was previously published on 22 June at Eunoia Review.