The Watchtower

confront the topic of immortality with her. The risk of bringing it up, given the recent disaster, was too great.
    He got up, Marguerite following, and they began to stroll around the pool’s circular footpath. Sunlight rippled along overhanging leaves, creating an effect of their being underwater. Flashes of silver beneath the pool’s surface seemed to be darting fish, but when he glanced more closely at them, they disappeared. Marguerite’s hand in his was as delicate as the yellow flowers that bordered the path, and as finely elegant as the abbey’s architecture. His own palpitating blood was as uplifting as the love Marguerite seemed to have rediscovered for him, to his joy.
    They spoke not a word as they circled the pool. But when they returned to the grassy slope where they’d started, the sun mere inches higher in the sky, Will felt as if a whole new cycle in his life had begun. He devoutly hoped, and sensed, that Marguerite might feel the same.
    Her humble lodgings were remarkably similar to his; in fact her one window was directly across the street from his. Gold sunlight filled its modest pane when they arrived, and by the time they left again to dine, the glass was a sweet shade of lavender, a star twinkled, and the touch of their hands had a feeling of permanence to it as deep as eternity—even if not quite as long.

24
    The Standing Stones
    It was twilight when I awoke. Or at least what passed for twilight in this directionless, timeless place. Great swaths of indigo, violet, and chartreuse swirled in giant loops in the sky like the northern lights or van Gogh’s Starry Night minus the stars. There were no stars and no moon.
    For a moment I didn’t know where I was.
    Then I remembered that I was nowhere.
    I laughed at that and something laughed with me. The reeds. Yes, I remembered them. Under the swirly sky they glowed silver and algal green and moved like the sea. I got up, bracing my hand against the rock to help myself, and cried out in pain. My hand was wrapped in a cotton scarf—pretty, that, I wondered who had given it to me—I must have hurt my hand, but I couldn’t remember how.
    What does it matter? What does it matter? the reeds sang. I trailed my hand along one and the pain eased as if I had dipped it into cool water. They were cool. Parting a sheaf I saw that a bluish mist filled the space between each stem. The mist seemed to be pouring out of the hollow reeds through tiny holes—like a sprinkler system. I stepped into the reeds and felt the mist caress my face and hands. It felt lovely, like swimming. I took another step and the reeds clicked behind me like a bamboo curtain closing behind a sexy movie star entering an opium den …
    I had watched old movies like that with someone once but I couldn’t remember who …
    What does it matter? What does it matter?
    It didn’t. I waded deeper into the reeds, which clicked behind me and kept clicking even after I had passed through them. It sounded as if someone were following me, but when I turned, all I saw was mist. I turned again and went deeper, moving my arms in a breaststroke …
    Someone had taught me how to swim once. A woman with a beautiful face …
    What does it matter? What does it matter? the reeds sang.
    It didn’t. She had died. She had left me. Everybody left eventually. Everybody died …
    But there was someone who couldn’t die …
    What does it matter? the reeds sang, He left, he left, he left …
    But the throb in my hand was saying something else. He’s here, he’s here, he’s here.
    Where? I spun around, agitating the reeds into a miniature cyclone of snapping. Something moved in the mist, a dark shape … but then it vanished. My hand throbbed again and I untied the scarf and held it up. A tear-shaped diamond glowed at the center of my palm. I took a step in the direction it pointed and the pain eased. But the reeds thrashed.
    I took a step in the opposite direction and the pain flared up, but the reeds swished gently and cooed, Yes, yes .
    The stone in my hand wanted me to go one way and the reeds another.
    I stood still for a long time wondering which I ought to listen to. Stone or reeds? Reeds or stone?
    Follow us, follow us, the reeds sang.
    He’s here, he’s here, the stone cried.
    Who is he ? I wondered. A face appeared, a face carved in black stone. A dead face. Was the stone leading me to his grave?
    Yes! the reeds hissed. To his grave and yours. He will drag you down into his