Season of the Witch

EPILOGUE

"I am about to seek a great Perhaps."

– Franjois Rabelais's dying words

"Excuse me? Is that you?"

As the words left her mouth she blushed fiercely, already regretting the impulse that had made her speak to him.

The man sitting on the park bench a few paces away from her looked up, and then glanced over his shoulder. When he realized she was indeed talking to him, he looked at her carefully and lifted an inquiring eyebrow.

Again she blushed, cursing her fair skin. She had always found it difficult to talk to good-looking guys and this man was attractive. Never mind the white in his hair. As her mum was fond of saying: Some guys will always put the fizz in your lemonade, no matter what.

Taking a deep breath, she pointed at the book in his hand. "That's you, isn't it?"

He turned the book around to look at the photograph on the back cover and smiled. "I'm afraid so."

"So you're a writer."

"Among other things."

"I was going to be a writer, you know." As she spoke she suddenly remembered the streak of yellow staining the shoulder of her blouse. She had wondered whether she should change her top before coming to the park. Now she wished she had.

He gestured to the empty space beside him. "Won't you join me?"

"Thank you." She sat down on the very edge of the bench. "I just need to keep an eye on Pippa." She pointed to the sandpit where Pippa was squatting on her fat little legs.

He moved over more fully to his side. "Is that your little girl?"

"Yes. And I have a baby at home. It threw up all over me this morning." What on earth made her say something so stupid, she thought despairingly. Everything about this man was elegant and here she was talking about baby spit.

But he did not seem disgusted. He was looking at her intently. He had really nice eyes even though she was now able to see the deep lines at their corners.

She looked back at the book in his hand. "So what is it about?"

He hesitated. "It's a story. About a traveler… searching for his true name."

"Oh, I get it. Like he has amnesia?"

"In a way."

"How did it happen?"

"He was cursed."

She looked at him dubiously. "Can I have a look?"

"Please."

The book was open in the middle and she started to read aloud, stumbling a little over some of the words.

One of the cruder jokes of creation is being burdened with brains capable of conceptualizing a state of higher consciousness we have little hope of ever achieving. But we can strive, walking with hands outstretched like a blind man trying to orient himself in an alien place. And sometimes our clumsy fingers graze the mind of God.

She was disappointed. "This doesn't sound like a thriller. Or a love story."

"Oh, but it is. It is both."

"Does it have a happy ending?"

"Let's say… the right ending."

"I like happy endings." She shrugged, embarrassed. "I know that's silly. Most people in the real world are not happy so why should people in books be happy, right? But when I write my book, it will end nicely." She suddenly noticed that Pippa was scooping globs of sand into her mouth. "Pippa! Stop that!"

Glancing back at him, she said self-consciously, "Kids. They wear you out. But you probably know all about that."

"No. I never had children."

She wondered why not. No ring on his finger-although that did not mean anything, of course.

She sighed. "I wouldn't give up my little ones for all the money in the world. But I keep thinking there must be something else besides, you know? Something more. Stupid of me, isn't it?"

His lips twitched. "If no one wanted more, evolution would stop in its tracks."

For a while there was silence between them. She watched him from the corner of her eye. He was very lean. His skin was dark as though he spent a lot of time in strong sun. Did he travel?

"Does he break it?"

He looked surprised. "Break what?"

"The curse. You said your hero lost his name because he was cursed."

"Well, that's the twist. He realizes it wasn't a curse to begin with."

She frowned. "How's that?"

"At the start of the book he thinks he is cursed. But by the end he knows it is better to have seen fleetingly than not to have seen at all. It is better to go through life in pain but awake… than anesthetized and unaware."

She wished she could come up with something clever to say. Something that would interest him, show him that she understood what he was saying. Suddenly she felt tired. Glancing at her watch, she stood up. "Look at the time, will you? I have to go feed Tommy."

She held out her hand a little awkwardly. "It was really nice meeting you."

"And you." He took her hand in his and for just a moment she had the strangest feeling that a current was flowing from his fingertips into hers. But it was over so quickly, she knew she must have imagined it.

He stepped back. "Good-bye. I hope you get to write that book of yours."

"Yeah, I will do one day." She picked up Pippa and settled her on her hip.

As she started walking, she suddenly stopped and looked back at him over her shoulder. "I still don't see how it's a love story, you know."

He watched the two figures-mother and daughter-become smaller and smaller until they disappeared through the far gate and he could no longer see them.

The book was still lying on the bench where the girl had left it. He picked it up and placed it in his shoulder bag.

The shadows on the ground had lengthened and the hint of a chill was in the air. As he shrugged into his jacket, he felt the outline of his wallet through the folds of fabric. Taking out the leather case, he opened it. Inside was a ten-pound bill and a passport-sized photograph. The face captured by the camera was youthful but the colors in the photograph had faded in the many years since he took it.

Gently he brushed his thumb across the surface of the picture. They had both been young then. But even in those days she had had a maturity beyond her years and had shown signs of the quiet courage that was such an integral part of her being. It had never deserted her, not even during her final battle with the illness that took her from him two years ago.

Love is the greatest healer, she had told him once. And she was right. Through the years she had walked by his side, her love a balm for his incessant yearning.

The hunger. It drove him to travel obsessively in fierce pursuit of the mystery he had once glimpsed so briefly. The door had been closed in his face but if he kept knocking, maybe-just maybe-it might open again.

His travels and studies had stretched his mental horizons; rewarded him in ways he could not have imagined. Sometimes he was able to look at the world around him with such clarity it made him weep. But there were other times when he felt as though he walked without a skin. The years of searching would scratch dry in his throat, like dust. And always, always the hungry shadow waxing and waning within him.

Frankie had accepted his restlessness; had coped with his despair on the days when the shadow took over. Not uncomplainingly-she was no saint, after all-but steadfastly.

Theirs had not been a grand passion-no delirium, no fevered brows-rather a thing of quiet beauty. As the years passed he discovered that trust, gratitude, and a love more serene spin their own kind of magic. Most people feel alone, even when together. He and Frankie never did. They had known each other in full.

Not a grand passion. But a love story?

He pushed his hands into the pockets of his jacket and started walking. The light was beginning to fail now, and on the horizon he could see the evening star.

Oh yes, most certainly a love story.