That night I dreamed I walked in the churchyard under a yellow moon. I had no lamp to see by, but I needed none. All was limned in silver, though the shadows were a deeper black than I had ever seen them. When I looked behind me, I saw that my steps had left ink-dark impressions upon the grass. The night was entirely silent and I was alone and I was not afraid.
In the way of dreams, it was only then that I realised I was carrying the spade from the garden over my shoulder.
I walked to the rear of the graveyard, where the newest additions were situated, and I discovered a mound that had no stone; it was too recent for any stone to have yet been cut. There was no marker of the days and months and years which had signalled the beginning and end of her time upon this earth.
I swung the spade from my shoulder and let its impetus make the first cut into the sward. The ground yielded at once, as if capitulating to my actions. I stepped upon it, driving it deeper. The earth was almost black by moonlight and things moved within it, things with slender, skittering legs or tubular, slimy bodies, writhing together and fleeing the silver blade as it bit down. I discarded the infill. I went on, my movements regular, almost mechanical, the bite—step—dig—throw of it taking on its own rhythm. Soon I was standing in a dark pit and then I stopped, because this time when I stepped on the spade, I heard instead of the scraping of earth the dull knock of wood.
I fell to my knees, not caring how filthy they were, and brushed the dirt from the surface until I uncovered a shining plaque, and then the coffin nails that held everything within: her blackened skin, her singed hair; the green dress I had chosen for her—the answers, perhaps, to the questions that had taken possession of my soul.
I knew not how I freed the nails or how I loosened the lid, but a moment later I was raising it and allowing the silver light to fall upon what lay within. And my breath filled my lungs until they ached. I cried out, though I know not what I said; because Lizzie was within, and she was no stock of wood.
Nor was she a blackened ruin.
Lizzie was fresh and healthful as ever. She was waiting there for me, and she opened her eyes and smiled as if she were glad to see me. She held out her arms and they did not crack or splinter or crumble into ashes. Her fingers sought my own and twined around them, and hers were warm. She sat, shaking back her hair, which was golden and curling, save where one lock was cut a little shorter than the rest.
I smiled back at her and loosed my hand from hers; I slipped it into my pocket and found there the hair I had taken, and I held it up to her own. We laughed together, and for a moment my forehead leaned against hers, and we stayed like that for a while, just looking at the hair, as if it were a sign; as if it were a key.
She was not made of wood. She never had been. She was flesh and blood, and she was beautiful. I wrapped my hands about her arms and helped her to stand. I realised we had not spoken; we had no need of words. I could still hear her lovely voice inside my mind; too sweet to release it into the sullied air for anyone else to hear.
And yet she was there. Her hands were in mine once more, and they fitted. They fitted.
The smile faded from her lips.
I frowned as her eyes darkened and I opened my mouth to ask what troubled her, but no sound emerged; not because my voice was too fine for this world, but because I could not speak. Shadows were growing all around and I felt eyes watching us, but I did not turn to see them because my gaze was fixed upon her face. There was nowhere else I wanted to look, nothing else I needed to see. And yet something was happening to her.
As I watched, her cheeks began to change. The skin thinned before my eyes, her cheeks sinking, growing hollow, while her eyes shrank into their sockets, and her hair—it was not gold, not any longer; it was silver—
I shook my head, forming the word no, but I could not prevent it as lines began to mar her lovely features, carving new fissures through her skin as it coarsened, growing age-spotted; but it did not stop there, for older still she grew, and yet older, until I could not bear it. I clutched at her, pulling her close to my heart, feeling her form withering in my arms.
I do not know how long I stood there, or when I first realised that I was holding nothing but dust.
I awoke, opening my eyes to see the dark canopy over my head, just as it had always been, and I opened my mouth and no sound emerged. What should I say? There was nothing, nothing to say, nothing to be done, and I stared up, my eyes unfocused, not troubling to wipe away the tears that were spilling onto my cheeks.