JULIAN HAD NEVER BEEN ON THE RIVER SO LONG. AND THE river was unlike any he’d been on. It was narrow, languid, and deeply meandering, still waters zigzagging their way through the steepest cave mountains. He stumbled on an abandoned old boat without oars, and in it he floated, shining his headlamp at the cave walls. When he got thirsty, he drank from the river and smiled when he thought it might be the River Lethe, the mythical river of forgetfulness, and when he drank from it, he’d forget.
Then he became afraid it wasn’t a metaphor, and he really was on the river of forgetting. He stopped drinking and stayed thirsty instead, standing in the rowboat like a wherryman and counting off one by one the names of the places he had been with her. Collins Lane, Whitehall, Silver Cross, Drury Lane, Seven Dials, Holborn, Monmouth, Gin Lane. Taylor Lane, Crystal Palace, Langton Lane, Grey Gardens, Clyde and Dee, Bluff, Ross Sea. Grimsby, Bank, the Strand, St. Martin’s Lane, Savoy Place. Mytholmroyd . . . Loversall, Blackpool, Babbacombe . . . Yes, everything was all right. He was still with his memories, the water wasn’t a potion, his mind was intact. Devi was wrong.
When he got thirsty, he drank, and to test himself he recited again and again the names of places, and then, the names of the faces.
Aurora, Cornelius, Cedric. Baroness Tilly, Margrave, Fabian. He would never forget Fabian; how could he. Agatha, Cleon, Fulko, Little Legs, there was a lot to remember from that life. George Airy, Spurgeon, Aubrey, Coventry Patmore. Kiritopa, Edgar Evans. The Maori and the Welshman were the only two Julian wanted to remember from New Zealand, banishing the names of all others from his memory.
Liz Hope, Nick Moore, Peter Roberts, Phil Cozens, Sheila, Shona, Frankie.
Duncan and Wild.
Wild.
He wouldn’t forget any of them, ever.
Wild most of all.
He got thirsty and drank again.
The light in Julian’s headlamp dimmed. A sudden swirl of icy wind knocked it off his head. In the dark his hand clasped around the shards of her crystal. God forbid he should lose them. Yes, Devi said Julian was his own totem, yes, Devi said Julian’s soul would find the breach in his own body, he was his own holy relic, but without the bits of crystals, how would he find her?
After a while, when he recounted the names of the places, he could no longer recall the name of the town in his first trip back, or Mary’s last name, or the given name of her mother. He remembered Cedric the hostler. And then not even him. The names of the madam and the poisoned whore faded from him, the names of the sewer hunter and the hanged man slipped from him, the faces of Spurgeon and Airy grew blurred. Kiritopa remained tall and Edgar Evans sat strong in the boat.
And then, not even them.
Goodbye, Swedish, a man kept saying with a smile, walking away, holding a baby in one arm, a baby wearing Julian’s precious red beret. I’ll see you, Swedish.
I’ll see you, Wild.
He was okay. He remembered the important things. But what Julian really wanted was for the river to come to an end. His body was sore, hurting, empty, misbegotten, blackened, burdened, hollowed out.
When will it end?
When will it end.
As his boat floated, his exhausted eyes blinking open and closed, he held the crystal slivers up to the cave, perhaps to bounce off something, to give him a little light. He was so tired of the darkness. While his pleading hand was stretched out, there was a flare, and in the brief reflection, he saw the river up ahead. He was headed into a junction. Julian stood at attention peering into the darkness, holding the tiny slivers up, again, again, please! trying to catch a glimpse of the tributaries.
And there they were.
To the right, in a spacious cave, the river flowed straight and swift. He saw it clearly. There was current and welcome movement. He thought he almost saw, almost! the crystal sliver reflect off something in the distance. Was light filtering in through a crack somewhere? Squeezing his hand shut, he stared intensely into the darkness. Look how fast the river was moving. He had no oars, but he could paddle with his hands to catch the current. He could be at the breach in a few minutes. He would climb out. He would find her. This would all be over. Maybe Cherry Lane, maybe Book Soup, maybe the crest of the Santa Monica Mountains. He still remembered her so well. Mia, Mia.
To the left flowed the same winding, barely rippling, unhurried river he had been on for an eternity, disappearing around the bend between the steep ragged cliffs.
Julian didn’t want to be on the river another second. It had already been too long without her. It was time to see her face. Julian reached into the water with his strong left hand and started paddling, turning the boat into the current.
Oh, no—her crystal! Gasping, he jerked his hand out of the water and stared desperately into his empty palm. He had forgotten that he had clenched his fingers around the shards, and when he opened his hand to paddle, they had fallen out. They were gone, all gone. How could he have been so careless. He just forgot.
Nothing to do about it now. He had to get into the current. He didn’t need the crystal anymore. He knew what she looked like in Los Angeles. Cherry Lane, Normandie, Book Soup. He’d find her.
At first he paddled frantically, and then slower and slower.
Soon he stopped altogether.
His mind kept catching on something it didn’t want to catch on.
The river was at a junction.
That meant there was a choice to make.
Both ways might lead him to her.
But what if only one did?
The short, straight way was better. Because he still remembered! He wanted so desperately not to forget. He thought he wanted that most of all. But what did Devi tell him, what were the terrible words Devi had spoken that Julian barely heard then and wished to God he wasn’t remembering now?
In seven short weeks, in forty-nine days, seven times seven, she will be gone from you again. You know how this story ends, Julian. It’s a loop with a noose.
In seven short weeks she will be gone from you again.
Can you bear it?
Which way the river? Which way her life?
He had tried it already every which way. Every approach, every angle. He tried to warn her, to stay away, to be slow, to be fast, he tried friendship and romance, reserve and abandon, to look far ahead, and to live day by day.
And now another unfathomable choice was rising up in front of him.
When you didn’t know what to do, how did you decide which path to take with the future unknowable and one way infinitely preferable?
Julian knew. The thing you didn’t want to do was nearly always the right choice. You did the thing you didn’t want to do. Did you tell the truth, did you give your love, were you free, did you leave, did you dream, did you work? Did you go to York when your closest friend begged you to go with him, or did you bow out? Did you run into a burning house? Did you hear a baby cry?
Julian was so bone tired.
What if that was the choice he must make—to remain on the river until the end?
But what if it wasn’t?
So many unanswered questions.
He tried to argue himself out of it. He couldn’t see around the bend. Both streams could converge in the same place, probably did converge in the same place, so what was the difference? It was the stupid thing to do, not the right thing. And no one should do the stupid thing. That was his other life hack: don’t be an idiot. Sometimes you needed to use the shortest route between warehouse and shop. Wasn’t this the ideal time to heed that advice?
Julian slumped in the boat, his head hanging.
He recalled something unwanted about Lethe, the river of oblivion.
Only when the dead have their memories erased can they be truly restored. Only after life was pronounced extinct on the streets, the names of which he was so desperately trying to hold on to, could he live again.
Switching arms and lowering his deformed claw into the water, he began to slowly rake with his index and thumb, angling the boat away from the bold current.
With deep regret, Julian raised his mutilated hand and waved goodbye. He couldn’t see a way out. But maybe, just maybe, if one thing was different . . .
Maybe she would live. Live how she wanted, with hope and bright lights, with her dreams and the stage. Live without him, if that’s what it took. Just live. That’s all Johnny Blaze wanted for his rollerblading Gotham Girl, for his ephemeral Ghost Bride. No tunnels of love. Just to live. I vow to thee, my country, all earthly things above, he whispered. Take my life, Mia. Take my life.
The port side hit the dividing crag, the boat lurched and shifted into the meandering stream, and continued to glide forward without a care.
He stood for as long as he could, but eventually he sat down.
And eventually he lay down. Sometimes it felt as if the dinghy was moving so fast that it wasn’t moving at all but standing still, rocking in the cold river. Julian wanted to raise his head and look around, but he was so tired.
And then he didn’t want to get up anymore. He was all right with that. He lay face up, not moving, his eyes open, trying to find light in the blackened cave, find anything that could signal the end of the line.
And when Julian couldn’t remember much else, he lay in the boat, remembering her.
Mia, Mia, the soul of my soul.
They lived.
They dived under the waves of the Pacific. They had picnics under the trees in Fynnesbyrie Field. Walking arm in arm, they saw elephants in St. James’s Park. They danced drunk on the tables in the cellars of St. Giles. They laughed in Grey Gardens and strolled across Waterloo Bridge. They huddled under elk skins in the polar ice. He lay on top of her body, hiding her from Hitler, hiding her from Hades.
They lived. During their brief bright days, he thought they didn’t have time, didn’t have much, there was always regret for the litany of things they hadn’t done. They never bought a house, never traveled, never got married, never had kids, never grew old.
But they had these things. They lived in brothels and mansions, in shelters, and up near the sky. They rode horses, and trains, and ships. They slept out in the open fields and in soft beds.
They lived through all kinds of weather.
They got fake married, put real rings on their fingers, spoke true vows, they kissed and danced and sang in revelry. They held babies, helped save babies. Once they talked of babies.
They were young, hungry, lustful, joyful. They were angry, bitter, fighting, hurting. Their bodies flexed like they were gymnasts; their bodies broke like they were old. They lived in peace and in terror. They lived like they were going to live forever. They lived when death was raining down upon them, and when the night was young.
Together they walked through fire. Together they walked through ice.
The whole world and all that was in it was their Inexpressible Island.
They lived. They lived.
Josephine, Mary, Mallory, Miri, MIRABELLE, Shae, Maria!
You have my faithful heart. You will always have it.
I may forget you, but my love for you is carved into the walls of my soul.
Something will always remain.
* * *
The wind had died down. It wasn’t cold anymore. It wasn’t hot. Julian could almost see the outlines of the stalactites above his head, the etchings on the cave walls of twisting human shapes knotted in love and struggle.
Who holds the keys of hell and death?
Where is Ashton, my lost brother, my companion in trial and tribulation? It has been an eternity without him by my side.
Whose voice is the sound of many waters?
Whose passion is astride this wind?
The sound of gnarling metal sorrow, bending the embittered human will to another’s, who did that?
You have been graced with seven golden candlesticks, the healer told him. Whether you light them, whether you even can, is up to you.
Seven times, seven weeks, seven swords, seven hearts, seven stars.
Who knows my grief, my misfortune, my poverty, who knows I’m blind and a beggar and says it’s all right?
Who knows my alms, my gifts, my offerings, who knows my love, who knows my heart?
Julian was in agony, the lungs trying to expand, hot needles burning his veins, his body melting.
Who searches my soul for my hidden burdens and my sleeve for the sins I wear?
Who will lend me his ear and give me a morning star?
Who will take the iniquities from my hands and from my overflowing cloak? My sins fall out behind me as I walk. I’ve forgotten my friends, my family, my mother, forgotten those who cared for me. I’ve turned away from joy, thus I’ve turned away from life. Lost in my suffering, I was bound in chains, and I crumbled before what I have not seen. Who has set before me an open door anyway, even though I’m not strong but weak, I’m not rich but wretched, not a prince but a pauper?
Who knows that I’m not the one who needs nothing? My need is so great, my will so small, my misery and nakedness so blinding. Who knows this about me without any need for words from me, and is all right with it?
The winged beasts fly past blaring their trumpets. I say to the mountain and the rocks, hide me, hide me, please hide me from my life.
In supplication Julian raised his arms.
He thought he wanted to check if the charred flowers had formed on his skin, to see her name blazing on his forearm, to feel the scars of their days. It was dark, and he couldn’t see.
Nothing hurt anymore, because thank God, there was no more pain.