The Vigil

The Vigil

*

The crash was a death knell, a most undignified and painful passing. It
pulled Tom out of his peaceful slumber and threw him without care into
a darker and lonelier world. It was a sound more ear-piercing than the
shrill whistle of a guillotine, more terrifying than the lusty roar of
a flesh-hungry lion, and more darkly prophetic and soul destroying than
the dull boom of a gun. It was the sound of something you hold closest
in the world being rudely and permanently taken away. He didn't know
what to do, at first he closed his eyes and tried to will himself back
to sleep, it was nothing, he told himself, he had imagined it. He
didn't believe himself, but the prospect of facing reality made him
want to.
It was the early hours of the morning. Tom thought this must be the
kind of time when things die, a transitory half-light between the deep
peacefulness of night and the harsh rigour of day. A time when souls
could quietly slip away and avoid painful good-byes. Cats didn't have
souls however, or so his brother had told him. Tom was only
eleven-years old, but he had more intelligence behind those deep
well-like eyes than most people gave him credit for. He knew that a pet
dying was not to be taken seriously, after all, it was just an animal,
not a person. Tom thought that it didn't matter what it was, he thought
it must always hurt if something you love is taken away, whether it's
your mother or your favourite toy, it is the height of your feeling
that relates to the depth of your loss.
He stood there in the harsh November dawn, the trees, stripped of
leaves, hung around anxiously and self-consciously on the grass. His
mother had not let him go any further than the front garden. She had
left him there cold and frightened and gone to see what had happened,
she could do little else. Tom was not curious enough to want to see it
first-hand. A few minutes later, when his mother reappeared, her
expression told Tom more than a thousand words. He himself had no use
for words from then on, words are always cold and contrived, rough
translations of feelings, weak distortions of the depths of human
souls. Crying, on the other hand, is an immaculate expression of true
feeling, flowing from the well of your soul, and pouring straight out
of the windows. It was all Tom did for what seemed like eternity, he
did not mind, he was almost comfortable with it. What he dreaded most
was what he would have to do when the crying stopped.

*

November slid languidly and inconspicuously into December. Tom was
still at the age where he loved Christmas. It meant more to him to
simple presents though, his belief in Father Christmas still strong, it
represented the one time of the year where he believed real magic still
existed. He thought about presents, of all the shiny new packages that
would press down on his legs on Christmas day. It was a wonderful
feeling, but he still felt pangs of regret, how could he be happy so
soon? He shouldn't be happy yet, and so he resolved to be sad and
unexcited by the whole event, but soon he had latched onto an idea that
seemed to change everything and make it all okay again. According to
Tom's parents, he would get what he wanted for Christmas as long as he
was a good boy. Tom had never been anything other than good, slavishly
obedient, he was too quiet and reticent to do anything other than what
his parents told him to do. This is not to say they were tough
disciplinarians, it was more to do with Tom himself, it was a facet of
his personality, one of the few seen by the outside world.
As he was just a child, his mood changed almost daily and as the long
advent days progressed he completely forget he was still meant to be in
mourning, but he still maintained his Christmas wish. He never forgot
his one childish desire, childish only in the way it could never come
true, as all hopes are called na?ve and childish if they seem
unattainable.
Once he had prised the small piece of chocolate out of the sixth door
on his advent calendar and devoured it with zeal, he proceeded to
finally write his letter to Father Christmas as his mother had been
urging him to do for the past few weeks. When he was finished he handed
the grubby and chocolate-stained paper to his mother, who smiled and
held it close up to her eyes, squinting to read the words. Tom's
handwriting was hard to read. It was small and indistinct, as if Tom
was afraid that if he made the letters too large, someone might
actually see them. His mother was expecting a request for a huge amount
of new toys, less than half of which he would actually get, but toys
were not what Tom wanted at all. His letter pleaded Father Christmas to
bring his cat back to him. His mother did not possessed the wondrous
naivety of youth, yet she was saddened by the fact that such a small
child could hold on to such an impossible dream for so long. She wanted
him to forget about it, he was too young to be faced with the truth, he
was not ready for such painful realisations. She decided this standing
there in the audience of her son and the impassive December sky. She
knew how dangerous what she was going to do was, she knew she couldn't
keep him away from real life forever, but she determined to do it
anyway. She smiled at Tom, "I'm sure Father Christmas will bring you
everything you want". Tom smiled too, but the sky remained impassive
and all too knowing, a distant rain-cloud drifted into view, growing
and furling like cancer, threatening to rain down with darkness and
cold.
Christmas day came, and Tom woke to the plaintive meow of a black cat,
just like the one that had been involved in the accident. It was about
the same size with the same warm black fur and long, curious tail. He
didn't stop to ponder whether it was the same cat, he wanted it to be
and that was enough to fully convince him. It padded cautiously yet
happily over to him, and he knelt down on the ground to meet its gaze.
The bright, amber eyes spoke to Tom of things that the English language
could never describe. Then the cat walked confidently towards him and
nuzzled its head lovingly into his. Happiness and joy overflowed and
covered everything in the house that day with its bright
splendour.

*

January is the worst month of the year, nothing good has ever happened
in January. A cold month full of never-kept promises and deep
forebodings of the coming year. January was a cursed month, Janus was
always looking back, and he had to live life permanently seeing his
past mistakes. This terror of Janus plagued everyone at this time of
the year, except children of course, for they had nothing regrettable
to look back on or anything gone that they wanted back.
Again, how could it be happening again? This was one of the few
thoughts Tom had had time to form in his mind in between his tearful
tumults of grief. He had heard that death knell twice now, and he
thought it would ring in his ears for the rest of his life. He was
sitting outside the examination room in the vet's surgery, his mother
holding him tightly and whispering comforting but meaningless phrases
into his ears. Very few of these phrases made it past the reverberating
death knell. A few minutes later the vet emerged from the room,
cat-carrier in hand, Tom shivered with internal cold, awaiting the
verdict, hoping with all his childish belief in the world that it would
be okay.
"She's very seriously hurt" The vet spoke quietly to Tom's mother, as
if she thought that would stop Tom hearing or comprehending what she
was saying "She has internal bleeding, but there's nothing I can really
do for her. I've eased the pain and relieved her shock, if she makes it
through the night then she should be okay". A reprieve, while his
mother sighed and thought that was the end, for Tom all thoughts of his
cat's death disappeared, even though she may only have had a few hours,
to him it was eternity.
They returned home, through his mother's eyes it was a wake, to Tom it
was a resurrection. They set the injured animal on a soft pillow,
half-covered it in a warm blanket. With protestation completely out of
character, Tom forced his mother not to make him sleep in his bedroom,
but to allow him to sleep in a sleeping bag in the kitchen with his
beloved cat. She could not deny him this, but she thought once he had
fallen asleep she could carry him up to his bedroom anyway.
Tom watched the cat breathe, willing each exhale to be followed by
another inhale, willing those bright eyes to stay bright, willed them
not to dull or close. He watched the rhythmic heartbeat, engaged in it
like poetry, willing the verse to flow forever. With each laboured
breath the cat took, Tom's young heart strained and tightened, and
relaxed when the feline eyes winked slowly and lovingly at him. An hour
or two passed, Tom did not dare to stroke the cat, he was too afraid he
might hurt her. Instead he winked slowly and lovingly back at her, and
so this affectionate discourse of the eyes continued with no words or
even sounds for most of the night. It was a subtle but immaculately
expressive communication. Tom was still scared however, still afraid if
he closed his eyes for too long the cat would die, he didn't think he
could ever bear to leave his pet again. Already fear was growing in his
mind, not just fear of facing death in the next few hours, but the fear
of ever facing it again. He wondered how he could ever be happy, if he
was always waiting and fearing the certain death of those around him.
Eventually, Tom's iron-will was overcome by his body's need for sleep,
and he slid slowly into a troubled slumber.
He was awake before his mother, and despite her pessimism, he woke to
the plaintive meow of a black cat. Unlike before, he found relief but
not joy, it was as if happiness was afraid to come out into the open in
case it was destroyed again. He stood there for a while, unsure of what
to do. He didn't want to leave his cat alone again. He was afraid of
what might happen. A few minutes later, he decided he had to wake his
parents to tell them the good news, but as he left, a sharp and painful
thought like a wasp's sting entered his mind. He had spent the night
watching over the cat, and it had lived, if he left it now, would it
die? It had happened before, it had happened almost twice because he
had left it outside and alone. His carelessness had caused the accident
and could easily do so again. These adult thoughts threatened to drown
such an innocent, childish mind. A strange, asphyxiating fear spread
like a forest fire through his mind. So he rushed back down to his cat
and found haven from them. She was still alive, as long as he stayed
with her, she was still alive.
He would not leave, he could not leave. When his mother finally woke he
had worked himself into such a state, his mind had been so twisted and
suffocated by dark, oppressive thoughts that he sat at the kitchen
table hugging his cat and refusing to let go. All this was despite the
fact his pet had survived. Previous events had finally caught up with
him and drowned out any new happiness, he had had some kind of dark
epiphany. The seeds of this realisation had been sown a long time ago,
and been growing ever since, and it was merely this one stinging
thought that had pushed Tom over the edge. It was not in his character
to let people know his every thought and all his feelings, and so his
worries had lain festering in his mind, spreading like disease until
they finally caused him to snap.
Cruel fate and human wrongs had conspired together to bring about the
downfall of innocent childhood. The gun had always been there, deep in
the soul, waiting for something or someone to pull the trigger, to
usher in a new age of stone-cold maturity. Tom had wanted to keep the
vigil, had wanted to watch over his fears like a shepherd over his
lambs, but he could not keep it forever. The last refuge of childish
security had gone. The last candle had been cruelly and absolutely
snuffed out. Maturity, with all its dark and alien devices, had hit Tom
like lightning from an unseen storm.
A few days later, with his despair hidden by successive waves of time
and silence, Tom carefully and quietly opened the door to the cellar.
With his cat in his arms, purring gently, he walked softly down the
groaning wooden staircase and into the dark, dank cellar. He set the
cat on the floor for the moment; it landed perfectly on its soft little
paws and looked up, curiously at Tom. He smiled at it, trying to block
out the thoughts of it rotting and decaying before his very eyes, the
thoughts that told him death and separation could come at any time. He
pulled open a cupboard, took out a large metal jewellery box, set it on
the floor and opened it. His cat walked curiously up to him and climbed
into his lap, it looked lovingly into his eyes. Tom returned the gaze
with equal compassion, and all thoughts of death and decay faded in his
mind. He knew a way his cat could never leave him. Then he carefully
lifted his beloved pet into the box and, smiling sincerely at it all
the time, closed the heavy airtight lid with a resounding thud that
would echo through the rest of his life.