The Epitaph

The Epitaph

Fire burned on the mountains behind their home - many fires that had
burnt all night. The day began to take on a smoky feeling and she
wondered how close these fires might come before the small houses in
the valley were in danger. Bush fires in the mountains in the summer
are a common theme. The land needs to explode, to express its rage
against the heat. Yet, for her, it took the inner workings of her soul
to a place of awe and caution. She knew fire and what it could
do.

Her name was Louisa. She went inside and sat at the kitchen table. She
looked up at her husband who was polishing his shoes over the back
doorstep. She didn't have to say that she was worried about the fires.
He knew her. He knew that every year since they had lived in the valley
she had worried when the fires came in the summer. He smiled at her. He
had told her many times that death is not permanent. Like the river we
flow from life to life, from birth to birth, from love to love.

Louisa had a story, though. She had a feeling that had persisted over
many years, that she had been burnt to death in another world, another
life or another time. At least, she knew that many of her ancestors
had. This Highland memory of how people were cleared from their
Scottish land burnt in their own homes, stayed close to her heart. This
history haunted her a little as the fires burnt in the summer. The
funny thing was that it always led to the same argument. They called it
the 'Epitaph'.

Louisa's husband had a place in mind where he would be buried, close to
the earth, warm in its bosom. He wanted Louisa to be buried with him,
in the bones of his arms. They made a cup of tea and smiled at each
other as the familiar debate began. Nothing wrong of course with lying
side by side in the warm earth; holding each other tight through
eternity, but Louisa wanted to be buried at sea.

'I want to feel water around me. I want to float to the bottom of
something cool. I want to drift- long, long drifting till I lie on the
ocean floor. I don't want to be fettered by the earth. I want to feel
the blue of the Mediterranean or the Pacific envelop me, wash through
my pores. I want to become part of the passing turtles and sea urchins,
of small fish and dolphins. I want forever to have my bones recycled
through the body of seagulls; and I want my flesh to float through old
forgotten ships and treasures on the ocean floor.'

He knew Louisa was passionate about this topic and would get carried
away almost to tears when she described her fantasy. He knew there was
no point in presenting his side of the argument until she was finished
describing her dream.

'Long, long after the next ice age, after oceans rise, claim the land
and then recede again to expose a new world, I want to be part of the
shoreline.' She said emphatically. 'I want to kiss the new sands with
my belly, to be washed up as part of shells and octopus. I want my hair
in the seaweed, my eyes in caviar on the tables of rich socialites.
(She knew that one upset him!) I want my toenails on the back of large
fish as scales and my fingernails as the head-dress of seahorses. Why
would I want to sit still in the earth when the beauty of the ocean
world could be shared with my body? I want to wash up with every wave,
to be music with every surf and morning tide. I want my bones to be
washed so clean that the children collect them on the beach. I want be
the favourite part of stories played out in sandcastles in the
sun.'

Her husband looked at her. He dare not begin his 'bones together in the
earth' argument; his 'they loved well' epitaph, on the tombstone. He
knew as the years went on that her passion grew deeper. He had married
a mermaid of sorts, and he would never understand this need for a
watery grave. Sometimes, as he looked at her eyes at night, he imagined
he could see old sailing ships wrecked on the rocky shores of Africa
and South America. He wondered if he was actually under a spell from
her funeral desires. Sometimes in the morning, when she lay sleeping in
his arms, he chuckled to himself that if he lifted the covers he would
find a tail. How could he be angry with her one more time on this
subject? And if she died first, how would he find the strength to give
her what she wanted? He could not begin to think of her body as not
being his. This was not a possessive thought, but he wanted her to be
whole, all in one place, in his arms, in the earth where bodies belong.
She wanted dispersal and dissolution. He wanted containment and
solidity. It was this love of opposites that brought them together, and
this was the only thing they ever argued about- her need to be free in
opposition to his love that wanted to hold things together. Today the
argument would be light hearted. He didn't want to push her to tears
and he had made his points, so often.

Many years passed and the summer fires continued to burn in the hills.
Louisa and her husband grew old and they did love each other well.
Then, one summer in the height of the fires a strange thing happened.
Louisa fell pregnant with another child. It was late in their lives to
be thinking of raising a child. Their other children had long left
home. But they were happy with the news and warmed to the
responsibility because they were that sort of people. With this event
new decisions were made. Louisa suggested they move closer to her
sisters who lived on the coast. Henry saw the logic in having this
support close at hand and agreed. They moved from the valley and the
summer fires to a little cottage by the ocean.

The pregnancy went well. The months flew by without being noticed like
the majestic Seahawks that winged across the palest parts of the sky in
the early morning. They took their time with things, walking on the wet
sand in the morning light for miles, so that Louisa could stay well.
They spent their afternoons on the paths of the National Park, stopping
to watch the wildlife or sitting peacefully on the cliffs overlooking
the ocean. A change began to overtake them both. The ships in Louisa's
eyes began to sail further from the rocky shorelines and more birds
could be seen there, following behind small fishing boats. Her eyes
started to mirror sleepy marinas instead of wild, rocky capes. Her
fears seemed to pass and the water did dissolve something. She bloomed
into the baby and the baby into her.

Now, Louisa's husband's name was Henry. He changed too. The sea began
to mould his face with its afternoon breezes. His hair was caressed by
shoreline sunsets and took on skyline colours, greys and streaks of
moonlight. The land pulled him less and the ocean sung to him in the
evenings as he sat on the porch.

One morning early, he awoke to find that Louisa had left for her
morning walk without him. He had needed to rest, so had slept late. He
headed for the beach to catch up with her and found her sitting in the
rock pools with the gentle morning waves lapping over her body. The
contractions had started and she was allowing the water to support her
body and birth her child. He was frightened and unsure what to do, but
the sea seemed to whisper to both of them to be still. This was not the
time to argue. So they did relax and did what needed to be done. And
there in the morning sea, on the cool wet sands, a little baby girl was
born from their love.

Several years later they bought the small tract of land that led its
way down to the rocky pools where their daughter had been born. They
lived on the coast for many years letting the ocean tell them how to
spend their days. When they died within a year of each other, they were
buried under the sand and the rocks of the shoreline at the bottom of
their property. Onto the cliffs, next to their names their family
carved their epitaph 'They loved well.'

In the following years a mysterious landscape phenomena took place. The
cliffs took on the shape of Henry's jaw line and the rocky headland was
chiselled by the wind to look like the rugged outline of his face. He
became the earth, etched there in a solid figure of stone, worn by the
daily pounding of the waves and the caressing fingers of the wind. She
dissolved, of course, and became the seashells on his chest, the wild
birds around his hair, the toys of children playing at his feet, the
continual never-ending ocean throwing white foam and spray forever into
his rocky, loving arms. This place became a beautiful holiday
destination where people went in summer to get away from the fires.