An emanation of ice

And it was lost | A story

“How did you find me?” the old man asked.

I was still stood there in the doorway, watching the street and the merchants of the souk. People milled past, stopping to browse wares or do their best to ignore the incessant cries of a bargain. From behind, I heard the old man repeat his question: “I ask, how did you find me?”

“I have a friend,” I said, turning to look at him. The man was hunched over a table, one hand resting on its cluttered surface for support. “He has a shop in Paris, a little like yours.” Cleaner than yours, I wanted to add. “He works at the university—Sorbonne, I think—collecting things with strange histories. The occult, books, trinkets and such. I never paid it much heed, but I rang him not long after…” my voice caught as I thought of the bathroom, of the blood of the water. “After Mara,” I managed.

The man straightened and moved to the window, the day’s dying light catching in his beard. He smiled and made a motion to continue.

“I should have cast it into the ocean and walked away. I never should have touched it, never should have brought it home.”

“The stone chose you,” he said.

“Why do you keep saying that?” I snapped. “How could it choose me? It’s a stone, a piece of rock!” I wanted to shout but found that I couldn’t; my voice, like that of my body, was feeble, offering little more than a hoarse croak. “It doesn't move, it doesn't speak, it washed up on a shore and I found it. I found it, and I damn well picked it up and now I can’t—” I stopped and glanced to the satchel by the chair, thinking of all it held, “—I can't let it go.” And with those words I began to weep, sliding to the floor and clutching my knees.

The man said nothing. A gust of wind fled through the street, dust eddies whipped up in its wake. The cool of the air teased me, teased me like it always had…

*

The bathroom was always cold. It seeped in through a crack in the floorboards, spreading like an invisible fog. In the first day we moved in, Mara and I had hunted for the crack, taking thin strips of paper and holding them in places around the room to try to catch them flutter. It was like hunting for a puncture in a bicycle tyre. It felt stupid, but we’d laughed, each hoping to be the one that discovered the source. Eventually we (Mara) found it, the crack in the floor. We filled it in, an act that brought its own small victory. But, like with our marriage, soon another crack made itself known, this time at the bottom of the wall near the skirting. That too got filled, though not so easily, the sealant refusing to set on the first two tries. Mara, forever amused by my incompetence, sat on the edge of the bath, swirling a glass of Pinot and offering no assistance other than the jab of her toe in my back in an attempt to topple me over. Father would know how, she would say about anything DIY. It was as much an attempt to cultivate my relationship with the more important man in her life than any serious jibe. The words stung; my own father had taught me little, preferring to keep the knowledge to himself, as though it were some secret I should discover on my own. I think she knew how it gnawed—it was why she said what she did—but back then I could laugh it off and tease her back in my own feeble way.

Of course, another crack emerged, pushed into being by the mysterious source of the draft. By then though it was summer and we opted to ignore it, the air offering some respite from the heat. For a while I forgot about it. I forgot about a lot. The days blurred and the year advanced. Then winter rolled around and the bitter cold set into that room once more, fed by that current of air. I gave in and called Mara’s father. He looked at it. He sealed it no differently than I had the others. Inside, I smirked, confident it wouldn’t last. Sure enough, two months later another sprung into existence. And so the battle raged, until by the second winter Mara told me to leave it be and not bother. She said she preferred it that way, that she could Feel closer to the earth knowing that air had chosen to find its way into the house. Air doesn’t decide where it goes, I said. Shouted, possibly. I don’t remember.

After that, our life seemed to become centred on that room. I would arrive home to find the bathroom thick with steam. Mara would be there in the tub, soaking in the water as wine soaked her mind. You’re back, she would say, her voice carrying the edge of a dream. Sometimes her eyes would be shut as she spoke, remaining so even as I perched on the toilet, draining what little wine there was left into my own glass. Other times her eyes would be open, to follow me around the room like a portrait on a wall, her cheeks wet with tears; in those moments, it would be her mouth that remained shut.

Throughout it all, throughout all those months and through all the things I didn’t see, of one thing I was certain: the stone never belonged in there. I never put it there, on the sink. I never would have dared.

Yet that was where I found it, on the day everything changed.

To be continued … (here)

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Thank you for reading, dearest reader. This is Part IV of And it was lost, a retelling of a story I tried to write some time ago. There are a number of parts to this now, so perhaps it is best if I list them all, should you wish to venture back:

Part 1 > Part 2 > Part 3

I often find myself thinking of the nature of serialising work here on Substack. I like to try and write so that even if you’re here for the first time then maybe there is something to grasp onto, even if things don’t quite make sense. If you’ve been here for a bit then you may realise now that I can be erratic in what I post. Thank you for being patient with me if I dart around from fiction to fact, from serial to non-serial. I know some prefer the former, others the latter. I appreciate you all.

Photo by Denny Müller on Unsplash