He found himself staring at the basket beside him, filled with quince and medlars, the last fruit they had picked together. He had known even then. Been watching. Seen him gazing at the slimness of her back, loving the head that turned profile as she reached up, aching to caress the small imperfection in front of her ear—the butterfly birthmark that moved as the seasons changed. Yes, he had been watching. Seen him take her. Seen her give herself. And now—the price.

His eyes started to smart. The leaves crackled into flame. His eyes—would they melt? He supposed they must, they were water: but what of the radiance? Did it melt, too? He had always wanted eyes like hers—maybe it was part of his love for her. Did he love her more than himself? He tried to remember her eyes the first day he had seen her, the day she had joined their camp. Blue, as blue as the stone in his grandmother’s ring. There had been days when they had been grey, too, when he had followed her to the river and watched her washing linen. And green. He mustn’t forget the green, when she sat under the willow. The first time she had smiled at him. She had entered through his eyes, seen who he really was.

A patch of light fell near his foot and he was filled with an urge to see the moon one last time.

He leaned forward, his arms shackled behind him stretching until his joints cracked, the auburn hair on his wrist shaking with strain. There she was in her fullness, grey streams of cloud scudding across the black sea she floated in and . . . a terrible scream echoed across the ravine. His name. She was calling his name. He filled his lungs with the smoky air, choking as he cried to her: “Rawnie. Rawnie, my love. You will never be alone. I will always be with you. Now. This night. For ever.”

He could feel his grasp on life easing away, taken by the smoke he had not allowed for. So this was how it was.

Her cries were becoming fainter; they took on a mournful unworldly note, like a train whistling in the darkness. A train? How strange that this word he had never heard should come into his head. Her cries to him were drowned as a great gust of wind passed over him. He saw her face as lovely as he had ever seen it, and with the vision came a haunting refrain.

THE DAY

ON THE MORNING of the night, Zeno awoke early, yet his waking was so unusual it felt indelicate to move. He had been having a dream, a vivid dream; but, then, lots of his dreams were vivid. Then he had seen the face of a loved one he knew was dead, and asked himself if he was dreaming. In that instant two things happened: he understood that part of him was awake and witnessing the dream—although his body was still asleep, safely alongside his wife; whilst in the dream itself, his body began a headlong tumble into a dark chasm.