Courting Death (Prologue Draft 03)

Prologue

From the first moment he saw her, the day his father died, he fell in love with her. She was but a shadow, a tantalising taste of mortality. That is when he glimpsed her beauty in all its glory - in as much as a six-year-old understands beauty and love. It took him ten years to realise that she was and always would be his first love.

The death of Brett Woods caused a bit of a shock around town. For a 33-year-old who was healthy, for a diabetic, and had no vices apart from a couple of glasses wine with supper after a stressful day to suddenly die of a heart attack, and at the supper table nevertheless, not more than five minutes after giving himself his meal time insulin injection; in front of his son, an impressionable six-year-old, it was improbable and hit the town like a natural disaster. The local doctors’ offices were flooded with men and women all coming to have their hearts looked over, and the death rate due to heart attacks actually went down that year due to all the check-ups. Nevertheless, one fact remained – Brett Woods was dead. He had died face down in a plate of spaghetti and meatballs, wine staining the table cloth like blood, while his wife and son looked on speechless and horrified.

Therefore, the son witnessed her love for the first time. Impregnated upon his impressionable mind were her means and methods. The destruction she left in her wake appealed to the naughty child within and her command and authority appealed to that part of him that longed to please. This love created him; bore him the way no mother could ever hope to bear a child. It was a sustaining love – and it sustained - and he lived in its highs until the day she finally turned and looked at him creeping among her coattails, and beckoned ‘come follow me’. ‘Be mine’.

Sarah Woods stood at the foot of their graves; a family plot bought by her careful husband for such a time, far into the future, when need would call upon it. Apparently, the future hadn’t been that far off, because only a year after purchasing the plot in the cemetery with care for its peace and beauty, Brett Woods occupied the first grave. Eleven years later his son joined him – dead at 17. Brett had selected the spot with care – it was a beautiful spot in a remote section where the sun would trail its golden wisps over the gravestones each morning like a lover waking up her love with the tantalising trace aromas of coffee and bacon; and the stones would shine. The old, gnarly tree would weep its willow branches to tickle dead or dying flowers, and with the wind’s gentle swoosh sweep them away to preserve the sanctity of the dead it watched over. Now, the gnarled willow stood watch over father and son, reunited in death. The old, weathered gravestone of the father bore some weathering from the elements, but not much, the angel adorning it watching the mourners solemnly. The new grave's headstone lay drunkenly on its side beside the open grave.

“Will they ever forgive him?” Sarah Woods mumbled through the tears, snot and matted hair that the cold had almost frosted to her face. “Will they ever forgive him?” The question seemed directed to the men standing beside her. She raised a gloved hand and wiped her red hair back to its position.

“They will, with time.” The elder of the two men spoke, his robe flapping in the wind that had suddenly picked up. “How much time, well, that my child is up to God.” He turned towards the church at the other end of the cemetery. “Come inside with me Sarah, Stuart,” he addressed the other man, “come and have a nice warm cup of tea. Get out of this weather.”

“In a minute Father,” Sarah leaned into Stuart as he placed an arm around her, though whether it was to offer comfort, protection or warmth was unknown. “I want to be with my son a while longer. I need…I need to make sure he is ok.”

“The door will be open for you. It always will be. You remember that Sarah, my child, you remember that.” Placing a hand upon her head and mumbling a quick blessing the priest made his way back to the church.

The only sound was the wind, for Sarah cried in silence as if any sound would make this real; would break the fairy tale atmosphere that surrounded even something as horrendous as death. Would drive home the facts and remove any possibility of reversing the effects, of this being a nightmare that she would wake from. Soon a muffled sigh escaped her closed lips and her nose wrinkled into an audible snort.

“Nobody came.”

“I know love.” Stuart rubbed knots out of her rigid shoulders and dared manoeuvre her just a tiny bit towards himself in an attempt to hold her close, to get behind her barriers to where her love for him was hiding behind her grief.

“He died that...that way…and nobody came.” Sniffles and sighs turned into a wailing sob that wracked her thin frame and caused her to shake uncontrollably. She dropped her face into gloved hands, long hair falling forward to curtain the grief only a mother can feel in mourning her child. For a few moments that seemed to echo and twist into an eternity she stood there, her whole body shaking with the silent, suppressed sobs that held her captive. After a while, the man beside her stepped closer to her and gathered her into his arms, resting his head upon hers. He turned her away from the open grave, as if removing her from the sight of the dead could ease her grief.

“C’mon Seh. Let’s go inside. There is nothing more we can do here. Let the workers finish up. C’mon.” He tugged gently at her and she leaned into him, back to her son. It was this way that they walked into the church where some elderly women were putting away cups and saucers.

“Knew nobody would come.”

“Why he asked us to put out the plates I don’t know.”

“Created so much work for nothing.”

The whispers stopped as Sarah and Stuart arrived at the door. Looking back, for the first time since she had begun the long walk back to the church, Sarah could make out her family plot and the dark stain on the ground under the willow tree that was the new grave for her son. Looking forward she now faced three women mute in their anger and hatred.

“Can we get some tea perhaps?” Stuart was brave enough to face them, but then it hadn’t been his son. Water heated quickly, cups were poured, and the three women bustled off to another section of the room to begin packing chairs, leaving the couple to themselves.

“That’s her. She’s the mother.”

“Of course it’s her. Who else would come...”

"Why do you think the boy did it?"

“What’s he doing with her?”

"I didn't think he would care to be seen with her now."

The whispers started up again at the other end of the room. Sarah blushed as each new sentence added to the blame heaped upon her and to the hatred and anger directed like a fiery cone at her son, the family and anyone associated with them.

“Stu, you don’t have to be here. Your reputation, your job...”

“All of that is in tatters anyway love. Never you mind now. Finish your tea, c'mon.”

“But without me there is hope of salvaging your life, your job, your...everything.”

“But what if I want a life with you Sarah? What if this is our only chance, as terrible as that may sound. What if this is Keegan’s way of saying ‘yes’ to us? I love you sweet pea. Always have and always will.” Sarah pondered that while she drank her tea and listened to the whispers of the ladies packing away the chairs. She closed her eyes and listened, as if waiting for a sign from God, or her own beloved son. None came and she lowered her head into her hands, nearly knocking the teacup to the ground.

“I don’t know what to believe in anymore Stu. My son is dead. My baby. My little baby boy…gone. Nobody came.” Her voice was like whispering through sandpaper. “Not his friends, his teachers. My friends, where are they Stuart? Where is my support?” She gently put down the cup before brushing invisible threads from her thick winter coat. “Take me home Stuart, please. I just. I just, I just want to try and sort something out . Make it right, well as right as it can be made.”

“I’ll take you but I’m staying. Uh uh,” he placed a hand on her shoulder as she attempted to interrupt. “I am staying. You are not alone Seh. You have Father Bruce and you have me. And even though everyone else has proved false, this just goes to teach us the lesson that all a person can really depend upon in life is God and himself. So let’s go love. Ok?”

Sarah nodded and turned towards the exit. Walking out the door she looked up at the cemetery and towards where her son was lying. “Nobody came love. I invited them but they didn’t come. I’m sorry if I ruined your funeral the way I ruined your birthday party when I forgot to send the invitations. Oh my baby boy I am sorry. I am so very sorry.” She dissolved like a tissue in water and Stuart hugged her to him as they walked towards her car. The last sound heard was a sighing whisper of ‘I’m sorry my baby” before Sarah got into the passenger seat and allowed Stuart to drive her home.

The workers finished filling the grave with the dark soil, erected the headstone and swung their spades over their shoulders as they walked away. The willow swept the grave in rakey tendrils, leaving its patterned print upon the fresh soil turned over on the Woods’ plot. And when the sun rose the next day it had a new friend to meet. It extended welcoming wisps of golden misty light over the words:
“Keegan Brett Woods. October 31 1994 – December 1 2011. A light extinguished too soon."