Miriam's Talisman

M
IRIAM WAS DEAD
.

I tried saying it over to myself: Miriam's dead—she died—her death occurred at…It made a flat, jagged sound that lost more of its meaning each time I said it.

I stood alone on the city street where the morning split the air into shafts of sharp, lemon light. The crowds parted and moved around me. Nearby a man sat on a wall eating a sandwich and reading his newspaper, just as if nothing had happened. The glare of the sun stung my eyes, already red and gritty from lack of sleep. I don't think I had been crying; I didn't believe it enough to cry. I can remember feeling a sort of detachment, as if an invisible mantle separated me from the rest of the world. Everything seemed distant and subdued: the voices of passers-by were muffled, students cycled past on silent wheels, cars droned and purred. A bus rasped a sigh of air brakes as it swished along the kerb, causing the few, early-fallen leaves to skitter across the pavement. I stood, hovering on the edge of the city, holding onto a deep emptiness for fear that something more dreadful would take its place.

So what was I supposed to do next? There were things I ought to do, but I was too exhausted even to think about them. Then suddenly I was aware of the day. She always loved this time of year, the thinning of the summer sun into a paler light, the subtle pungency of decay in the cooling air. But this time she would not be sharing it with me. This was my first day without Miriam, and the first time I saw
him
.

I'm making this sound as if it all happened a long time ago and it feels almost like another lifetime, but in reality it's only been a few weeks. Early September it was, and the leaves had started to turn from gold to flame. Even now the last of their kind, the most determined, are still clinging to the trees. I'm trying hard to keep the image of that day in my mind. I must take all the memories, polish them clean like pebbles, collect them safely in a secret place. But already the picture is fading. I suppose that must be part of it, some sort of enchantment that steals away every memory that would lead me to him.

And I wonder how much, if anything, he'll remember of me.

Just a few steps away there was a small, French-style café and a rich miasma of freshly ground coffee thickened the air. Miniature orange trees in wooden tubs stood on either side of the swinging doors. The fruit must be plastic. Oranges wouldn't grow on an English street, would they? This piece of trivia took on such heightened significance that I found myself walking towards the doorway to investigate. Yes, they were plastic, but the menu in the window was handwritten. At that moment I doubted I could ever eat or drink again, yet I walked inside and sat down, studying the grey and white swirls of the marble
tabletop. Coffee was placed in front of me, even though I could not recall ordering anything. I lifted the spoon and traced lines in the creamy foam.

The three of us, that is how it had always been. Miriam is—was—my grandmother, Hannah her daughter and my mother, and then there was me, Chloe. Mother, daughter, child. Three slivers of brittle glass, edging and grinding away at each other. And then there was him, although up until that moment I didn't know he existed. He must have known some of it. And Miriam? Of course Miriam knew everything. What about Hannah? I'm still not sure how much she was aware of.

I, of course, knew nothing. They'd all made sure of that.

My hand was hurting. I found it grasping the pendant, holding onto it so tightly that red and purple marks were scored across my palm like stigmata. My eyes were hot and sore and I could feel tears pricking the corners, but I was determined not to cry. Grief is a private matter, Hannah would say. My mother never approved of public displays of emotion, would never be seen to lose control. Miriam pitied her for that and many other things. A strange thing to feel for one's own daughter—not love or pride, but pity.

There was a flurry near the door, a swirl of brown and black, a long, dark coat, ebony hair slicked back and caught into a smooth tail, the scraping of a metal chair against a tiled floor.

‘You won't mind if I join you.' It was a statement, not a request for permission. I wished he would go away. Instead he sat down opposite me, the hem of his coat sweeping the floor, and leaned his head down sideways to peer up into my face.

‘It is, indeed, a beautiful morning. You are Cliohna, aren't you? Though of course you prefer to be called Chloe.'

I swallowed back the tears. My voice came out in a broken whisper. ‘Yes. Do I know you?'

‘Miriam, I know…I knew your grandmother. Miriam.' I looked up into eyes that were more gold than brown, a sweep of black lashes, and black brows arched like wings on a pale forehead. He could have been my age, early twenties, but it was difficult to tell: his age seemed to change from moment to moment. He lowered his eyelids, his mouth pulled taut. Like me, he seemed to be bearing the sorrow of a loss and struggling to maintain a public face.

‘I don't know you, do I? I don't think we've ever met.' I knew we hadn't. He wasn't someone to be overlooked. ‘You say you knew Miriam?'

He looked directly into my eyes and nodded. ‘Yes, I have known her a long time. A long time.' Then his gaze drifted to the window and he was silent for so long that I thought he'd forgotten about me.

Suddenly, without looking back but in a voice so clear that I was startled, he said, ‘You could say that through her I have known you, also.'

‘Oh,' I scratched around for something to say. ‘Perhaps she spoke about you. I'm afraid I don't remember. I'm sorry, this is embarrassing. You seem to know who I am, but I don't know anything about you.' To be honest, I didn't care who he was; I just hoped he would go away and leave me alone to nurture my misery. I thought that if I maintained a cool politeness it would somehow sustain the distance between us, but this strategy failed.

‘My name is…It's difficult to pronounce. It would be easier if you called me Iolair. That's what she called me.'

‘Iolair? That's easier, is it? What sort of name is that?'

‘It's Celtic, like your own Cliohna, from the Gaelic. I know you prefer Chloe, but didn't Miriam sometimes call you Little Wren?'

This was too much, too intimate, this closeness from a total stranger. Who was he to know my name? What else did he know about me? I felt exposed, undefended, a small animal trapped by the intensity of those golden brown eyes. As if he sensed my unease he straightened, pushing backwards in his chair to break the spell.

‘I'll have some coffee. Dark and sweet and very strong. That's what's needed at moments like this.' He smiled at me, and before I could help it I had smiled back. He raised a long, slender hand in the slightest of gestures and a waiter, busy at a far table, his back towards us, turned from his task and walked over to our corner. At the time my thoughts were too jumbled to register the significance of this. Nor was I concerned when, having brought a second cup to place next to mine, the waiter failed to place with it the slip of paper for the till. It's only now, knowing what I know, that all the tiny shards of abnormality begin to fall into place.

‘You managed to get some sleep.' Again it was a statement.

‘Yes, a little.'

I had slept, but fitfully. Paul had pressed some tablets into my hand, insisting that I go home and try to get some rest. I had drifted in and out of dreams filled with images of my grandmother weaving her magical stories,
and Hannah, tight-faced and weeping. And there was a bird, a large, brown bird with a vicious beak and talons and the saddest of sad eyes. Its outstretched wings beat against the rushing of wind. Images of Miriam were pierced by its sharp eyes and its strange cry, a scream of pain and despair so real that it woke me several times.

‘I didn't think I would sleep,' I said, ‘but I managed to catch a few hours. I woke early. There seems to be so much to do and I don't really know where to start. It's all very confusing. I've just come from the undertaker's. What an odd word that is. When I was little I thought they were the people who took you under when you died. You know, under the ground. I'm still not sure why they're called that.' Oh, God, I thought, why am I blathering on like this? I sound like an idiot.

The doors continued to open and close. The room was made hot and humid by the polished chrome machines constantly exhaling gasps of aromatic steam. Iolair sipped his coffee, watching me, unblinking, unerring, forcing me to prattle on.

‘The man there was very solemn and respectful. He talked in whispers, and minced around me as if I were an invalid. He reminded me of an old-fashioned butler, the sort you see in a Noël Coward play. He kept asking me all sorts of questions about what sort of funeral it was to be, where it would be held, and how many cars did I want. And I kept saying that I didn't know. At one point I said that I'd have to ask Miriam. I felt so stupid. He kept referring to her as “the deceased” and talking about “the arrangements”. I wanted to shout at him, tell him that her name is Miriam and that she's dead and I just have to bury her. He was a kind man and he
was only trying to be helpful, and I felt like punching him in the face.'

‘There will be a lot of that, I'm afraid—people using the correct words, making the proper gestures. It's all part of the ritual, the process of grieving. You will have to make allowances.'

I picked up the spoon and stirred my unwanted coffee while he took a sip of his, then another, his eyes closing and the tip of his tongue circling his lips.

‘You know, this is an excellent blend. Strong on flavour but gentle on the palate. A slightly nutty taste. It's got quite a zing to it. You should drink yours—it will kick some life back into you.'

‘I gather you're not one of those people, are you?'

‘One of who? Or is it “whom”? I'm never quite sure.'

‘People who go through the ritual, say all the correct words. Try to give comfort.'

‘Would you like me to? I'm willing to give it a try, although I've not had much practice.'

‘No, I couldn't bear that.'

For something to do, I picked up my cup and took a few sips. He was right: the coffee was good. Then I felt guilty about enjoying it.

‘You know, I'm not sure what I'm supposed to be feeling.' The line of his eyebrows flicked up in question at my words. ‘I mean, I'm all hollow and empty. Waiting for it to start hurting. They say that at first you forget that it's happened, especially first thing in the morning. I had a friend lost her boyfriend in a car accident. She'd wake up looking forward to meeting John for lunch, or thinking she'd get him to look at a faulty plug on her kettle. Silly things like that. Then she would remember
that he was dead and it would all come flooding in again. It was like she lost him over and over again each day. I wonder how long it will be before I understand that Miriam has gone?'

‘She loved you very much, you know. In a way she could not love Hannah.'

‘How would you know? Oh, sorry, I didn't mean to be…But you're right. I think it's because I can enter her world, you know, the stuff she writes, the stories and folk tales. Hannah always hated all that. Besides, they've hardly spoken for years.'

‘That made things difficult for you.'

‘Well, it's not easy. It's like I'm trying to be two different people. There, see. I'm doing it already. Talking as if Miriam were still here. I'll have to get used to saying
was
. It
was
difficult. She
did
love me.'

The stranger said nothing. He leaned across the table and covered my hand with his. A sudden rush of salt-hot tears gushed down my face. I rummaged in my pocket for some tissues, trying to disown the helpless sobs and gulps that shook my body. A few people fidgeted, embarrassed, and politely turned away. It was easier to study the pattern of fine blue veins that traced his wrist bone and the delicate curve of the thumb. He waited, still and silent, until the storm had subsided. I began to apologise and search for more tissues.

It was as I bent down to retrieve my bag that my jacket fell open and the pendant swung forward, clinking against the rim of my cup. Iolair jolted violently, as if a surge of energy had coursed through him. He stared at the silver ornament and for a moment stopped breathing, his body held rigid.