Crossing the Pound

"I died along the journey," he whispers. He's managed to staunch the blood loss with a handkerchief, but by this time he wonders how much is left within him. The tattered edges of his shirt hang limply against the bloodied wound on his chest. With each strenuous push and pull of the rasping oars, he listens for the handkerchief to fall. He sighs and pushes on.

The waning quarter-moon rains down a pitiful light, and he strains to see through the endless blackness. The single lamp shines dimly. Maybe she will still see him--but maybe he cannot see her. "I died along the way and now she'll never know."

The river stench rises and every inhalation is thick with the fetid secrets of the water's catch. Thieves, women of the night, suicides. Their nameless company makes for both an alluring and repellent meeting place--a stead of privacy and acceptance. He watches for her, and waits, pushing the oars away from his bleeding chest.

After dragging in a breath, he thinks the pain is too real. The tearing of his flesh with each stroke is a healthy reminder that he is still alive--that she will find him--that she will know.

~~~OOO~~~

Somewhere downriver, she approaches a canal lock. As she crosses the pound and reaches the closed gates, she imagines finding him on the other side. "He'll wait," she says. "Of course he'll wait." From where she sits, the sound of the lock keeper's turning key is unmistakable. The ticking of the mechanisms echo through the night before the lock empties and she is lowered one slow inch at a time.

As the gates open, she searches for his familiar face. She has so much to say, and supposes there is so much to hear. "He did promise."

~~~OOO~~~

The sun rises over the murky water, over those combing the bank, and over those few whose forgotten figures bump and nip at the muddy shoreline. His boat, a little dinghy with an oar missing, hovers with purpose. The folded handkerchief remains against his chest, and his brow is swept with damp hair. His lips are parted. He died making his way to her, and those who tell her remark that his pockets were already empty. "No place for a gentleman. That's what done it."

~~~OOO~~~

She mourns with so much left unsaid. She doesn't attend the funeral, but watches the cortege from the window, and with their slow, slow steps, she thinks of the moment when she crossed the pound and waited for the gates to open.

Her breath fogs up the glass. Clearing the pane with her fingertips, she startles at a gentle tap at her door-- unbidden words whisper in her ear, "I always keep a promise."