And shaking
her head in torment, she would drive the images away.
After some time of this she half woke, though her eyes remained closed
against the bitter truth of the waking world. She clutched the pillow
to her like a lover, and in a moaning, despairing voice said his name.
"Oh, Michael. Where are you?"
Where are you? Where are you?
The words resounded in her mind, growing fainter, spiralling through a
dark tunnel which became a deep well, leading to the heart of the
abyss. And like tiny pebbles they struck the water far below with the
faintest echo of sound.
Something stirred, as if woken from a fearful and everlasting sleep.
She saw clearly, now level with her eyes, a dark and shallow pool
among a copse of death-black trees, the whole of the scene shrouded by
mist and lit by seeping moonlight. And in its midst, lying face
downward with only his arched back protruding above the surface of
those terrible waters, the figure of a Scottish soldier.
As if sensing her presence the figure lifted its head, bewildered, and
stood up.
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