Cauld, Cauld
Oct. 4th, 2011 11:52 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
rabidsamfanWatson shared the story with me on the train ride north. A small boy punished in an unheated room, a small shivering ghost wandering Gilsland castle forever after, seeking out the victims of fever, laying spectral hands on them and chanting “Cauld, cauld, forever cauld, ye shall be cauld forever more.”
The person dies soon after that, Watson told me, diffidently, the Border country vowels of his childhood fading away again into the accent of public school and London university as he leaned back against the cushions and watched me from beneath his lashes.
A fairy tale, I scoffed, then, and one which cannot even find its footing. There is no Gilsland castle.
But there are castles near Gilsland, and we are in one of them, imprisoned by the blizzard which rages outside the ancient stone walls, unwilling guests of the very man I came north to investigate. My case is in ruins, yet I dare not add this place to my litany of failures. Watson is ill.
The fire on the hearth sheds light but what little heat there is in this dusty chamber comes from my friend. His head is tossing restlessly on his pillow; his voice is cracking as he calls my name, shouting over the thunder of a waterfall only he can hear. But I cannot turn to him. I cannot even turn to see whether his eyes are open, for my own eyes must stay upon the door. It is nearly time.
And when the small grey ghost drifts once more through the oaken panels, what shall I offer it beyond the frostburnt hands which will never again do better than fumble upon a violin’s strings? What shall I give up to keep the ghost another night away from taking my Watson’s life? What warmth have I left to sacrifice? My head and limbs are already half frozen from the ordinary cold, and my gut is cold with fear. What is left? My heart?
My heart.
So be it.
The person dies soon after that, Watson told me, diffidently, the Border country vowels of his childhood fading away again into the accent of public school and London university as he leaned back against the cushions and watched me from beneath his lashes.
A fairy tale, I scoffed, then, and one which cannot even find its footing. There is no Gilsland castle.
But there are castles near Gilsland, and we are in one of them, imprisoned by the blizzard which rages outside the ancient stone walls, unwilling guests of the very man I came north to investigate. My case is in ruins, yet I dare not add this place to my litany of failures. Watson is ill.
The fire on the hearth sheds light but what little heat there is in this dusty chamber comes from my friend. His head is tossing restlessly on his pillow; his voice is cracking as he calls my name, shouting over the thunder of a waterfall only he can hear. But I cannot turn to him. I cannot even turn to see whether his eyes are open, for my own eyes must stay upon the door. It is nearly time.
And when the small grey ghost drifts once more through the oaken panels, what shall I offer it beyond the frostburnt hands which will never again do better than fumble upon a violin’s strings? What shall I give up to keep the ghost another night away from taking my Watson’s life? What warmth have I left to sacrifice? My head and limbs are already half frozen from the ordinary cold, and my gut is cold with fear. What is left? My heart?
My heart.
So be it.
