“But the man in your grave,” Mary persisted. “You gave another man your coat. . .I remember they would not let me see the body. But surely that was not enough, of itself, to mistake him for you.”
“I’m afraid I must take the blame for that,” said the woman sadly. “The body, when it was brought to me for identification, was so mangled by grapeshot. . .the face nothing but a bloody pulp. . .that I’m ashamed to say I lost my self-control. Knowing that Michael’s papers had been found on him, I went into such a swoon of grief..... Our poor countrymen who brought him could only assume that he was, in fact, my son. The coffin was brought and sealed, and the next day we buried him, along with all my hopes.
“I was trying to protect you, Mary, and was far too devastated to think clearly, or to search for further proofs. His hair and features, what could still be seen of them, were enough to complete the illusion. I suppose that in after times some doubt of it crept back to me. But as the months turned into years, and brought no word, I despaired. The only defense I can make, is that the pain of not knowing was greater still..... I could not ask myself, or those around me, to bear it any longer.”
There was silence. And then, without prompting, the young woman knew that the time had come to tell her tale. The spirits of the Night, and the shadows of Fear, must not be allowed to dwell inside her, but must be held forth in the hard light of day. She was afraid, and many times in the telling felt the pain of it too great to bear. But as Michael had done in the hearing of a wise man of the sea, so Mary now poured out the cup of her grief, not asking for pity, or answers, but only speaking the words that would not lie still.
And when she had finished, Michael was there beside her, and her own flesh still lived. Her eyes, which had misted and looked into places dark and unfathomable, focused again on that which was real: stone, fire, and flesh. And in this return to daylight senses she no longer felt an all-conquering fear of the strange evens through which she had passed, but only a restless curiosity, and reborn questioning of the sinister forces which had then seemed so strong and undeniable.
“Can you tell me, Michael, what these things portend? Do you believe in the powers that my mother worshipped and feared?”
“No, love. I do not believe in that kind of magic, nor have I any use for miracles, outside the one great miracle of Life. Still less do I believe in demons and sorcery now, for having heard your tale. It only shows me, more clearly than ever, the power of superstition to deceive. Would you like me to show you the key to the mystery, the weak link which shatters the entire chain of seeming?”
“Yes,” she replied. “More than anything.”
“The answer is simple,” he said. “It is music: a magic that is real, disproving a magic that is not.”
“I don’t understand.”