THERE'S NOTHING BEYOND THIS POINT

ARABELLA MARIE

by Sermon Bath

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I personally feel that graveyards are one of the most oddly charming aspects of

our civilization. The tombstones and various other memorials seem to be rather

indicative of a kinder, gentler sort of life and living. Of course this is not the reason

why I spend one or two nights out of each year sleeping beside the grave of my sweet

dead lover Arabella Marie. I do this thing, that a great many would certainly think

strange, because after all, it was I that killed the poor child; I and no other.

That perfect summer day we went for a picnic. It was only the two of us, so in

love; and she so beautiful with long blond hair and perfect white teeth and skin that

glowed beneath a brilliant sun. Did I mention that we loved each other? Certainly

we did, and absolutely! However we were very young and I was a moody and often

troubled soul, and she was so full of life and smiling. It troubled me that she had, at

only a few occasions, smiled at other men. This did not make me hate her but only

more determined that I should be her only one…forever.

And so on that unforgettable day after we ate and walked and smiled and talked

and confessed to each other all our dreams and professed our devotion, I pulled the

small shiny bladed from our pocket. Our eyes met and somehow she knew. "Why?"

she asked with tears forming in both lovely blue eyes. I glanced away and shrugged,

"your time has come…go and wait for me there, I promise it won’t seem long." I am

a gentleman, and for that reason…and others, I do not care to share any details of the

moments that followed shortly thereafter.

I went away of course, far away. I became a soldier and fought and fought and

killed and killed. I became an expert with rifle and bayonet and my grateful nation

thanked me with many bright metals and other awards. My service record was quite

naturally spotless and with some pride I tell you that I upheld my honor. After some

twenty-five years of war and waiting I retired and roamed the world for a dozen more

years before returning here. Now, forty-seven years after her death I sit by the grave

old and weak, my ancient head leaning against her stone. It has all become a ritual

that I indulge once or twice a year. Nobody remembers me, I walk to this place from

my home nearly twelve miles away. However, I have never felt this exhausted. My

withered body is emaciated by age and old wounds; wounds of the physical, and yes,

the spiritual. Perhaps my time is much nearer than I might have suspected only

yesterday or the day before. I doze off, my body pressing heavily upon the headstone.

A noise wakes me, rather a voice. "Are you quite alright old boy?" It is the priest

come to lay flowers and say a prayer or two for the departed?

"No, I am not well," I say. "It saddens me that Arabella Marie is dead and has

been for so long, yet I live and feel more miserable with each passing day and terrible

long night."

"I see," the priest said thoughtfully. "You must have known her well; they say

that she was murdered during the very flowering of her life…but that was long, long

ago. I was a mere child then but the old folks still speak well of her."

"As well they should," I reply, my eyes straining to focus. "Yes, I knew her very

well indeed. She was beautiful and she was my lover…and I am the very man who

killed her. It was I that committed that terrible crime against all that is good, a black

insult in the face of all humanity!" The effort it took to make the sudden confession

set me to coughing violently. The priest naturally appeared startled but then his hands

began to tremble noticeably. Why? What was the source of his fear? I lay there

weak, old and helpless, my white hair caked with dirt from the grave. My eyes grew

dim and filled with tears.

"Surely you are mad!" the priest finally exclaimed.

"No, but I wonder…do you think God will forgive me for what I have done?"

"But why? Why did you do such a thing…was she unfaithful?"

"No."

The priest’s voice grew stronger and somewhat demanding, "then why…? You

must confess everything. I’m no doctor but I can tell when someone is not long for

this world. You cannot carry this terrible thing with you to the grave…my son."

Somehow I managed a painful shrug. I coughed again and spat up blood. The

bright red dots down the front of my dirty white shirt reminded me of a redbird

scampering across a receding snow. I gathered myself for one final effort. "I killed

her because she was so perfect and that day was so beautiful. I didn’t deserve her,

no man did or could. Such perfection of God and nature angered me…a power

swelled up inside me…the dreadful power that is man. I cursed the cruelties of life

and the world, and then I killed her. Now she waits for me there…I know it! And

soon I will be perfect too and worthy of her love. You see Father, you are correct,

I sense my time is short and my wait will not be so damned eternally long anymore."

The priest shook his head and his tone became vague…perhaps condescending.

"But she is in heaven and you are surely bound for hell. There can be no question

of that old fellow."

Despite my wretched condition I was compelled to laugh. Of course it was now

impossible for me to do so and I only managed a smile. What an awful smile it must

have truly been with blood bubbles forming on my thin white lips. "Ah priest, why

must all women and holy men be such fools?" I felt myself slumping forward quite

suddenly and all was rapidly turning to black. The priest shuddered and walked

away quickly, shaking more noticeably now and wringing his hands furiously. A

huge dark cloud passed over the broad field where the little country churchyard lay

and it began to rain…an unseasonably cold hard rain. But it was not nearly as cold

or indeed as hard as the heart of my dear dead Arabella Marie.