Obscurity

Chapter 15

There are two types of fear. The first is fear of the unknown death. This is the kind of fear that, if left unmeditated, can cause one to become fearful of every ordinary thing: confined spaces, great heights, a seafaring voyage, etc. etc.

Because the human person has been known to perish in such conditions, these ordinary experiences can cause within the human person a fear that they too will perish by such unremarkable means. This, however, is merely a bout of anxiety. Though spontaneous death remains a possibility for all of us, fretting over its every unlikely occurrence is a rather useless affair.

The second type is the fear of the known death. This is the kind of fear that is actual, for death is indeed on its way and the individual has some premonition of it. In some cases, the human person is ill and can thus feel the imminent arrival of death. For others, murder lies in wait, and the victim can feel its eventuality. In either case, death has a way of making itself known and the person is merely biding their time until its arrival.

We must note, for those with no experience in the matter, that the second kind of fear is not so fearful as the first. For with the first type there is fear of the unknown, and with the second type there is merely fear of the known. There is a certain peace that comes with acknowledging death's presence, meeting it by the dawn, and shaking hands with it when it comes to call.

The widow knew this second kind of fear well. She felt it through the dark years of her marriage when every evening carried the promise of her eventual demise, and now she felt it reaching for her again. Her mind felt the presence of a more sinister mind, her body felt the reach of a more sinister body. The grasp of death was ever approaching, ever searching for her across the swamp, and it was only a matter of time before it found her and had her in its grasp once again.

That knowledge made her bold. During the dark years behind her she was a creature held in captivity, now she was a creature escaped into the wild. She would not allow herself to be caught or tamed again, nor would she allow death even the slightest gain. Instead, she tempted it, taunted it, dared it to entreat her. Like a rose blooming in shadow ever safe for the sea of thorns around it, she defied her admirer to reach for her—all the while knowing that the predator had long ago become the prey.

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As the widow sat on the terrace of her boudoir one evening, drinking a glass of red wine with the mercenary, a storm sparked to life across the river and they felt the welling of watching eyes upon them.

They looked at one another with a knowing recognition, watching the lightning as it crackled through one another's eyes, the air trembling through their hearts, waking them from the depths of an enchanted slumber. The widow's hair twirled in loose tendrils around her face and she breathed in the most delicate breath, a small hunger trembling across her lips as though she could feel the wind brewing inside her. Perhaps she could, for the same wind was swirling inside the mercenary and it raged against the piety that had thus far restrained him.

The two said not a word to one another and yet the silence of the coming storm sent currents through their skin. Apprehension sent birds scattering across the swamp, the warm, humid air waiting to break until at last a bolt of lightning struck the Earth, the rebellious flame slashing through the veil that separated rationality from recklessness, ripping life from death and death from life as the rain began to pour forth in earnest.

Their lips met the moment the thunder reached them, pulling their roots up from the ground, shaking their souls free from what tethered them to their bodies and scattering them violently to the wind. They kissed madly, the rain flooding their senses with unmet passions, their spirits no longer concerned with matters of life even as they were stalked by the figure of death.