The Empty Grave of Edgar Allan Poe

THE SEVEN MAIDENS

          “I just need some time on my own to think.” Peter realised it was the wrong thing to say as soon as the words were out.
          Josie immediately went on the attack, accusing him of not being interested in the catering plans or the invitations or the wedding itself. As her eyes began to fill with tears she ended with, “You don’t love me anymore.”
          Peter considered his options. He didn’t want to agree with her on the last point, he was sure it was just the juggernaut he’d set in motion when he asked her to marry him that he wanted to dodge for a bit. He felt he could not stand to look at another design for a wedding cake or to spend another night working out what to put on the gift list - he wanted books and CDs not saucepans and cutlery. All he needed was a few days to himself, away from Josie and her mother, just some time to breathe fresh air and clear his head. If he didn’t stand up for himself now then he would be ‘under the thumb’ till death did them part. So he could either tell her to go to hell (she could ask her mother for directions), or he could say he was sorry and run out and buy her a bunch of flowers, or he could stand his ground.                
         “Don’t be silly, you know I love you. It’s just for a few days. And it’s the bloody Lake District not the flesh-pots of Bangkok. I just need some time, o.k.? It’s six weeks to the wedding, and you and your mother have got it all in hand, you don’t need me here. Once I come back you’ve got me for all eternity.” As he said the word, Peter felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck, but in Josie’s eyes he saw a different reaction. He chose to ignore the implications and settled for winning this particular battle.
          Once Josie had given her permission, Peter set about organising his trip. He’d already booked a week off work for the end of March. Originally he’d intended to spend it working on the new house, so he felt a bit guilty about squandering precious DIY time, but there would be plenty of weekends in which to catch up. He felt a similar pang of guilt when he booked into the cheapest hotel he could find in Bowness. He could hear her mother’s voice bewailing her daughter’s cruel fate, wed to nothing more than a wastrel and a spendthrift. Josie had added to his burden of guilt by suggesting she go with him. She felt she could do with a break from all this organising, and added that her mother was beginning to get on her nerves. Hearing that, Peter nearly relented, but he neatly side-stepped the trap and pointed out that the Lake District in March is not the most inviting place and since he intended to do a lot of walking she wouldn’t really enjoy it at all. Better to stay at home and look forward to the fortnight in Tenerife they'd booked for their honeymoon.
          “You know I’ve always wanted to do this. To walk in the footsteps of Wordsworth and Coleridge. I’ve been working in that library for seven years now, surrounded by books. I just want to get out for a bit and see what inspires poets. You’ve never been keen on the idea of going, and once we’ve got kids they’ll just want holidays at the seaside.” At the mention of children Peter noticed that look again in Josie’s eyes and reckoned he was getting the hang of this marriage thing.
          It was true that he wanted to see the wild excess of nature, he wanted to feel what Wordsworth felt when he looked upon the lakes. He too wanted to hold

                                                              “...unconscious intercourse with beauty
                                                              Old as creation, drinking in a pure
                                                              Organic pleasure from the silver wreaths
                                                              Of curling mist, or from the level plain
                                                              Of waters coloured by impending clouds.”

          But that was then and this is now, and even off-season the Lake District attracts enough tourists to spoil the view. Peter had driven up to Bowness on the M6, weaving amongst the juggernauts bearing their precious cargoes of silver napkin rings and champagne flutes to other weddings in the north, with the cassette player booming out  music as loud as he liked. Beethoven’s Seventh and Meatloaf; the sounds of freedom. The drizzle set in when he drove down the hill into Bowness and booked into his hotel and it didn’t lift for the next three days.
          He spent those days walking in the footsteps of Wordsworth and Coleridge, accompanied all the way by armies of old men and women in brightly coloured rainwear and mighty hiking boots, carrying knobbly sticks. He walked the length of Windermere and Coniston Water. Took a trip to Grasmere and stood in a queue for Dove Cottage to see Wordsworth’s socks. He paid a visit to the poet’s other home at Rydal Mount, wandered round the shops in Ambleside, considering whether to purchase a knobbly stick of his own. He even expanded his literary horizons and visited the home of Beatrix Potter. Unfortunately he arrived there at the same time as a coach trip from Japan and what little interest he had in Peter Rabbit quickly evaporated while he dodged cameras.
          He spent his nights talking to Josie on the phone, telling her how miserable he was. It was the right thing to say, of course, and he let her believe the reason for his misery was the fact that she was not there with him. He really was getting good at that. Unfortunately it was not a case of absence making the heart grow fonder. The constant rain had not helped his mood and wandering lonely as a cloud (when one upward glance is enough to show that clouds are not that lonely, and one to right or left would blind you in the glare of a fluorescent yellow anorak) is not all Wordsworth cracked it up to be. However, that was not the root cause of Peter’s depression. When he had first decided on this trip he had convinced himself of all the arguments that he had then used on Josie. He just wanted to get away for a while, on his own. He still loved her. He still wanted to marry her. Everything in the garden was Josie. Perhaps if it hadn’t rained, perhaps if he’d found the Lake District as Wordsworth had left it, perhaps if he’d enjoyed his ramblings, found sights and sounds to satisfy his soul, then the niggling doubt would not have risen up from whence he’d buried it, to burst full-blown into his mind. He did not want to marry Josie.
          Peter was 29 and he still lived at home with his parents. Common sense screamed at him that it was about time he moved out, got married, settled down and raised a family. That was the correct thing to do. He’d been going out with Josie for a year now, and six months ago he’d asked her to marry him. He must have still loved her then. No, for that matter he still loved her now, but he was no longer ‘in love’ with her and there was a difference. The madness that overtakes a man when he first falls in love had passed; to be replaced by a sort of everyday contentment. It was enough to build a marriage upon but Peter knew he would miss that other feeling. The first rush of love, the first time two minds and bodies connect and thoughts of future delights rain down from the heavens and wash away the drabness of the world. He wanted that feeling to last forever and he wondered if there was any truth in the old idea that somewhere in the world you might find your perfect partner, the one you were destined to share your life with; your one true love. And if that was the case, then how do you find her? Do you have to keep shopping around until Fate takes a hand? And if you give up on the quest, are you condemned to a lifetime of DIY and petty compromise?
          It was not about sex. It was not as though he were some carefree Lothario with a little black book stuffed full of his conquests.  If he counted all his old girlfriends on his fingers, even including the odd snogging session at all-night parties in his teenage years, he never had need to resort to his thumbs. It was the romance he would miss. It was the falling in love. Those weeks of torment when he would think constantly about a girl, would plan out strategies to make contact, would gather the strength to ask her out, fearing rejection. And then, that supreme moment of joy, the first kiss, when she responded to his lips and he knew that everything was going to be all right. It was that, the first kiss, that he would miss the most. Not even a kiss. Once, the magic moment had been a tentative touch of his fingers on the girl’s hand. She had let her own fingers intertwine with his, and he had felt the weight of the world lift from his shoulders and he had known true happiness. And then six months later he asked her to marry him and Josie had said yes. And then the juggernaut had begun to move and he had felt trapped and so he had escaped to the Lake District and now he had one day left before he had to return and let  it crush him. It was the correct thing to do.
          He would drive back home on Saturday. Sunday was Easter and he would have lunch with his parents, then spend the rest of the day with Josie and her mother. As a festival Peter had always felt that Easter was a bit of a letdown. All you got was a chocolate egg, no real presents to look forward to. In other words it wasn’t Christmas. The early Christians had got it all wrong. When they acquired the rights to the pagan ceremonies they should have swopped them round. Move the birth of Jesus to the spring, have the Three Wise Men come bearing gifts of chocolate eggs from the East. Then the big event, the resurrection of Christ, the main selling-point of the religion, they should have saved that for the winter. When the angel rolled away the stone from the tomb, he could have showered gifts upon the risen Christ. That way the religion would have lasted longer, kept in step with the world and people's desire for pretty gift-wrapped promises of future happiness. They could have kept it going for a few more centuries before we all reverted to what we had before. Instead, Easter just meant a brief exchange of eggs and “Ben Hur” on the TV again.
          “I love you.”
          “I love you too,” Peter replied and put down the phone. It was Friday tomorrow, his last full day of freedom. He thought about how to spend it, but in his enervated state all he could come up with was yet another Wordsworth house; his birthplace in Cockermouth.
          In the morning, after breakfast, he got in his car and prepared to drive north. The rain had stopped and the solid mantle of grey cloud had been drawn aside. The fresh sight of a bright sun shining in a clear blue sky did much to lift Peter’s spirits but the effect only lasted until he left the hotel car park and hit the holiday weekend traffic. He joined the line of cars, all of which seemed to have hats on, their luggage racks packed with canoes or bikes or sometimes just luggage. As he crawled his way along Peter noticed the sun had also called forth another army of hikers, but these were younger and fitter. Creeping through the little villages on the way to Keswick, Peter’s eyes switched from happy family groups, to attractive young girls dressed in T shirt and shorts, as though the world were providing a visual aid for the endless discourse that occupied his mind. As he neared Keswick, Peter began to rebel. This was his last day of freedom, he did not have to stick to his plan to go to Cockermouth. He could go anywhere he liked, he could leave the endless traffic jam and explore the road less travelled, without having to answer to anyone for his actions. He saw a sign pointing off to the right. It said “Ancient Monument”. He left the jam and followed the sign.
          The road wound its way upward, getting narrower as it climbed. As it reached the top of a hill it was little more than a cart track with grass growing through the weathered tarmac. There was a parking space on the left and a wooden gate in the hedge with another sign like the one below. Peter pulled in and went over to read the metal plaque on the gatepost. “The Seven Maidens: A Neolithic stone circle”. He glanced over the gate into the field beyond, saw the stones and thought it odd. He was opening the gate when he noticed the girl standing on the far edge of the circle. She had long blonde hair and was wearing a long white frock. Peter tagged her as some new age hippy come to commune with the dead druids. He hesitated for a second. It could be awkward. She had her back to him and if he didn't let her know he was there she might think he was creeping up on her, up to no good.  On the other hand he felt stupid making coughing noises. Then again, she must have heard his car pull up, he needed new brake pads. He decided it was her own fault if he made her jump and pushed the gate open. He needn’t have worried. The hinges were rusty and hadn’t been oiled in years, so the gate announced his presence with an horrendous squeak. She turned round then and Peter felt himself falling in love. He tried to resist it, he thought of all the happy families he'd seen on his way here, the fathers holding the tiny hands of their toddler sons as they crossed the road. He tried to remember what Josie looked like. Not now, but when he first saw her. And then the girl smiled at him and he knew that was it. He was definitely in love again. As he neared the circle, a small voice in the back of his mind suggested that maybe she wouldn’t look that good up close. Maybe she’d have pimples or a fine moustache or bits of metalwork adorning her nostrils. When he was standing in the circle Peter could see that she was perfect. What about her voice? Peter had a thing about voices. Maybe that would be harsh and shrill?
          “Come look at the view.”
          She spoke with a soft, lilting accent that Peter could not place, but it filled his mind to such sweet effect that the little voice of doubt was stilled forever. Peter joined her at the edge of the circle and looked across the valley at the mountains beyond. He could see Skiddaw and Helvellyn and the line of cars snaking along the road beneath. He picked out little dots of yellow and blue walking the hills, but then he tore his eyes away from these pinpricks of humanity and drank in the splendour of the scene, the glory of nature, wild and unbound. For the first time he felt as Wordsworth must have felt when confronted by such a vista as this. His heart was overwhelmed by the beauty of the place and he understood why the girl had been so engrossed when he’d arrived that she had not moved from her place amid the stones. He looked at her then, beauty upon beauty, he felt he was going to burst, and he searched for some line with which to impress her.
          “It’s incredible, isn’t it?” That was all he could come up with. He tried to flick through the collected works of Wordsworth in his mind so that he could toss out some quote to show her that she wasn’t dealing with a simpleton, but he found he could barely speak. And then she took him by the hand and led him around the stones and pointed out features in the landscape that he could scarcely discern. They ended up back where they started and Peter heard another car draw up. He turned at the sound, but all he could see was the gate bordered by the thick hedge, a couple of stunted trees and the tops of the two parked cars.
          “I have to go now,” she said.
          Peter presumed the car had come back for her. He had to work fast. He gave her hand a gentle squeeze. He felt the touch returned, and in a state of ecstasy he blurted out, “When can I see you again?”
          “Oh, you’ll see me again, do not fret, I will always be here,” and taking his head in her hands she stood on tiptoe and kissed his forehead. Then he let her gently guide him round so that he was facing the mountains again. “Trust me,” she said, “there is so much more to see.” She pointed to a slow moving shadow that crept across the peak of Helvellyn. “It will be raining soon and I so hate being cold and wet. I must go.”
          “But I will see you later?”
          “Always.”
          Peter felt his body stiffen with happiness. He held her captivating smile for one more moment in his eyes and then she was gone. He wanted to turn, to watch her go. No, what he really wanted was to follow her, to run after her and take her in his arms and cover her perfect face with kisses. But there would be time for that later. Plenty of time.
          Peter heard approaching voices. A grumbling man, a raucous woman, a moaning child; the family from the other car. So they had not come for her, they were just here to look at the stones. Peter decided to ignore them. He kept his eyes trained on the peak of Helvellyn as it grew darker and his thoughts were all for the girl in the white dress. He didn’t even know her name. No matter, he would wait a few minutes then go after her. If she was just walking down the road it wouldn’t take him long to catch her up and then he could offer her a lift.
          “What’s it say in the book?” said the husband.
          “ ‘The Seven Maidens, a neo’ summat stone circle.” replied the wife. “Says it got its name from a local legend that these girls were caught dancing on this hill on Good Friday, so the vicar told them off and turned them into stone to stop ‘em dancing forever.”
          “Bit over the top.”
          “It’s just a legend,” said the woman. “That means it inner true.”
          The child was walking round the outside of the circle, counting the stones. “One...”
          He’ll be disappointed, thought Peter, remembering his first sight of ‘The Seven Maidens’. He reckoned some farmer had probably nicked one to repair a wall.
          “Two...”
          “Damon,” the woman screeched at the child, “d’yer know these stones were put up when there was still dinosaurs about?”
          “Three...”
          “It says here that there’s a local legend...”
          “Another one,” said her husband.
          She ignored him, “... what says that every Good Friday one of the dancing girls gets a chance swop places with somebody if they come up here alone. So nobody comes up here on Good Friday.”
          “Except us,” said the husband.
          “Oh, I never thought,” replied the wife.
          “Four...”
          “You never do,” the man muttered. “Anyroad, we onner alone.”
          At last they’ve noticed me, thought Peter. Still, he decided not to talk to them unless they spoke to him first. He had too much on his mind. He thought of Josie, he would have to tell her the wedding was off. Should he do that tonight, on the phone, or should he wait until tomorrow and do it face to face? ‘Face to face’, and he couldn’t even remember what she looked like. When he closed his eyes there was only one face that he could recall. 
          “Five...”
          “Even so,” said the wife, “I think we’d better go. Besides it’s starting rain. Come on Damon, we’re going.”
          “Six...”
          “What’s next? We going Cockermouth?” And the man laughed.
          “You like saying that dunner yer. Dirty devil.” And the woman gave out a lascivious shriek.
          “Seven.”
          Peter looked down and saw the snotty-nosed kid pointing his finger at him. What a rude little boy, thought Peter, but he smiled at him nonetheless. The boy just stared back, then poked him in the stomach. Before Peter could respond, the boy’s mother came and grabbed Damon by the hand and dragged him away. Peter felt the first drops of rain. There was no point going back to his car until they’d manoeuvred their way out and made some space for him to turn. He watched a roiling mass of black cloud come stealing over the shadowed peaks, threatening to blot out the sun. He heard the car start up and drive off. There was no point crawling along behind it down the narrow lane. He would give them a few minutes more and then he would be on his way. The rain was coming down harder and a cold wind was whipping it against his face. The whole scene before him was now shrouded in darkness, and he noticed the cars on the road below had switched on their lights. Peter’s thoughts were of the girl in white and their future together. He was rehearsing his lines, working out what he would say to her when she’d accepted his offer of a lift and got into the car. He had no doubt that she would, now it was raining so hard; he remembered her saying how much she hated being wet and cold. But what would he say to her then? Ask her name, obviously, but then what? He would have to move soon. He didn’t want to risk missing her on the road. He watched the little pairs of lights slither their way through the valley, like some mythical beast, and then he looked again to the tops of the mountains and his eye was caught by the wisps of mist. There was a wondrous wild beauty in this place that perfectly matched the ecstasy which Peter felt in his heart. He was in love again and this time he was sure it was the real thing. Despite the bitter cold wind and the lashing rain, Peter revelled in his happiness and wished this moment could last forever.