The Medusa Child by Sylvie Germain

The Medusa Child by Sylvie Germain

Author:Sylvie Germain [Nash, Liz]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781912868896
Publisher: Dedalus
Published: 2021-10-23T00:00:00+00:00


Vigils

‘Terrors are upon him. All darkness shall be hid in his secret places: a fire not blown shall consume him; it shall go ill with him that is left in his tabernacle.’

JOB XX, 25-26

First Sepia Drawing

It is a late autumn afternoon. The room is bathed in a still light that seems to have steeped itself in the tints of the brown and bronze waters of the marshes, the bulrushes and heather, the russet leaves and bushes, the ochre clay gleaming in the ditches, the manure spread on the fields, and even the burst husks of chestnuts. It has travelled across the countryside, over forests, ponds, moors, meadows and orchards, slowly, always clinging close to the mud, the barks of trees, and the water. And as it now enters the drawing-room through the windows veiled by ivory-white curtains, it is heavily weighed down by all these hues from the outside world. It moves imperceptibly into the room and settles in large pools on the varnished parquet floor and on the reddish-brown wood of the furniture. It suffuses the ornaments, the vases, the fruits in the bowl with a dull golden glow.

On a pedestal table sits a tea service, with only enough pieces for one person. A little tea glints at the bottom of the cup, a fine dusting of sugar sparkles at the edge of the saucer, a fly drinks from a drop of spilt milk on the lacquered tray. The smell of apples and pears mingles with the peppery fragrance of the dark roses, which are beginning to droop in a circle round the earthen-ware vase. From time to time a petal comes loose and falls softly. The light sinks deep into the folds of the corollas, giving a slight tinge of pink to the purple of the petals. Those that fall off have a burgundy tint at first, then, as they shrivel, turn even darker, and eventually take on the colour of dried blood. Sometimes a bee falls from the heart of a rose. The alluring flower in which the insect met its death collapses and falls to pieces. A rose may be a grave, but not for long.

The little golden body, as light as a wisp of straw, lies among the purple remnants of the rose. Corpse and burial place are passing together into the same oblivion. The rose, harbouring within its many shadow-swollen folds and recesses a wonderful cache of scent and sweetness, and a heart where light gathers like silt, seems to hold a promise of memory, for it is as deep and convoluted as memory itself. The promise is not kept. The rose cares not what it is, still less what it was. It grows, swells, and bursts open, exposing its heart so that the wind can spread its scent, the sun can dazzle it, the insects can visit it and dance until they drop with fatigue inside it. Without a care, the rose accomplishes its task of beauty, and offers it up for the pleasure of all.



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