The Last

So this was a weird little idea for a short story that jumped into my head a couple of days ago, and since I haven't written anything for a while I thought - what the hell, let's jot it down and see how it plays out. So... here it is, I guess.

The Last

Before I begin the tale which I am to relate in these pages, I feel it important to impress upon the reader that I do not consider myself a man bound by superstition. Ghosts, spirits, faeries and other such fanciful things are, I believe, the stuff of old wives tales. I have been and always will be a man of science, rationality and reason.

And yet, the events that I am to relate here have to my dismay, eluded the powers of both science and reason to adequately explain. This I wish you to understand before proceeding, so that the rest of this account shall be seen with unclouded eyes.

With this in mind, I shall begin thus…

The matter in question took place in the summer of 1858, deep within the Highlands of Scotland. I, being employed as an engineer by profession, had been commissioned to oversee the construction of a railway bridge in that remote and wild land. This being part of a much larger scheme to connect Aberdeen with the northern city of Inverness, finally bringing civilisation to this isolated and poorly travelled region.

The task allotted to me had proven greatly challenging, owing both to adverse weather and the difficult terrain. Nonetheless, as a man of determination and – I must confess – no small measure of personal ambition, I threw myself into my work with great vigour and absolute confidence that we should prevail. 

This belief proved well founded. Even Mother Nature could not long delay the combined power of men and machine, and by the summer of that year, construction of the bridge was well underway. The rail link would be completed on schedule.

It was thus that I found myself in high spirits on the night of Midsummer. Every challenge had been overcome, and I felt as alive and invigorated as a man could be. The world around me was changing rapidly. A new and enlightened age of technology, industry and rationality was dawning, and I felt privileged to bear witness to it.

Caught up in such grand musings, I found myself quite unable to take rest that night, and was seized by a notion to leave my lodgings and go for a night time walk, perhaps to watch the sun rise on a new day. That was the custom at midsummer, after all.  

The idea held instant appeal, and within but a few minutes I had pulled on a coat and boots, and stole off into the night.

I wandered for a time without any particular destination in mind, content to let my feet bear me where they would. The weather was fair and the world still, as only the small hours before dawn can be, the stars shining down from a cloudless sky as I passed through the familiar woodland, my way untroubled by root or stone. The scent of heather and pine needles was sweet in the cool night air.

In the valley below, I glimpsed between the trunks of great trees the sheds and tents of the workers encampment – the army of labourers, stonemasons, carpenters and metalworkers marshalled behind this campaign to tame the wilderness. And towering above them, the great stone and metal spans of the bridge itself.

I felt a swell of pride as I passed it by and continued my course up the valley, my instincts seemingly leading me on towards the high land beyond. I obeyed their summons without concern, feeling much invigorated by my nighttime sojourn.

Only as I approached the head of the valley and heard the sound of splashing water did I become aware of a growing thirst, for my walk had been quite strenuous despite my high spirits, and in my haste to depart the cabin I had brought no canteen or water bottle.

Changing course, I made my way down the moss-covered bank to the small, swift-flowing river, and cupped my hands to drink.

I was taking my first sip of the cold mountain water when I stopped, aware suddenly of a noise nearby. A noise belonging to no wild creature or natural occurrence of these parts, but of something far more immediate and disquieting.

The sound of a person weeping.

Curious and concerned that someone should be abroad at such an hour, much less in distress, I rose up and stole forth with quick steps, eager to find the source.

It was a little further upriver that I saw her, standing by a small pool at the base of a cascading waterfall. A woman, her back to me, head bowed as if in grief as her shoulders shook with sobs. Such was my surprise at this unexpected encounter that I held fast for a moment, taking in the scene.

She was tall and slender of build, and clad in a simple loose gown of plain fabric that bore no markings or patterns that I could make out. Her hair was long and loose, falling midway down her back, and so light in colour as to appear almost white in the dim glow of the crescent moon. If she had noticed my approach then she gave no sign of it, consumed it seemed by her own grief as she stared into the rippling waters.

It was not my wish to intrude on such a private moment, and yet my sense of honour would not allow me to abandon a young woman in such a place as this. Determining to offer whatever assistance I may, I took a step towards her, already drawing breath to call out a greeting. As I did, my foot pressed down upon an unseen twig or fallen branch.

The woman started at the snap and spun around with remarkable speed, tensed with sudden alarm, and seemed poised to flee altogether.

“Wait!” I called out, raising a hand to allay her fear. “Do not fear. I mean no harm.”

That was when I beheld her face for the first time and any further words I may have thought to utter died in my throat, so startled was I by the countenance that I beheld.

I have never been much of a wordsmith, and so I shall not inflict my feeble attempts to describe her appearance on you now. In truth, I should think that even the most skilled writers should struggle to adequately convey what I saw. All I shall say is that she was beautiful in a way that I have never encountered before or since. A striking beauty that seared itself into my memory that night and has never left me in all the long years of my life.

Her eyes, clear and blue, narrowed suspiciously. “Why are you here? Why now?”

I did not answer her question as quickly as I might, for I was struck by her voice. I had in my time here come to know all of the outlandish accents native to this region, and yet hers defied recognition. Indeed, she spoke her words slowly, as if having to summon them up from the depths of her memory.

“I thought to take a walk before dawn,” I finally explained. “When I heard the sound of weeping, I came to investigate.”

At this, the woman snorted in what seemed a tone of bitter amusement. “Blind luck brought you here, then.” She turned her clear eyes skyward. “It seems I can never rid myself of your kind.”

I frowned, quite failing to take her meaning. Then, deciding to concentrate on more pressing matters, I took a step towards her.

“And you, Miss…?” I paused, awaiting a name to fill the expectant gap. When none was forthcoming, I pressed on. "What brings you to such a lonely place? And what misfortune has brought you to such grief?”

“Misfortune,” she repeated sadly, as if contemplating the inadequacy of such a word. “Nothing that one such as you could understand.” She looked at me once more then, reaching up to wipe the tears from her cheeks. “Leave me. I wish to be alone.”

“Certainly not,” I protested, for I felt my sense of honour stirred at this. “I’ll not leave a young lady out here by herself. Tell me where your home is to be found, and I’ll see you get there safely.”

To my surprise, she laughed at this remark. Though it was a cold, bitter laugh, as hard and brittle as frozen grass on a winter morning. “’Young lady.’ It has been a long time since I could call myself young. Longer than you could ever imagine.”

I must confess that I did not know how to respond to such a statement, for to my eyes she appeared very much as a woman in the flower of youth, her face unmarked by lines or blemishes, her body still lithe and graceful. Were I to encounter her in normal circumstances, I should think she had seen no more than twenty winters.

Circumstances tonight, it seemed, were far from normal.

“Come, enough of this,” I urged her, tiring of these riddles. Removing my coat, I advanced towards her to lay it around her shoulders for warmth. “If you will not allow me to see you home, then at least come with me back to the encampment. We have food and a warm fire. You can be on your way in the morning.”

At this suggestion, she took a sudden step back and regarded me with anger and suspicion. “Is that what has brought you to this place? Are you looking for the next glade to burn and hack down? The next river to dam? The next hillside to carve up?”

I had to exert no small measure of self control not to rebuke her ignorant accusation, for I had become tiresomely accustomed to this attitude amongst the locals. While many welcomed the arrival of the modern world, there were some still who clung to old superstitions and scorned the idea of progress. Mostly though it was the older generations. To see such an attitude in one so young was as surprising as it was vexing.

“I don’t know what you have been told, but the railway will bring progress and prosperity to this land,” I promised her. “Trade, opportunities, education, new ways of thinking. Is that really something to be feared?”

“New. Always your people scrabble and claw for what is new.” She sighed and looked around at the moonlit forest. “And you care nothing for what is lost along the way.”

“It is the way of things. No progress can be made without sacrifices,” I countered. “If only you could see the things we have achieved, you would not think this way. Soaring buildings of iron and glass, great ships that power their way across the oceans, bridges and towers the likes of which you could never imagine.”

“Mere toys, ugly and crude, made by greedy children,” she scoffed, dismissing the notion. “You believe your wheels and machines give you mastery over this world, as if it were placed here to satisfy your wishes. All they demonstrate is how little you respect it.”

“The world must be tamed, ordered, so that all can prosper. Why do you fear it so?”

“Because I have seen what your kind do with it, and I know what they will do again. Every tool becomes a weapon given enough time. Every advance leads to more war and destruction. It is all you know. It is all you are capable of.”   

I shook my head vigorously at this. “You are wrong. It is what they represent that matters – our desire to learn, our will to create, our aspirations to be more than we are. These are not evil things. The world is changing, however much you would resist it. You can shut yourself away if you choose, but you cannot shut it out forever.”

She closed her eyes then, exasperated, as if a teacher dealing with an obstinate child. “No, I don’t imagine that I can,” she said, her voice heavy and defeated. As if this were a battle she no longer had the inclination to fight. “Perhaps it no longer matters.”

I became aware then of a change in the air. A lightening in the eastern sky, a stirring of the breeze. A new day was soon to begin.

“The night grows short,” I remarked, surprised at the time that had passed. I felt as if I had been in her presence for mere moments. “Dawn will not be far off.”

The mysterious young woman exhaled slowly and raised her chin, as if steeling herself for some unpleasant task that had long been delayed. “Then it is time.”

“You will come back with me?” I asked, by now quite eager to be away from this place.

She shook her head. “No. I will not.”

“Then what do you mean to do?”

Opening her eyes then, she turned her gaze uphill. The head of the valley was but a short ways further on. “I mean to watch the sun rise.”

And then, if seized by some great urgency, she took off into the woods, moving with the speed and grace of a startled deer. Never have I seen a living soul move with such haste, and I was hard put merely to follow her. Twice I called out, compelling her to slow her pace so that I might gain on her, but both times I was ignored. She moved with a single-minded purpose, neither deviating nor delaying, her footfalls making not a sound that I could detect.

By the time I emerged from the treeline at the head of the valley, I must confess I was quite out of breath and none too pleased by my enigmatic companion. And when I laid eyes on her standing a short ways off, I strode towards her with half a mind to reprimand her for such a foolish flight. But my words were silenced when I beheld the view beyond.

The great mountains and glens of this wild land stretched before us in an untouched, unending vista, swift-flowing rivers and dark forests and snow-capped peaks gleaming faintly in the growing dawn light. It was a sight of such majesty that for a moment I halted, too awestruck to summon up suitable words.

For all the time I had spent planning and surveying and toiling away in this land, I could scarcely recall a moment when I had truly looked upon it and seen it for what it was.

“It is beautiful,” I said quietly.  

“I will miss it,” the young woman replied, and there was a heaviness in her voice now that seemed to defy her years. She spoke as an old woman, burdened by a long lifetime of regrets and grief. “Perhaps it is fitting that you are here with me, at the end.”

“Who are you? Why do you speak of these things?” I asked then, struck by the melancholy in her voice as I moved to stand beside her. For I sensed something in the air then; as if all the world around were fading away, and there was only the two of us.

“I am the last,” she whispered, looking at me then with such depth of sadness that even I was touched by it. “I lingered on beyond my time, afraid of what lay beyond… but my time is over. All things must fade. And here, at the end, I find you. Perhaps you at least will remember me.”  

I said nothing to this, for all words had failed me. I felt entranced in her words as if by a spell, unwilling to break it. All I could do was turn away and stare off towards the horizon as the golden halo of the new dawn began to rise over the mountains.    

“The world I leave behind is rich and green,” the woman said wistfully, her voice strangely distant now as if a great gulf had opened between us. “How will you leave it when your time comes, I wonder?”

As the sun broke over the horizon and the first rays spilled out across the land, I turned to look at her again, and found to my great dismay that she was gone. Vanished without sound or footstep, so that I found myself alone once more.

I searched far and wide all that morning, combing the woodland and the hills for any sign of that young woman, but despite my best efforts I never did find the slightest trace of her. It was as if she had never been.  

I eventually returned to my work of course and completed my bridge, and many other great labours of engineering besides. The years passed, and the memory of that strange young woman who had so haunted me began to fade.   

Only in recent months have I begun to think more on it, and the memory has grown sharper in my mind instead of fading. And now, as I bring this tale to an end, I think I begin to understand why.

Of late I have grown increasingly conscious of the march of time, and the surety of my own end is impressed upon me a little more with each passing of the seasons. This does not trouble me as might as it might, for all men must meet their maker eventually, and I consider myself fortunate to have lived a life both long and fruitful. But with four score years behind me, I know all too well it is a life nearing its end.

I cannot rightly say what took place that midsummer’s night forty years ago, for it has defied my best efforts to explain. And I do not know what impulse compelled me to make mention of it here. But I think often now of that woman’s haunting final question, not just to me, but all the generations that come after the short span of my life.

The world I leave behind is rich and green. How will you leave it when your time comes, I wonder?