Moon Song by Elen Sentier Page B

watching each other for a few minutes, sipping their coffee.
    ‘Seems like there’s more to you than meets the eye,’ Mark said eventually.
    ‘You too.’ Isoldé grinned lopsidedly back at him.
    ‘Hmm!’ Mark decided a change of subject would be good, began collecting plates and putting them in the dishwasher. ‘What would you like to do today?’
    Isoldé felt relieved too, followed his lead. ‘The weather’s cleared, like you said, what’s good for us to go and see? I’d liketo go out. I’ve never been to Cornwall before. Can I see some of the special places?’
    ‘Certainly can.’ Mark paused for a moment, running an itinerary through his brain. ‘Including a pub lunch?’
    ‘Sounds good,’ Isoldé replied.
    Isoldé pulled off her boots and left them in the scullery, padding up the stairs to change. After she’d showered she pulled on fresh jeans and shirt, towelled her hair and left it hanging loose to dry out then came back downstairs. She went to the library and opened the door.
    A man sat at the desk, over by the window which looked out on the stream and the bridge. He appeared to be writing. Isoldé froze. As far as she knew there was no-one in the house but herself and Mark. The man turned, looked at her.
    Behind her, Mrs Protheroe came in and turned on the main light. ‘Shall I bring you a cup of tea? I’ve took your things and put them in the washing machine, they’ll be fine again for tomorrow.’
    Isoldé jumped, turned, she’d totally forgotten Mark’s housekeeper. ‘Oh! Yes …thank you …a cup of tea would be nice …and …’
    ‘Right you are,’ Mrs Protheroe interrupted. ‘I’ll bring it along in a minute.’ She headed back down to the kitchen.
    Isoldé turned back to the desk. There was no-one there. Slowly, she walked across. There was a piece of paper on it, an old fashioned fountain pen lying across it with the top still off. The ink shone as if it was still wet. Isoldé picked it up.
    My Dearest Isoldé
,
    When you find this note then I will be gone across the sea to the Isles of the Blest, though the gods themselves laugh to think of me as blessed. But maybe I am, the French word “blessé” means wounded and I am wounded. I would that we had been able to meet truly in the flesh but all the gods of this valley laugh to hear me thinking so
.
    I know you now, now it is too late. My mind puts flesh under my hands even as I write this, even though I have not touched you
,
known you in the flesh of the everyday world. I know in my heart these are dreams but that does not stop me dreaming them. And one day you will come to me here, in the Isles, and we will be together
.
That is why I have left the Moon Song for you
.
    Oh, Isoldé, I want you so much
.
    Look around my home. Look hard and carefully. I have left the song for you. You will find it amongst the music of the stones and the wind, the trees and the water, the dark caves and the sunlight. It is the moonshine. Go down to the cove and sit on the rabbit-bitten grass where you can feel the thunder of the waves at play on the cliffs. Sit on the bridge, listen to the water sing amongst the stones
.
Sit by the kieve and I will come to you
.
    Oh, Isoldé, I love you more than my life
.
    Tristan
    Mark turned the letter over and over in his hands, read it again.
    ‘He was sat in that chair,’ Isoldé broke the silence, pointing to it. ‘He seemed to turn then Mrs Protheroe switched the light on. I jumped, then looked back, there was no-one there. I went over to the desk, found the letter. It was Tristan,’ she finished.
    ‘It’s incredible, crazy,’ Mark began.
    They were sat on the floor in front of the fire in the library. Tension grew between them, the letter was too close, too personal, the letter of a lover.
    ‘I’ve never seen him since he died,’ Mark spoke softly, trying to get close again. ‘I hear him. I hear the piano sometimes but when I open the door, come in, there’s no-one here.’ Mark paused, the