I am well enough, after a week in ‘The Watery Grave,’ to know that I am unwell. At the arrival of the man, the sane puppeteer inside me begins to put on a show, knowing that it will only have to be a civil 24 hours before I escape or die in escaping. My hand-strings tug and a voice comes from inside me:
“Hello,” it says, and it laughs lightly.
No stranger, this is, nevertheless, a strange man. He strips down to his sagging body and joins me in donning only underwear. I make room for him, for his things, and watch as he rolls out a blanket. The descent has left him entirely unscathed and, as though sensing my thoughts, he eyes me and says:
“Rough waters on your way down?”
My scabbed wounds crack quietly as I shift.
“It was narrower than I thought.”
“How long have you been down here.”
“Just a couple days,” I say.
I’m not sure why I lie.
The man hums a moment, the same tune.
“When are you thinking of going?”
“The next time,” I tell him, “Tomorrow.”
He nods and I add, “Not because of you.”
He nods again and he pulls out a harmonica.
“You play?” he asks, “Sing?”
“Neither.”
“Mind if I do?”
The sound of the harmonica in ‘The Watery Grave’ is maddening and inescapable but I listen, politely, sick on the inside like a rotten fruit. I stop him in between breaths.
“How did you get down so easily?” I ask.
“I’m a ghost,” he hums, “Come down to haunt the ‘Grave’ after perishing here myself.”
“Really?” I ask, because it’s hard to know what’s possible anymore.
“Nope,” he says, “But I’ve been down here a few times. Was worse off than you, I think.”
We’ve been avoiding direct eye contact, given the closeness of our quarters, but he turns to see me now with a look that it knowing, at first, and then, suddenly, concerned.
“How are you doing that?” he asks.
He leans forward, to look behind me, and then shifts back to dig in his bag. Before I can answer, he shines the beam of a little flashlight over my body and I cover myself, suddenly shy.
“You’re not casting a shadow,” he says, and though he chuckles as he says it, I see his frown hanging above the light.
“Yeah…” I say, “Weird, huh? Just, uh, happens.”
I wait for him to ask me about it but he doesn’t. He just nods and puts away his light. He pretends to read for a while, staring closely at the pages but rarely turning them. We exchange few words.
The man tries to escape while I sleep, leaving behind his bag and his harmonica, counting on his experience to guide him through the dark, waterlogged tunnel. I find him floating in the pool, one more hurdle to my exit.
-traveler
