The crowd slips further and further away. Perhaps they are going to The Festival, despite the foul weather. Paul isn’t walking any slower than anyone else, of course not, he might be getting on, but he is as strong as any man his age could hope to be.
And yet, still they grow further away.
Familiar faces fall behind the shrouds of rain and distance, and are rendered down to unrecognisable silhouettes. Still they fade, until all Paul can see of them is the trail they have left in the mud before him. He watches those bootprints very closely. He is no cobbler, but he almost feels he can still discern people he used to know between those rain filled contours.
Suddenly this strange archeology is very unsettling to Paul. He clutches his cloak close. Its make is exceedingly fine but the warmth it offers goes considerably beyond what any material can provide. It bears the echo of a hug, so close and affectionate that to know its touch is to know you are loved. It is a memento divorced from the frailties of human recall, a living memory stitched indelibly between threads of fabric. As Paul looks across to Ethel he thinks the need for this reminder is a bit superfluous, but he supposes it is nice all the same.
The journey ends very suddenly for Paul. There was a time when he was walking, and then a time when he was not, and he had little more than the ache in his bones to remember it by. He had never been waited on before, and as the servants offer him fresh clothes he is even a little uncomfortable with the notion, but soon he finds himself distracted by the fine make of the garments he has been offered. He asks Ethel to remind him to ask the tailor’s name before they head back to the shop. He laughs at the look she gives him and lets her know that he is worried he might have competition. The Mackenzie house seems to have undergone a lot of redecorating since last he visited, but Bridgit always was having alterations made to her dresses, so it shouldn’t surprise him that she feels the same way about her home.
Finally they are led upstairs. Ethel stays with him in his room. His cloak needs to be taken to dry, so instead Ethel offers her hand, sitting besides his bed. Her gentle touch feels solid, an anchor against his sea of troubles. The way his trembling hands once did…
Paul is no fool. He knows there is something wrong with him. He does not always known that, but in the reprieve he has been given from the hardships of this last week, he does now. He knows that this moment of clarity is temporary, that the ceaseless march of that unknown, nameless wrongness has not been turned back. No, the trials of recent days have simply been given a glimpse of the road yet to come. Things are not better, they are only not yet so bad.
As he drifts away he begins to dream. He dreams of times gone by when the easy dance of threads between his fingers worked wonders. Perhaps he will remember this dream. Perhaps not. Which would be better: the ephemeral delirium of glory recaptured or the enduring memory of good things long past?
Who can say.