The man turned round and smiled. As when the blobs

Of seeming random ink click suddenly

Into an image unmistakable

Of a familiar human face without

The slightest alteration in themselves,

But only in the one who stares, and stares,

And stares, and grimaces, and finally sees,

And never afterward can unsee, Shane,

With shock so like a heart attack that if

His heart still beat it would have stopped again,

Recognized the Old Man who had taught Varr,

Who had baptized Klau in berzerkerhood,

Who had haunted his own dreams. Shane stepped back

And stumbled on a low-lying gravestone.

The Old Man said, “Rise, Champion. Your task

Is not complete, and your road lies ahead."

He held out one gnarled hand, and Shane reached up,

Took it, amazed to find it tangible.

The Old Man's grip was strong. Shane was hauled to

His feet like an anchor out of the waves.

“One thing there is I do not understand."

Shane gulped, “Why have I come back? Why must I

Haunt these streets once familiar? Is it as

The Witchfolk King insinuated, that

Someone, called Barbara I now recall,

To whom I owe a farewell, not yet paid?"

“You are here," said the Old Man, “by your own

Free doing. No man brought you to the arch.

No man forced you to walk through it, and none

Compelled you to break through the seal of Death

Placed on it. For that seal was Death indeed.

Written in it was coffin, grave, and stone,

And all the insurmountables between

Death and Life. When the soul slips from the breast

What a great void it crosses! Like a pit

Without a bottom, infinitely deep.

When once you cross it, what barrier can

Hold more impassably against you? I

Know none." “But that," said Shane, “Only makes more

Impossible that I should be here. How,

If to the dead such seals are very Death,

If to the dead such death is a dead end,

Comes it that I did cross? Mean you to say

That after all this I am not dead, as

I might have speculated, lord, how long

Ago, when first I woke in silent woods?"

The Old Man smiled again. “I would not know.

You are to me a path I have not trod,

And there is much in you none could foresee.

But what you posit has the ring of truth.

My other warriors always took their leave

Of wives, of sweethearts, parents or children,

Before they went to battle. If it is

Vouchsafed to you to take your leave again,

Then take it, and I deem you will be whole,

And brave, in death as once you were in life.

When you have said goodbye, and made your peace,

Then we two will return, to make the stand

That all your soul will long for." The Old Man

Nodded toward the lower slopes, where near

The somnambulant river monuments

Were newer. As Shane followed with his eyes

He felt something grow taut beneath his lungs

And through his whole body there rushed the now

Familiar weightless feeling. As he took

The first slow, slowly quickening

Steps toward some place his legs and gut both knew

But his mind had not yet recognized, the

Old Man called after him, “I will await

You on yon hilltop, by the spreading ash."

Then Shane was left alone with his growing

Sense both of familiarity and loss,

As when a man now grown passes the street

And house in which he was a boy, and sees

The once-known walls a different color,

The flowers in the yard all changed, the soul

That once inhabited and formed the place

Now gone, and with another soul instead

Lending its texture to the scene: what once

Was home is just another house, though much

It may resemble the home he once knew.

The grey pre-morning dark drew barely back.

The skin upon his neck twitched and shuddered.

The graves around him were just visible.

And then he saw her from behind. Her head-

Oh, her hair as smooth as water's face-

Was bowed as with exhaustion or with prayer-

Oh, her soft hands as strong as cold iron-

And as he stood behind her, like a man

Who blinks himself awake to find the sun

Is scratching at the blinds to be let in

A moment waits in puzzlement to sort

The half-remembered fragments of his dreams

Until he knows again his name and date

And all the deja-vus he had in sleep

Fall forgotten as if they never were,

So did the boxer's memories return

Complete now, without violence, and so

Quietly that he did not realize

They were returning until they were back.

Barbara stood before him. Now he knew

Exactly who she was and what that meant.

Barbara was with him, and now he felt

The old warmth, still alive enough to make

For doubts if he were dead, save that he now

Had all his memories of dying, too.

Barbara stood before him. The false dawn

Behind her like a halo lit her form

Without casting a shadow, so they both

Might have seemed ghosts to one who could both see.

She did not turn as she began to speak-

And oh, her voice. Not earth-shattering, not

Ten thousand thunders, not bright numinous,

But heavy laden with old mornings, days

In winter parks with nothing much to do,

With home, with peace, with quiet well-earned rest-

“They handed down the verdict yesterday.

I was afraid it would not come before

I had to go. But things have always come

But barely in the nick of time, for us.

Save once. They ruled it was no accident,

Which anyone with eyes could plainly see,

And have barred him from competition for

Five seasons. And if I had been the judge

I would have sentenced him to life, and laid

Down torments daily on his guilty head,

And when he was entirely broken down

I would have had him hung, his body flung

Upon a garbage heap and left to rot

Where even rats would shudder to touch it.

But they ruled it no accident, when one

Strikes a man from behind in his moment

Of victory after a match is called,

To break his neck and spine, to break his brain,

To steal from me in spite all that I had,

And that is true enough. So I will take

What justice I can get before I leave

As leave I must, tomorrow. No, today:

That is the sun just rising. I don't know

Where I will go, yet, but I cannot stay

Where you were and are not. I see no point

To anything that I watch people do:

Why do girls smile, when you lie in your grave?

Who do men toil, when toil availeth not?

Why does the sun still rise? What good can it

Do for the sun to shine upon the world?

They called me Barbara after the saint

Who prays for those who die a sudden death.

If I had known that was an omen, that

My love for you would doom you suddenly,

Would I have better done to only sigh

From far away, and never touched your hand,

Nor kissed your mouth, nor followed you, nor laid

Beside you listening to your sleeping breath?

I do not know. I only know one thing:

There is no purpose left in life, yet I

Must go on living, somehow. So I came

To say goodbye. We did not get a chance

To say goodbye when you left me, did we?"

Shane slowly shook his invisible head-

“I was angry with you for that, I think,

But I have no more anger in me now.

That's how I know it's time to say goodbye."

Shane reached for her with hands that could not touch-

“So, if you have heard any of the things

That I came lingering to say, hear this:

I loved you more than I know how to tell.

I loved you, Shane. I loved you. Now goodbye."

With that, Barbara turned. Her face was set.

No shadow of a tear would dare to form

Upon that cheek. And she did not look back.

Now somewhere it was winter. But winter,

Even the wide immovable winter

Snowless and silent on the pre-dawn tombs,

Is but a passing thing. It too shall pass.

Shane did not try to follow. He looked at

The stone where Barbara had stood of late.

Though still within his mind whirled frantically

Such cries as 'I cannot abandon her,'

And 'How can she abandon me, and now?'

And 'Though I am the proof that death may be

Merely the gateway to some other world,

How many worlds are there? I have glimpsed but

A fraction of a fraction! How could I

Search through them all enough to find her when

She wakes in the high heaven she deserves?'

All these words whirled upon the other side

Of the goodbye that she had said and his

Mouth had performed in silent unison.

Now there were no more hooks left in his heart.

He took a moment to engrave upon

His memory the words the headstone bore:

'SHANE FALCONI,' some irrelevant dates,

And then 'CHAMPION.' No more said the grave.

No more could he think of for it to say.

Shane turned and walked away. His path lead not

In the direction Barbara had gone.