The Corpses is a fable. Set in the land called Evermore, it’s the story of a lightkeeper and the wanderer who finds her light tower on his epic journey to retrieve the bones of his ancestors. It is a tale of love, devotion, family and the dream of the end of war. Spun from the threads of books like The Little Prince and The Alchemist, The Corpses is a story out of time and for our time.
The core narrative inscribed in the novella came to me upon waking one April morning in 2017. I fleshed it out in loose strokes and put it aside. The following autumn I returned to it, completed it and for Christmas, self-published the fable as a 30th anniversary present for my husband R. MacLean.
We are all original.
We all come from there bearing only ourselves.
In time the teachers emerge to tell us there’s a path and to hand us a compass
whose north is their learning alone.
There is no path for the Wayseer.
For the Wayseer, the night surrenders its darkness,
while the river banks itself in stepping stones.
The Birds carry the call of the ancients to the caves of the sleeping future,
guarded by the She-wolf who howls her assurances.
The Sun checks his face in the mirror and bows to the Magician who pays him to rise and set.
In the moistest moss a long forgotten lie is forgiven.
In the deepest rest, a Woman nurses her baby humming her own name.
On the other side of the galaxy, a new life suckles the breast of the mother of God
whose name is spoken in the faintest of whispers,
lest an atom should hear it and mistake itself for a Man.