Day 226

 

A Red-Letter day, this.  On this day, as I sat painstakingly repairing my poor tools and preparing my wretched writing materials, the thing I have so long expected and anticipated happened at last. 

The voice came through the wall.

I am not referring, of course, to the mere sound of the voice.  I mean that I came face to face with the speaker himself.  

How did this come about?  I will tell you.  First there was a scraping and a pounding.  Next a soft hiss, as of sand cascading down the face of the wall.  Then the harsh grating of stone against stone, followed by a small avalanche of mortar and rock.  I saw a storm of dust and heard a muffled cry.  And then a tall, thin figure walked into my cell.

He approached me slowly on unsteady feet, his long white beard wagging as he came, his matted hair a dirty shroud to cover his crooked back.  The remains of a high lace ruff or collar dangled from his neck like the shards of a crumbling yoke, and rusty black shreds of a ragged robe fluttered in ribbons from his emaciated limbs.  For a long time he stood over me, his head wobbling from side to side, his face a mask of profound weariness and distaste.  At last he spoke in a hollow, rasping voice.   

“Edward?” he said doubtfully.

I shook my head.

“Who then art thou?” he demanded.  “And how doth it hap that these cursed walls still hem me in?”

“I am John Izaak,” I replied.   “You’ve broken through into my cell, that’s all.  I’ve been listening to the sounds of your tunneling for a long, long time, and I’m glad you’ve come.  May I be so bold as to ask your name?”

He scowled terribly.  Stooping down, he traced a single letter in the dirt on the floor.  To my surprise, I had seen it before: