City of Lost Dreams

CHAPTER THREE In which I reveal exactly what I did after I died.

Y es, dear readers, there I was, in my coffin, having officially died in childbirth and unofficially by my own hand.

I have thought, from time to time, that I should write a short book on how easy—relatively—it turns out to be to escape from one’s own coffin. It would be a bestseller in Vienna. Of course, some modern coffins are made out of metals like aluminum or steel, and in that case one’s goose would be quite cooked, or asphyxiated as it were. A very painful route.

It is possible that I ran out of oxygen before I freed myself, and another person doing what I did would not have succeeded. My chest hurt at one point quite dreadfully. But I believe my methodology was quite sound and is another example of how well I think under pressure. Six feet of dirt pressure in this case.

My coffin was made of wood, and the pressure of the earth above it crushed an egress around my midsection. They had buried me with my child. The child was dead, truly so. I moved the small body off my chest and removed my heavy dress until I was wearing only my linen shift. I took the crucifix from around my neck and used it to enlarge the hole, packing as much earth as I could within the coffin. I ripped a piece of skirt from my dress and made a loose bag of it around my head in order to keep the dirt from falling in my mouth and nose. When it was possible, I stood up, my arms above me, thrusting myself out of the hole. I leveraged my foot on the coffin and rose to a height where my hands were able to break free of the ground. I could feel cold air on my fingertips.

What a sight it would have been, if anyone had been there to see it.

I had not been buried long. The earth was still fresh, and crumbly. I pulled myself free. It was night. I stood there, covered in dirt and some blood where the wood of the coffin had scratched against my skin. Shivering in the night air.

I did not know what to do next, so I walked home, across the graveyard and then through the narrow streets, slipping into the shadows and hugging the walls whenever I heard footsteps approaching.

At my home, all was still. I thought about waking Johannes. He would scream. They would all scream. And run from the house. What could I do? What had I become? This was well before zombies had entered popular culture, please remember. I thought I might be dreaming.

No. I knew.

I knew I had been wrong. My stepfather had not poisoned my body against childbirth. He had poisoned me against death. He had found the tonic for immortality. The Elixir of Life! If you think masses of people have tried to crack the formula for Coca-Cola—think again. The Elixir of Life was sought for a thousand years by crazy alchemist and king alike—though not by a single woman, I’d like to point out. Had Kelley even known what he had done? How could he? I had never died—or tried to die—until now.

Also, if my stepfather had known, he would never have shut up about it. The man didn’t talk to just angels—he talked to anyone who’d listen. I mean anyone. One-legged beggars ran from the man in the street.

I crept into the house. I could hear Portia coughing her wracking cough from her room. Portia. Portia had wept over my grave. Portia should know that I was still alive. That I would never leave her.

And then the coughing stopped, and the house was still and most terribly silent. I went to my daughter’s room.

Portia was dead.

I cannot say exactly what happened next. I know one part of my brain continued to behave as perfectly and wonderfully as it had ever done, for later I found myself with clothes, a cloak, a pair of shoes, a knife. Some money. But I was grieving for my daughter, and my grief was perfect and wonderful, too.

I left Prague. I wandered a very long time. I hid, and I learned, and I waited and I planned. And I lived. On and on and on, I have lived.

You would think that my grief and longing for my daughter would have lessened over these many years—these centuries. You would be wrong to think so. She is my light in the darkness. Portia. Waking or sleeping, she is my dream.