by Lila Dubois
“I know it might not make sense to everyone, but the one thing I do believe is that human remains deserve respect. They are nothing more than biological matter, but there is value in them, placed there by the survivors and by society. Anthropologically speaking, mourning and the disposal of remains in ritual or symbolic manners is a mark of a complex society.”
“It seems strange to me that you will not acknowledge the possibility of ghosts, considering.”
“It’s not strange at all.” Melissa stopped and faced Tristan. “If ghosts are real, then I…” She shook her head. “I’ve stood in pits full of bones, picked bullets out of ribs and skulls knowing that I’m the only one who can tell that person’s story. How can I do that if I believe that those souls might be trapped, that all around me might be ghosts looking down at their own bodies and screaming, stuck in the horror that they lived through? If death doesn’t bring an end, if it only brings more horror, then…”
Again she shook her head. “I can’t even bear to think about that.”
Tristan’s heart clenched. It was not scientific dismissal or disbelief that made her deny ghosts, but empathy and respect. He looked around, but Jacques was nowhere in sight.
“Melissa.” He took her hands. “That was a beautiful thing you said. I understand. You’re right. Suffering should end with death.”
“Ignoring the scientific impossibility, I refuse to accept that ghosts are real because if they are, then all my work has been for nothing. I’ve spent most of my life thinking I’ve brought peace to survivors and respected the memory of those who died, but if they’re stuck here anyway, none of it matters.”
“Non. That is not true. The worst thing that can happen is not knowing if a loved one is alive or dead.”
There was pressure on Tristan’s shoulder. He looked back to see that Jacques was now there.
Melissa rubbed her arms. “It’s getting cold. I think I’m going to go inside.”
“Of course. I’ll escort you.” Tristan offered her his arm.
Most of the paths looped back on themselves, so rather than turn to backtrack, they headed forward. An elm tree blocked part of the path, the branches drooping low. Tristan ducked under one, finding himself in a cathedral of leaves and branches.
“I love old trees like this,” Melissa said, resting her hand on the lowest branch. “I always wonder what they’ve seen, what they know. It’s strange to think that in many ways it’s more fragile than humans, and yet it is permanent in a way a human can never be.”
“I think we are permanent things.”
“You do? I wish it were true, but we’re not. Even our memories of those who’ve died fade.”
“But we are powerful. We change the world by living.”
“Well, of course. Climate change and increased carbon—”
“That is not what I mean.”
“What then?”
Tristan took her hands. He saw her expression change from pensive to nervous as she realized what he was about to do. Standing there in the shelter of the mighty tree, he pulled her close, cradling her hips in his hands.
“We’ve talked too much of death.”
“I agree.”
“Bien, then let’s remember what it feels like to be alive.”
Tristan dipped his head and captured her mouth in a kiss. Her lips were soft, her hands gentle on his shoulders. She was so full of personality that it took him by surprise how slight she felt in his arms.
She broke the kiss, licked her lower lip as she pulled back. “That was nice.”
Nice?
“Nice?” Jacques laughed, peering down at them from his perch in the upper branches of the tree.
“I am not ‘nice’.” Tristan grabbed her right wrist and jerked her forward until she bumped into him, her free hand coming up to brace against his chest.
She looked up at him, her eyes big and soft. He’d intended to ravage her, but she seemed so fragile and delicate. He changed his plan, releasing her wrist to brush her hair back from her face. “You are a complicated woman.”
She frowned. “That’s it?”
“What do you mean?”
“You had a great caveman thing going there. What happened?”
“What…you wanted that?”
Melissa jumped him. Tristan staggered back a step and she wrapped her left arm around his shoulder, right hand gripping his hair to hold his head still as she kissed him, her tongue swiping across his lips. He grinned, then returned the kiss, nipping her lower lip and pressing his tongue into the warmth of her mouth. He grabbed her ass and lifted. When she wrapped her legs around his waist, he turned and braced his back against the tree.
Melissa moaned and threw her head back, offering the pale skin of her throat up to his lips. He kissed and licked his way down to the fabric of her jacket.
“Your clothes,” he grunted.
She ripped her jacket off, revealing a thin white tank top. She released him, balancing in his hold as she struggled to remove the jacket. She winced slightly as she pulled her left arm free.
“Her arm.”
His brother’s horrified words stopped Tristan in his tracks. He remembered the scarring he’d seen on her forearm. Still carrying her, he stepped out of the shelter of the branches so the moonlight fell on them.
Her left arm was webbed with scars from mid-forearm up to her biceps. The scars were so deep that her arm was slightly misshapen, the flesh above her elbow concave and shiny.
“Your arm.”
“Put me down.”
Tristan did as she asked, then watched as she picked up her jacket and put it back on.
“I didn’t mean to…” Tristan didn’t know how to apologize, didn’t know if he should.
“I forgot about it. That’s actually rare, since it hurts.”
“It hurts you?”
“Yes.”
“What happened?”
“An accident at work.”
“An accident?”
“Yes.”
“That’s all you’re going to say?”
“What more do you want to know?”
“I want to know what happened.”
“You mean you want the gory details.”
“No, I want to know about you, and that includes understanding your pain.”
“It’s not a nice story.”
“I did not think it would be.”
“You don’t have time for this. You need to go, mon frère.”
Tristan didn’t acknowledge Jacques’ words. Melissa was staring at the trees, her face like pale blue porcelain.
“Tristan, go!”
Cold wind whipped through the gardens, carrying the sound of a woman’s scream. Melissa frowned, but to Tristan the sound was piercing, like nails being driven into his body. Spinning, he looked in the direction the sound had come from.
“Tristan?” she asked.
“What is it?” he asked Jacques, scanning the shadows.
“The evil beyond the garden wall. It’s trying to get in.”
“That noise? It was probably just the wind.” Melissa touched his shoulder.
“Can it get in?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. It’s hard to tell, because of her.”
“Her? Why? Why can’t she see the ghosts?”
“She’s protected.”
“Protected? From what?”
“From us.”
“You’re not talking to me, are you?” Melissa said.
The scream came again, the sound closer. Little flecks of gold and white light appeared in the deepest shadows.
“We need to go,” Tristan took her right hand and started pushing her toward the castle, keeping his eyes on the darkness by the garden wall.
“Tristan who are you talking to?”
“My brother.”
“Your…brother.”
“Yes, I’m talking to my dead brother’s ghost. There’s something bad coming. My brother is warning me about it.”
“Yo
ur…dead brother…is warning you about…some ghosts.”
“Once we’re safe, I’ll explain.”
Melissa sighed. “I doubt that.”
“Tristan, now!”
“Merde.” Tristan cupped Melissa’s chin and forced her to look at him. “Run. I know you don’t believe any of this, but please, run.”
She searched his face, nodded once, took his hand and started running.
Chapter 7
They bolted through the gardens, then pounded up the steps at the back of the castle. Melissa grabbed a door handle, but it was locked.
“The kitchen,” Tristan said.
She followed him as they leapt off the patio and circled around to the kitchen. Tristan’s hands were shaking as he took his keys from his pocket. The wind was icy cold, cutting through her clothes and making her grit her teeth. She huddled closer to Tristan, looking up at the sky to see if it was about to rain. The wind was making a sound that was reminiscent of a scream as it tore through the trees.
She had no trouble understanding why the mood had changed. The night seemed less hospitable than it had ten minutes ago, but it was a change in the weather, nothing more.
As they stumbled into the dark kitchen, Melissa tried not to think about what he’d said. She liked Tristan, and that kiss had done things to her that she hadn’t anticipated. But if she let herself dwell on the fact that Tristan had a seriously overactive imagination and a slightly skewed view of reality, it might kill off these delicious feelings she had for him. The mass delusion was one thing, since it was clear that Tristan was a victim of whatever had caused the others to react so strangely, but the dead brother…
That was worrying.
Tristan flipped on the lights. He paused, hand in midair and focused on something in the dark corner. He nodded. Melissa turned away, not wanting to watch him have conversations with imaginary people.
“I will make us something.” Tristan finished flipping on lights and then took a pot from under one of the long metal counters and set it on a burner.
“Maybe I should just go to my room.”
He shook his head. “We should talk.”
“There really isn’t anything to talk about.”
“There is.”
He was still rattled—he kept folding and unfolding his arms, and his “s” sounds had turned into “z’s” as his accent thickened.
“Okay.” Melissa sat on the counter near where he was working. “What are you going to make?”
“Something with chocolate.”
“Then I’ll definitely stay.”
She was content to watch him as he added water to the pot then set a metal mixing bowl on top to create a double boiler. He chopped up a bar of high-grade chocolate with a huge knife, then scraped the flakes into the warm bowl.
“Stir this.” He handed her a spatula, and Melissa slid off the counter to stand at the bowl and obediently stir. He took a few forgotten croissants and started cutting them.
“Tell me about your arm.” He was cracking eggs into a dish and adding cream.
“Are you making French toast?”
“You mean pain perdu? I am not using yesterday’s bread, but I am going to dredge and fry the croissants, then add chocolate and fruit. So it is the same technique, but will be much richer with the buttery croissant.”
“That sounds amazing.”
“It will be, but I am not distracted. Tell me about your arm.”
Melissa wrapped her left arm across her waist, her muscles protesting the movement. Now that she was thinking about it the pain was right there, a reminder of something she’d rather forget.
“I was in Ivory Coast, the country, not just the area.”
“The Republic of Côte d’Ivoire?”
“Yes. I was part of a UN team sent in to exhume bodies that were put into mass graves in 2011 during the post-election violence. The country had tried to do some of it on their own, but finally a UN team was called in.”
“That is who you work for, the UN?”
“Most of the time. If not them then there are initiatives and projects that focus on various areas and causes. But this time I was working for the UN. It’s an important project, and I went even though I was warned that the country could be dangerous. We were escorted by UN peacekeepers—soldiers.”
“But something happened.”
“We were in Abidjan, the biggest city in the country, and the site of most of the violence. We’d set up in a warehouse down the street from one of the sites. We were still in the first phase, gathering bones, and I went back to the site to take some photos. All the bones were out, but I didn’t have photos of the site post-removal, which I needed. It was a quick errand. I was supposed to be there and back in ten minutes, so I didn’t wait for the escort to get his gear on, I just left.”
Melissa stared at the melted chocolate, and though it smelled delicious, her stomach rolled with nausea.
“I’m not sure, even now, what happened next. There was shouting, and gunfire. I ducked into a doorway, and there were people running. I tried to hide, and my arm started to hurt. Then there were men in the street. They seemed like boys, but they had huge guns and bandanas covering their faces. They saw me, dragged me out from where I was hiding.”
Melissa’s hands were shaking. She carefully took the spatula out of the chocolate and laid it on the counter.
Tristan turned off the burners under her pot and his frying pan.
“You do not have to say anything more.”
“It’s okay.”
“You’re crying.”
“I am?” She touched her cheek, felt the wetness there. “I guess I’m still scared. It’s been nearly a year and I’m still scared.”
“I’m sorry. I should not have asked.” He tried to hug her but she resisted.
“Let me finish. It’s probably not as bad as you think.” She half turned so she didn’t have to face him. Instead, she focused on the pots hanging over the range. “They beat me—hit me with the guns and kicked me. My French is passable, but either I was in too much pain to understand or they were speaking another language, because I didn’t know what they were shouting. Whatever their cause or problem, I was a symbol for it. Eventually they picked me up, carrying me away.”
“No one helped you?”
“No.” That was one of the most haunting memories—looking at the quiet, blank faces of the people who lined the streets, watching the grim little parade. “Maybe some of them called for help once we’d gone. I don’t know.”
“And your escort?”
“One of the guards had come after me when they realized I left. He was shot and killed only a block from where I’d tried to hide. The others had to shelter and wait for assistance.”
“They did not look for you?”
“No. There are rules, protocols.”
He muttered something and crossed his arms. “How did you get away?”
“I didn’t.” Melissa closed her eyes, and like poking a bruise to see if it still hurt, she let herself go back. “They carried me to the edge of the district. There were whole blocks that were still in ruin from earlier fighting, and that’s where they dumped me. They threw me down into a concrete pit. Later someone told me that it had been the bottom of an elevator shaft for the office building that had once been there.
“I was there for two and a half days. I had trouble standing and couldn’t see well. The pit was only about ten feet deep, but I couldn’t get out. My left arm was…I’m not sure if it happened in the street or when I landed, but it was broken, and the bones were sticking through the skin.”
“Mon dieu. Melissa…”
“The doctors think I was shot before the beating. I remember my arm hurting when I was trying to hide. If the bullet had fractured the bone, it wouldn’t have taken much to cause the catastrophic break. The concrete was pitted and crumbling. If I’d had two hands, I would have been out in a matter of minutes, but my arm was useless.”
“It must
have been awful, to suffer for so long, in such pain.”
“The worst part was the myiasis.”
“What is that?”
Melissa looked at the delicious food he was preparing. “You don’t want to know.”
“I do.”
“Maggots.”
Tristan’s face went pale. “Non. C’est impossible.”
“For maggots to infest tissue on a live person? It’s not. Actually, it can be used as a treatment. In my case, the wounds on my arm drew flies, and though I tried to keep them off, they laid eggs. A day later the maggots had formed. It was…very hard to keep calm.”
“Calm? There is no way to be calm with maggots on your arm.”
“I tried my best. I knew that if I picked them off and they ruptured it could make the situation worse, so I simply did my best to cover my arm and wait.” She touched her left arm with her right hand, and for a moment she was back there, sitting on the pitted concrete, huddled in the one bit of shade she had. The remains of her shirt, which she’d wrapped around the torn flesh and exposed bone, moved under her fingers as the maggots wiggled about. She’d vomited until there was nothing left in her stomach, wept until there were no tears and screamed until she had no voice. It was just her, the punishing sun and the maggots.
“Without them I might have died of an infection,” she added. “As it was, after a few weeks in the hospital I’d started to recover. I’d had my vaccinations and didn’t have any fluid to fluid contact with anyone, which was the most immediate concern.”
“That was your first concern?”
“It was, in a region where HIV and HAV are common. But I was, and am, negative for both. My arm is taking a bit longer to heal. My elbow joint was damaged beyond repair. I have a prosthesis at the joint, and a rod here.” She touched her upper arm. “And three plates here.” She touched her forearm. “They used open mesh where possible, hoping that the bone will regrow over time. The muscle is slightly more problematic, since I lost quite a bit of it.”
“That is why your arm…”
“That’s why it looks like a chunk of it is missing. A chunk of it is missing.”
“Let me see.”
Melissa hugged herself, then slowly unfolded her arms. He knew the worst of it, but that didn’t mean she wanted him to see her deformity in the bright lights of the kitchen. The rational part of her mind knew that she was lucky, that a large scar and weakness were spectacularly good results.