by Judith Field
I bought heavy drapes for the front window and never opened them. I left the house by the back door, got into my car, and backed out, never looking toward the tree. None of this helped. The ghosts were ruling my life. The one time I invited a woman to the house, she kept looking out the window and asking me what were the shadows moving under my tree. From this, I understand that I was not the only one who could see them. I became a recluse.
The group kept growing. I noticed there was quite a variety among the ghost people, as I now thought of them. They were all ages, all colors, young, old, even a couple of kids. No one I had ever seen before. For a while, I thought they wanted me to join them. I had given up the idea that I was already dead, but maybe it was my time, and they were some kind of silent welcoming committee. When I gathered my courage to ask them about it, they all took two steps backward, in unison, and huddled closer together. The ones in the front looked so nervous, I never mentioned it again.
By the following winter, I was out of ideas. I decided to run as far and as fast as I could, hence Oregon. When the ghost people followed me down to the empty beach, trudged over the sand dunes, and formed themselves into a long straight line, I knew the only options left were to catch a boat to Japan or drown my sorrows in the cold, gray winter sea. That required some contemplation, so I holed up at the Heron Motel while I tried to imagine what it would be like to be dead.
I hadn’t quite made up my mind when the angel walked out of the sea.
I couldn’t sleep that night and went done down to the beach around midnight, bundled in a down coat, wool hat, muffler, mittens, and boots. At the water’s edge, I made a fire with some driftwood and sat there watching the breakers crash against the shore. Breaking waves soothe me, so I was actually enjoying myself, when I noticed a huge, pale gray figure skimming over the water, way past the breakers. There was enough moonlight to see by, and at first I thought it was another ghost coming to join my pack, but this thing was so big, it was clearly nothing human, alive or dead. Fifty feet tall, at least. As it came closer, it seemed to shrink, and by the time it got to the shore, it was only two or three heads taller than me. It waded through the breakers like anyone might, and when it reached the hard sand, I saw that, in addition to its long gray robe, it wore high boots of the same gray material. The boots had wings on each side.
Out of the water, it stopped and pulled off its boots. Held them in one hand. Motioned with the other to my fire.
“May I join you?” it asked me in a perfectly normal voice. It was towering over me at this point. I rose from the log I was sitting on and motioned for it to sit down. I was fascinated by the wings on the boots and watched as it carefully placed them near the fire.
“They get heavy when they’re wet,” it said. “I saw your fire, and thought I could dry them out.”
“Be my guest.” Then I remembered where I had seen winged shoes before, in a book on mythology. I blurted out, “Are you Hermes?” before thinking it through.
The angel laughed so hard it lost its clear definition. I sat down again. I felt a solid hand on my shoulder. “Sorry,” it said. “I’m not laughing at you. It’s a common misconception that only Hermes wears winged sandals. Actually, he’s a bit of a renegade. We all wear them. And they’re not even sandals.” Solid again, it turned and looked straight at me. I could see its robe clearly, shimmering folds of some material that was clearly not native to Earth since it appeared to be some kind of malleable semi-liquid. Its face was more vague. Very large. Human shaped, with deep dark eyes and a kind mouth, but it glowed with some kind of internal light that made it hard to pin down the exact features.
“I didn’t mean to offend,” I said.
“None taken. I’ve been meaning to visit you. I see you’ve done a wonderful job.” It motioned with its incredibly long, robed arm to the line of ghost-people, who had grown excited when the angel came ashore. They were bouncing on their feet, swaying from side to side, and the humming had started again.
“With what?” I was honestly confused.
The angel smiled and the whole beach seemed to light up. “It’s difficult down here, isn’t it?” it said in a very compassionate voice. “Forgetting who you are must be disconcerting. We are aware of the sacrifices you humans make. We appreciate your efforts.”
I must have looked as confused as I felt, because the angel gestured again to the line of ghosts. “You are a gatherer,” it said gently. “You decided to spend your time here finding what was lost. You’ve made a wonderful start with these souls. Look how many you’ve found.”
I turned around to look closely at the line and saw that it had grown again. “I don’t know anything about that.”
“Of course not,” said the angel. “But you did it anyway. I salute you. Perhaps now you would like a respite from your duty. A vacation, as it were. Time to find a partner. Perhaps start a family.”
“Is this some kind of joke? These people are all dead. Am I dying too?”
The angel smiled. “You are quite alive. I see this has been stressful for you. Gathering is not an easy occupation. I will take these you have found and escort them to their next destination. If you wish to resume your gathering, you can do so when you’re ready. Again, your efforts are much appreciated. Your record will be noted. And now I will leave you to resume your life. Ah, I see that my boots are dry.”
The angel slipped the gray boots back on its feet. I didn’t realize until afterward that I didn’t actually see its feet, but I attributed that to the glow emanating from its body. At any rate, it got its boots back on, stood up, and raised one arm high above its head.
I stood and watched as the line of ghosts came forward, slowly forming themselves into another line behind the angel. They did not hurry or push or have any disagreements about order. It was as if they knew exactly what to do.
The angel walked down to the water, and behind it came the line of my followers. As each one passed, they smiled and nodded. Some put their hands together in front of their hearts. The angel walked out through the breakers and onto the deep water, and all the ghost- people followed. The light from the moon shone on the dark water, and it looked as though they all were walking into a long silver tunnel. Just before they disappeared, they turned and waved. I waved back. Then they were gone.
I stayed on the beach until the first light appeared over the eastern mountains. There was no fog and it looked like the day would be clear and cold. I looked around, half expecting to see that the ones who had followed me were still there, but they were really gone. I felt good. Alone. Ready for whatever would come next. I decided to go back to the Heron Motel for a few hours’ sleep before I started home.
When I opened the door to my room, a tiny woman—jet black curls, ivory skin, pink rosebud mouth—all decked out in red and gold, was sitting on the bed, her shapely legs crossed demurely under a shimmering transparent skirt.
“How did you get in here?” I asked.
“The window was unlocked,” she answered, and jumped to the floor. The top of her head came to just above my knee. “I heard you’re traveling back to the Maine woods. I’m a wood nymph. Got stranded here a few years back. Can’t handle the fog. Thought I might catch a ride home.”
I sat down on the chair by the window so I could look into her face. The rosebud opened into full bloom, and I was transfixed at how beautiful she was.
“How did you know that?”
“Word gets around,” she said.
“Well, I wouldn’t mind some company. It’s a long ride.”
She gave me a smile that even I could not mistake, and placed her tiny white hand in mine. The trip back was shaping up to be pretty interesting.
She tugged on my hand, so I rose and walked across the room to the bed. I sat down and lifted her up by the waist so she could sit beside me.
“Thank you,” she said prettily, and leaned against my arm. She was soft and very warm. “And by the way, I have a few friends. If you don’t mind.”
&nbs
p; Carol Holland March writes about the intersection of dreams, reality, and time, and sets her speculative fiction stories in places where the veil is thinnest. Her stories have appeared in online and print publications, most recently in Wilde Magazine, Dark Visions, Volume 2, and Penumbra. A collection of short stories, The Way Home, is available on Amazon. She blogs at CarolHollandMarch.com and can be followed on twitter @CarolHMarch.
INTERREGNUM
By John J. Brady
The word was an icicle in some primordial part of my mind. I pushed open the door and swallowed my disgust at the Scribe’s bitter smell, a mingled odour of vomit and camphor.
It sat behind a desk, holding a quill in the pincered claw of one of its four upper limbs. Its bulbous black head turned towards me and the light of the gas lamp shone back a hundredfold from its compound eyes. Otherwise its face was featureless: no mouth, no nose.
I swallowed and stepped inside. “I need to send a message.”
My own thoughts were peeled apart, made open for the creature to gaze at. It knew me now. My stomach churned but I had to stay; I had to do this while there was still time. “Petrograd.”
The quill was poised over an open book. It turned the pages—all blank—until it settled on one, no different from the others. The creature remained hunched over its desk, thank the Lady, its head hanging forward, partly obscuring a body covered in thick bristles.
I took a deep breath and gave her name.
I closed my eyes, unable to look at the creature anymore, and recited the message I had rehearsed. “Dearest Natasha…”
It wrote, each letter existing for a moment before fading away, leaving a virginal page behind.
“We are undone. Pyotr has…” I choked, consumed by the thought of it, “has been taken to the Lubyanka. Meet me at The White Rose on the fourth, when we will leave for London. With all my love, Nikolay.”
It finished writing.
“Is it done?” I asked.
I sighed in relief; I could start my journey.
“Yes, yes of course.” I fumbled through my pockets and found a handful of rubles.
It shook its head and pointed towards a blank sheet of paper on the desk.
I couldn’t give my name. The money I saved would help me escape, but still, nobody could know I had been here. I took the quill and wrote, “Ivan Ivanov, Lubyanka Square.” The torturer. I smiled at my little joke as I hid the sheet amongst a pile of others; the creature would be none the wiser.
“Is that it?” I asked.
I started to turn, but not in time. The Scribe sat back, allowing me to see its abdomen clearly. The face! Embedded in its body, contorted in a rictus of terror, it looked so human yet it surely could not be. I locked my gaze with its blue eyes; its expression changed, a flicker of recognition, perhaps. It mouthed something silently and I lost my nerve.
I fled from the room, the Scribe’s laughter burning in my mind, and ran past the waiting line of people until my thoughts were all my own again.
I burst out into the cloister and bent over, retching. There was nothing to come; my stomach was already empty from the morning, when I had heard the news about Pyotr. I wiped my mouth with a handkerchief and looked around.
The open garden space was octagonal, an archway leading to a terrace on each side. A monk—dressed in a black robe with white hood—stood watching beside a tall shrub, a wooden block in his hand. His eyes—the silver of the chosen—were surrounded by an odd yellow tinge, much as I had seen before in inveterate vodka drinkers.
I nodded. “Brother.”
He stared and I turned away, blushing. I put my handkerchief away and left.
At the monastery’s door I passed the warden, standing poised with his staff. Motorised carriages chugged along the street across the plaza, belching smoke while horses trod warily between them.
I looked back at the monastery. Its octagonal towers reached into the sky, capped by onion domes glinting green and red in the April sunshine. It was the first time I had been in one—or any church building for that matter—since I was a boy, and hopefully would be the last.
I pulled my hat on, then buried my hands in my pockets as I hurried down the steps and across the plaza. Two more days and we would be safe, on a ship bound for freedom and a new life.
I reached the bustling street. Two men—thick black coats, hard faces, hands flexed in anticipation—approached. Damn! I turned right and kept my head down, hoping I was wrong. Rushed footsteps clattered behind me. I started to run just as they grabbed my arms.
“What are you—”
Something struck the back of my head.
¤
I retched from the force of another punch, and still nothing came. Ivanov stepped back and laughed. His bare arms glowed red in the light of the brazier. He wiped his hands on a cloth; I stared at its whiteness, hoping—praying—it meant he was done.
“I’ve told you everything I know,” I croaked through bleeding lips.
“Indeed you have; your friends are secure and your activities catalogued. But now I’m telling you something, just to make sure you scum realise your time has passed.”
He donned thick gloves and pulled a glowing iron rod out of the brazier.
“No,” I moaned. I pulled uselessly at the chains suspending me from the ceiling, but it only served to flay my wrists more. I groaned, knowing that pain was nothing compared to what was going to happen next.
“You can play at revolution,” he said, “with your privileged friends, in your cafes, in your baths.”
He held the rod in front of my eyes. I closed them tight and prayed. Dear Lady Laryssa, please. I will not forsake you again.
“But we, the people,” he continued, “are the masters now.”
He ran it up the inside of my thigh and I screamed like I never had before, as if my cries could make the agony stop. I imagined my skin blackening and the smell made me retch again. The room swam before me and went black.
My face was wet. My tongue snaked out, tasting a tiny drop of blessed water. I still hung from the ceiling but another man stood beside Ivanov, an empty bucket in his hand.
“Good, you’re back,” Ivanov said. He held the rod aloft again. “Ready for another?”
I closed my eyes and shook my head. Please, not again. Just finish me.
“There is an alternative.”
I dared to open my eyelids. Was he toying with me?
The other man disappeared behind me. “You could help the revolution,” Ivanov said. “Rather than failing to hinder its progress, you could be of some use. That is preferable to your death, yes?”
“What do you mean?”
“Did you ever wonder about the Scribes?” he said.
Scribes? It must be a trick.
“Eight of them, arriving in the eight monasteries the night after the Revolution. A year later and we know little of them—where they come from, what they are, even what they eat.”
I nodded.
“They write and transmit their messages to humans,” he continued. “But why? What do they get from it? Here…”
He held a cup to my lips. It was the sweetest water I had ever drunk.
“What… why are you telling me?”
“Congress believes that the Scribes are inherently counter-revolutionary. We must investigate them, and, if necessary, eliminate them. This, my bourgeois friend, is where you come in.”
He hefted the rod again, as if to emphasise this was in my best interests. “They would know if a true revolutionary approached them looking for information, so we need an outsider. You will go to the monastery in Arkazeny and seek sanctuary. Find out what their Scribe is, and report to your contact.”
I remembered the way
the Scribe had gazed at my own mind. “It will know my motives.”
“Perhaps. But your main motivation will be the preservation of your life. Believe me, if you are not in that monastery within two days, you will be killed. If you leave without the information I seek, you will be killed.”
“You don’t need me. You could march in with your army and capture them.”
“I could. But sometimes one needs subtlety and sometimes…” He ran the rod up my leg again, this time to my balls. I screamed until I was hoarse. It cannot get any worse, I told myself. It cannot.
“I’ll do it,” I said through the tears. “I’ll do it.”
“There is just one other thing,” he said. “The monks may also doubt your intentions and they only have their eyes to rely on.”
He nodded to the man behind me and the chains were released. I slumped to the floor, barely getting my hands down to support me. Thank you, Lady. Finally.
They pulled me to a chair. The other man took my left wrist—the agony—and pulled my arm across the table.
“What did you do during the Great War, Nikolay?” Ivanov asked.
I looked into his eyes and saw nothing but malevolence. It was not over, whatever answer I gave. I said nothing.
“I was a surgeon,” he said. “I saved many, but sometimes at great cost.” He held a saw to my face. Flecks of red dotted its rusted teeth. “The monks will not suspect you; they will really believe you are fleeing us.”