by M Dressler
The dead know all wounds. We remember everything. We know all.
And you want to kill us for it.
My name is Will, I whisper in a childish voice, and I am present.
My name is Adelaide, and I am present.
My name is Jack, and I am present.
My name is Anton, and I am present.
My name is Ola, and I am present.
My name is Longhurst, and I am present.
Pratt’s fist clenches. He raises his hand.
I dart away in fear. Knowing what comes next.
I hear his weapon burning as I break free of the steeple. He’ll aim to finish six ghosts at once, blasting and blasting away at the schoolhouse walls. Not caring if he aims at nothing, or everything.
It’s not my business to teach you, the living, that it’s all the same darkness inside you—whether you strike at the nothing you can’t see or at the something you don’t want to see.
To her body, remembering all those who have borne terrible blows, I fly.
27
The square is a ruin, the statue tumbled, boot tracks mazing across the snow, running in all directions, leading at last to the café.
I walk past the shadows of the town hiding behind Bill’s curtains, and go to Su Kwon’s door.
She opens it, and looks afraid.
I’m not what she thought.
Then her face changes. Just like that. As if she simply decided it.
“Right. Come in, quick, before anyone sees you.” She lets me in, then turns to face me. She looks at me. Closely. “They’re all over in the café, hiding. Rose. My God. One of these days you’re going to have to tell me everything about . . . who you are.”
“When there’s time, yes.”
“I’m not going to be freaked out.” She tries a little laugh. “But I am seriously impressed.”
“I’m so sorry I lied to you.”
She shakes her head, never taking her eyes from me. “Don’t say that. I haven’t been perfect myself. I’ve let us both down.”
“You haven’t.”
“I have. I went to the Berringers, exactly the way we talked about. And I told them you were a ghost and we could use you to protect the others, especially since you seemed to have moved on and with Pratt clearly more interested in you than in anything we had going. But Mary and John still wanted to make an example out of one of the kids. I came back here feeling—my skin was crawling—disgusted—there isn’t a strong enough word—ready to nail them to the wall and now not having any way to do it. But just now I got an idea. Can you come back to my desk with me?” she asks, tugging my arm in her old way.
There are hands, in this world, who hand you all the hope in the world.
“At first I was thinking I’d report their asses to the state for harboring ghosts. Then I realized all that would be doing is following orders I don’t agree with. Because you know and I know who it is who’ll really end up being blasted and punished, and who won’t. So I put my problem-solver’s hat on, wanting to figure out my own punishment for them. Nothing came to me. Then, outside, I see people screaming and ghosts flying—then the ghosts disappear. Then more screaming and a black coat flying and the Prospector tossed off its base like it was a paperweight—great, fine by me, I’ve always hated all that Conquering the West bullshit—and then the black coat disappears. And I thought, ‘That’s always what ghosts are having to do, what we want them to do, just go away.’ They want you to disappear. Then I knew what I wanted to do. I want to turn the tables.”
She sits in front of the great gleaming slate on her desk, and taps it quick and hard.
“I told you my father runs a tech firm, right? And how he expected me to be his partner, was grooming me, all that.”
I trust everything she says, I think, even if I don’t understand it.
“Well, I wasn’t being perfectly honest. My father owns a very large internet security firm. My father was one of the best hackers on the planet back in the day. Probably still is, though he keeps a low profile now. Luckily, he taught me everything about his business. If you’re not familiar with what I’m getting at, here’s the gist: to know the ways you need to protect who a person is, you need to know all the ways someone might steal who they are or make them disappear. I’ve been busy at that for the last two hours. Now all I have to do is hit a few keys, and everyone in this town, every name I have listed here, every single one of them, I’m going to turn them into ghosts.”
I don’t follow.
“Not like you, of course,” she goes on, her voice hard, sharp. “It’s not so much of an action, in some ways. Except that in this world, it basically is. If I wipe every trace of a person’s existence, right here”—she points—“every account, social security number, licenses, birth certificate, titles, records, property—bam, they have nothing, own nothing, are nothing, have no record of their being. They become nothing. They are, to all intents and purposes, dead.”
I still don’t follow, so I ask, to be sure: “They die?”
“So to speak. No trace left of who they are or what they claim to have. No way to prove who they are, or that they ever were. In the modern world we—” She stops herself. “Shit, I don’t even know what I’m saying. Are you, um, modern, Rose?”
“I died in 1915.”
“Man, I so want to know all about that one day. Okay, for now, let’s just say, if you don’t have names and numbers here and here and here and here”—she points again—“you’re technically gone.”
“And then . . . what if you really died?”
“It would be hard even generating a death certificate. Your family would have a hard time inheriting anything from you. But, of course, we’re not—Rose, you don’t mean that you—”
A shadow crosses her face. A pang of fear, looking at me.
Pain. Pain is all the same, no matter who feels it.
But what pain, I want to know, is owed those who were ready to destroy a meek child to keep others bowed down, meek and afraid? Ghosts who were only fighting not to disappear?
“Would you like to meet them?” I say suddenly.
“Like to meet who?”
“The children.”
“What do you mean?”
“We made a plan, the others and I. Let’s see if it worked. This way.”
She follows me, uncertain, across the windswept alley to her workshop and what I hope to find there. Inside the cold barn, no one. Only her covered motorsled in the corner. The Ghost Door stands without a quiver. My soul falters, now.
“Hello? Are you here?” I call into the nothing.
A fearful quiet.
Then, from under the tarpaulin, they appear.
Addy is holding Will’s hand.
Jack keeps his bruised head close to slender Anton.
Ola stands a little apart from them, in her patterned dress.
And Longhurst. He’s hovering tall over them, still keeping them close.
Su stands beside me, breathless, amazed.
“These are friends,” I say.
“Uh. Hello. Hi.” She nods. She’s confused, doesn’t know what to do. “I’m glad you’re here. I’m glad to know you. I think I need to thank you. You—you didn’t come after me, when you chased everyone else out of their houses. Why is that?”
“We know who you are,” Ola says. “We’ve been watching you.”
“I don’t know if that makes me feel any better, but thank you.”
Longhurst ignores her and looks at me. “The hunter?”
“At the schoolhouse. Finishing his cleaning. Or so he wants to believe.”
“Are we going back there?” Anton asks, shrinking.
“Never!” Ola say firmly.
I agree, and say so.
“But where do we go?” Willie whimpers.
Ola bends down to him, taking him by his ragged little waist. “We have to be brave, Will.”
Addy shakes her head. “But we’re not brave, Ola.”
“We ar
e. You saw what we did to them out there!”
“Yes, but what we did was very bad,” Anton frets.
“We’ve been bad again. Like when we burned,” Jack says.
I don’t understand them and their words. “What are you saying?” I ask Anton. “How were you bad? They will try to make you feel cursed, but you mustn’t believe it.”
“Mr. Longhurst, he asked us to hold on, and we didn’t. That was bad. We brought all this down on ourselves.”
Longhurst. Of course. I turn on him. “You—”
Before I can say more, he kneels to the floor, to the boy, surprising us both. “Beloved Anton, no! What are you saying? I never said any such terrible thing to you.”
“You said we had to be strong and hold fast.”
“Yes, I did, but this is something else now, children. If we let go of this place—”
“We didn’t hold on before,” Anton insists. “We know. We went wrong.”
“No, never—”
“That’s why you said, hold fast here. Hold fast and be good. Stay in the schoolhouse. Hold on, you said. Stay.”
“Children, yes, no, it’s not the same, I never—”
Willie begins crying. “I want to go back. I’ll be much better. I promise.”
“So will I,” Addy says.
“So will I,” bruised Jack says.
“No!”
Ola shouts them down so powerfully the harp of the Ghost Door quakes.
Her voice burns with rage. “It’s too late now to hold on! Stop it! All of you!”
“Rose, look,” Su whispers.
The Ghost Door’s metal is turning red.
Longhurst doesn’t see. His eyes are fixed only on the children. He begs,
“No, no, you don’t understand, pupils! You were never wrong. You must believe that. You must trust yourselves and that you are brave, now, just as brave as Ola says.”
Ola wheels on him accusingly. “How? They don’t know how to be brave. You never taught us to see how we were.”
She’s strong. She doesn’t need my help. I don’t move.
“Then I’ll teach you,” Longhurst says, desperately. “Remember the penny. All of you? Remember?” He tries to gather them to him. “The water? There are different ways to see—what lies under—”
The Ghost Door glows, whispers and hums. A wind escapes it.
Understanding, I say quickly to Longhurst, “The door is calling for you. This is how I came to you, into the past. You must answer to it. By walking through this opening.”
“What the—?” Su blinks. “How?”
Ah, if only I knew how all the pieces of the world fit together, I’d draw a map and hang it in every square. But there’s no time.
“The door is calling,” I say again. “You’re meant to go back. I know this.”
Uncertain, he turns to the children, kneeling down beside all of them.
“Shall we all go through this door, as Miss Finnis says, to the past?”
Anton shakes his head. “Why?”
“So we can see how it was, in truth.”
“I’m too afraid,” Willie says.
“I am, too.” Longhurst says. “But we must stop being afraid of ourselves, children. We lost each other, once, twice. Now we’ve found each other again. And now we must face together what we must. This is the way. I believe this. Miss Finnis has already walked there. Will you”—he turns to me—“show us how, now?”
They move toward me in a ghostly circle. All but Ola, who hangs back.
She doesn’t need the past. I see it in her face. She wants only the now.
“I think I should leave this form”—I stroke these cold arms—“and travel with you all. But I’ll need a spirit to keep this body safe until I return. Ola, will you help me?”
Her eyes are their own answer.
“How?”
“Close your eyes and imagine I’m a safe harbor.” As I did, the first time, daring to believe I had the right. “Can you swim toward me?
As we did in the mirror, we stroke and touch.
A fine, strong girl sobs, looking down at skin, at herself.
“My God,” Su says as I step away. She looks not at Ola but at me, seeing me for the first time—my white skirt, my ribboned hair, my face, only nineteen years old when I died.
I ask her, my spirit asks, “Su, will you stay with Ola?”
“Yes. Whatever you say.”
Anton has crept closer to the metal door, lifting his eyes to it, not so frightened as he was before. The world can seem full of possibility, once it’s shown to be that way.
Jack comes to stand beside him, full of wonder. “It’s from our meadow, Anton. I can feel it. Are we really going in there?”
“We are,” the older boy says firmly.
Longhurst hesitates. Ola is stroking her cold hands, amazed. I see a flash of longing, of envy blaze through Longhurst’s spirit, then quickly die out.
“Come on,” Anton says. “This way.”
28
The timbered door of the log-framed schoolhouse is locked, bolted from inside. I’m standing in the middle of a schoolroom I stood in once before. But it’s dark now, lit by lanterns. In the yellow light, I look down and see flowered sleeves on my arms.
I don’t understand, then do. I’m to take her place, on this journey through time.
I’m Ola.
My arms are busy helping to pile blankets in a corner, then wood beside the stove. My braids lie thick against my chest and the neck of my dress feels tight. The young ones are busy cutting cornbread in tins on the woodstove; Jack is peeking into a covered kettle of beans. The air smells of fat and smoke. The two lanterns swing from the rafters. The belly of the stove glows. Outside, a glinting beam comes through the jar-filled window. A rattling wind shrieks. I hear shouting. Women’s voices, crying out.
“Do you think you have enough, Mr. Longhurst? Is it enough?”
“We should be all right until the fever passes!” Longhurst cries in answer through the jars. “Take shelter from the storm now, please!”
“Êtes vous sûr?” a high voice calls through the wind. “Are you certain this is the best thing?”
“Until the fever passes, madame, it must be!”
“Keep them safe!”
“I will. I promise you. You must go now, and heed what I told you. The Huellet family’s medicines are poison. You’ve been sold a lie. Keep away from it. Go home, now, mothers of White Bar. See to your dead.”
Their sobs and cries fade away. Now there is nothing but the wind picking at the mud between the logs.
“Is my father dead?” Anton asks.
Longhurst puts his hand on his shoulder.
“He isn’t well, son. I can’t lie to you.” The schoolmaster’s face falls, drawn. His whiskers are damp.
“My maman isn’t sick yet,” Will whispers. “Will she come back to get me soon?”
“Not for a while, Willie,” Addy murmurs, nodding sleepily. “We can’t leave yet.”
“But she will come back,” Longhurst says. “They all will. Until then, children, come, let us sit near the fire. All will be well.” He shivers. “The pass, they say, is blocked. We’d be stuck together till the spring, anyway!” He tries a laugh.
Jack mumbles, “I want to go home to Missouri.”
“Jack, you must try to understand what’s happening now. You have been entrusted to my protection. We must stay in the schoolhouse till the storm passes and the contagion lifts.”
“Why can’t the doctors make everyone better?” Willie frets.
“Sometimes a peddler isn’t what he appears to be. His bottle doesn’t keep the promises stamped on its face.” Longhurst turns away from the blue glass of the window and reaches for Addy’s pale wrist. “Addy, when were you last dosed?”
“This morning.” She blinks, dully.
A creaking sound pierces the wind. Jack jumps.
“What’s that?”
“It’s just the trees at the edge of
the meadow,” I say. Ola says. As she must have then.
“But they never sounded like that before.”
I say, “We’ve never been here at sundown before.”
“Night is falling, children. This is all a new . . . adventure.” Longhurst smiles, sweating.
“I want my mama!” Willie cries.
“Don’t care if my pa comes or not,” Jack says.
“You all had your suppers before you came here, yes? And your clothes are warm enough?” He tugs at Will’s high collar, and seems comforted. “We won’t have lessons so late in the day. We’ll busy ourselves with rounds and carols until it’s time to make our pallets and go to sleep. First, some instruction: there’s water over there in the bucket to ladle if you’re thirsty. And another bucket behind the hung blanket, there, for any private necessaries. I’ll keep the stove stoked, and each of you will help until you’ve gone to bed. I will see to the fire during the night. In the morning, we’ll have a meal and our usual lessons and recitations, and will continue our study of—”
“Do we ring the bell in the morning?” Jack asks.
“Yes, I’ve told all your pare—” Longhurst stops himself. “I have told those remaining in town that we will pull the bell rope in the morning to let them know we’re still safe.”
One of the jars inside the window begins to shake, like a loosened tooth.
“Will they hear us through the wind?”
“Yes, Jack. Well, isn’t it a fine night for a blizzard!” Longhurst straightens in a cheerful way. “Now, everyone—to our carols. Before we sing, let me check each of you to see if you are not too . . . nervous.”
He moves around the room, feeling each of our foreheads with his palm. When he comes to me, a strained look passes over his face. As if his eyes are longing to speak across centuries, but can’t, trapped. His hand feels smooth and sticky.
He turns, squaring his shoulders in his thin coat.
“All right. What shall we sing? Of Clementine and her herring-tin shoes? Or ‘I Dreamt I Dwelt in Marble Halls, and You Loved Me Just the Same’? ‘The Days of ’49’? How about ‘Long, Long Ago’? Addy, that’s your favorite, isn’t it? I think it must be ‘Long Ago,’ you sing it so well, dear Addy, and it will help you to keep awake.” He feels her drugged forehead again. “Will you sing it for us, to help us warm up, and cheer us on this cold night?”