by M Dressler
He sees her.
His whole body electrifies. It isn’t every day you observe a man’s conscience, as well as his hope and desire, parading in front of him. He leaps up, shoving his napkin aside, slipping on it.
Ola runs, runs as we planned, up the cleared road, toward the bridge, into the trees.
Her name is Ola Varga. Perhaps it’s the last we’ll ever see of her. She’ll be all right. Pratt’s weapon can’t be used against flesh.
He grabs his coat and lunges out of the café, limping.
“What on earth—?” Martha goes to the jangling door left open behind him.
Behind her all of the town comes, too, following her out onto the porch, into the morning, staring, as Pratt starts his car and roars his tires into the plowed lane and out of the valley.
Ola, I think, best of luck I send with you, as you fly through the world and with new hands touch and taste freedom.
As for me, I have much to look forward to now, with company to see it.
“What the hell is that?” John Berringer points to the square.
It’s the rest of my plan. They’ve discovered it. What’s been put in place of the fallen Prospector.
The Ghost Door, gleaming in the twinkling mist.
Bill whistles. “What is it?”
“How did it get there?” Martha says.
Harold frowns. “And when?”
Su’s sled tracks lead away from her gallery. There’s no other sign of movement.
“Is that thing making some kind of sound?”
“What is it? What’s it doing?”
It’s an experiment, I think.
It won’t hurt, I assured Su. Not in that way.
From the rooftops, we, I and all the ghosts of White Bar, now come down, bearing down on the townspeople, our mouths gaping with no sound, driving them forward. Stumbling from the porch, into the square, driven by all of our memories, our righteous rage, our justice, they go. One by one, corralled by us, the living cry out and are herded through the Ghost Door’s arc, and disappear. The last face I see is Martha’s, her lost eyes turning back toward me, tearfully wide, as if she’d say something, if there were anything left to say, with judgment already passed.
When it’s done, we, the ghosts of White Bar, watch from the café porch as Su Kwon sleds out again from the alley and, with her face wearing its mask and her tool that spits fire, cuts the frame on each side from its granite footing. A sculptor, she told us, is always letting go of what she’s made. She lets the metal fall away, broken, to the snow.
And now we’ll see, good people, if you can find your way back.
Epilogue
Yo, everybody! It’s Brin and Ky here! I know, I know, we haven’t posted to this blog in a long time but it’s because we’ve been having TOO MUCH FUN BEING IN LOVE and trying on the whole mate-for-life thing. It’s awesome.
But here’s the latest: WE’RE HEADED BACK TO THE PCT! Some of you remember we started on the trail last year but cut things short when the weather tanked. Now it’s spring and we’ve decided to pick up where we left off. We’re staging here again in the town called White Bar, getting our gear in order and ready to book it back up to the high range. This pretty little town is even quieter than the last time. There’s nobody here except one really cool artist who’s filled the whole place with chill wind sculptures and big, funky pieces. She’s running the hotel now and we asked her where everybody went, and she said sometimes people have to leave, in a small town the population just sort of comes and goes in waves. We also asked if we could see the museum since we didn’t get to see it last time, but she said the woman who ran it was paralyzed and in a home and her son tried to sell her stuff but couldn’t and left with the key, oh well. We asked her if she could put us back in the same room we had last year, and she did, which is great because it really makes us feel like we’re picking up right where we left off. Ky says the only thing that looks different in here is this old-timey picture they have hanging over the dresser. Ky says he has a perfect visual memory for everything including the first time he saw me (I LOVE YOU BABY) and he says he could swear there are more people in this picture than there were last time (here’s a shot of it). See in the back this blur that looks like a bunch of people with their arms up waving, like they’re trying to shout over everyone in front of them or want to be seen by the camera? Ky said it wasn’t like that before, and he asked the cool artist about it and she said no, it was exactly the same as it’s always been, it’s a famous photograph, the same one all over town. I asked if she did photography, too, since she was obviously such a good artist and she said no, photographs are like prisons, she said in some cultures people believe you can get stuck in them, frozen, and she prefers to make art that moves. But I managed to get her to take a shot of us with all our gear and HERE WE ARE!
Back on the trail in the morning. We are so stoked. You never know what’s going to happen out there. We just know it’s good to do it with SOMEONE YOU LOVE ALL CAPS.
Okay. I want to get serious now for a minute. We love all you guys and we’ll miss you. Keep us in your thoughts and hope we’ll stay safe. We’re about to start the toughest stretch. We’ll post and text when we can. If you don’t hear from us for a while, don’t worry, not right away. We’ll be out here, doing our thing. It feels good to be getting away again. Free. If we don’t make it back (pro tip: we will), just look for our spirits on the other side of the range where someone’s been saying there’s a whole trail of ghosts moving around and shaking things up. I say, SAVE THE GHOSTS. Who doesn’t want to stick around forever? (Ky says he loves me forever but please give it up.) For real, though, we love all you guys. Be good. Or not. Peace out.