G is for Ghosts

by Rhonda Parrish

  Her compassion, though, rang as profoundly as the bell. She truly channeled the stark majesty of the heavens.

  One of the ghosts emitted a different moan, one of relief. Rafia and I promptly retreated down the hallway. The ghosts would become more coherent now as they recognized a cleric in their midst, and would share privy details not for our ears.

  “She’s good,” Rafia murmured. “Young as she looks, her connection to the stars is sure and strong.”

  “She’s probably been through more than we can guess.” Only after I spoke did I realize how closely I echoed Roget.

  Rafia released a deep sigh. “A mercy it’ll be, for the ghosts to be quieter from here-on. We’ve scarcely slept the past few days.”

  “Were there no clerics at the port to intercept spirits?”

  “Not that I saw. I imagine the higher-ups have clerics marshalled to help heal the living, not the dead. I tell you, I’m glad to have my freight and be headed homeward for at least a few weeks.”

  I caught the indistinct soft murmur of Miran’s voice. “Cleric Miran hasn’t even been here a week. These are her first ghosts from the front.”

  “She’ll have a mess more soon,” said Rafia.

  “I wish you were wrong.”

  “I wish I were wrong, too. But I won’t be.” Rafia offered me a sad, lopsided grin. “I’m not Admiral Empress Extraordinaire for nothin.’”

  Three days later, my storekeep on watch sighted the Fortitude on approach. They were not due for return for another two weeks.

  I heaved for breath as I forced myself up the steps faster than my creaking knees would typically allow. Miran almost clobbered me as she burst open a stairwell door.

  “If the Fortitude is back—” she began.

  “Just climb,” I gasped, unwilling to comment until I had seen it myself.

  A wind gust welcomed us to the top of the mooring mast. The day was oddly bright and blue, scattered clouds beneath us casting shadows upon the blurry green continent below. The Fortitude remained a mere speck to the eye. I went straight to the spyglass affixed to the rail.

  The magnification didn’t lie. The colors of the airship were muted, translucent, the sails half gone, dark craters visible in the hull.

  “Oh, Roget,” I mouthed against the wind, as tears blew from my eyes. Clatter behind us caused me to turn. My two mechanics had arrived on deck. In semaphore signals, I encouraged them to prepare for docking. They responded affirmatively, sadness in their eyes. We had all lost friends this day.

  “Mechanics still moor the ship?” Miran asked, standing close so I could hear.

  “It still retains some mass, even... as it is.” Grief clenched my throat.

  “Of course. Individual ghosts retain enough mass to be touchable and move objects around. I’m... I’m to board the vessel, captain?” Miran sounded faint, her dark skin gone pale.

  “Yes.” I gave her a shrewd look. “You knew that this was a possibility, didn’t you, cleric?”

  She nodded, her gaze focused on the nearing airship. “I’ve dealt with similar... mass casualty situations, though never a mile above the ground.”

  “During your tour in the mountains?”

  “Once there, in a terrible wagon accident, but more often in my youth.” At my questioning look, she continued, “I grew up in a Tarrytown orphanage.”

  “Tarrytown!” The refugee camp had muddy rivers for streets, its layout often altered due to fires. People there collected diseases the way the higher echelons acquired jewels.

  “I’ve known many ghosts.”

  I would bet she had. Typical ghosts knew an innate drive homeward, not unlike birds in their seasonal migrations. Refugee ghosts, though—they were often agonized by indecision. Fade in the company of family, or return to their beloved, lost homeland? Their pain couldn’t be eased by any single song.

  “How... how does the ship exist like this?” she asked. “I mean, when it went down, the passengers...” Exploded, incinerated, pulverized on the ground below. Neither of us need say the horrors. “But then, ghosts are stuck in the moment right before their death,” she answered herself. “The ship and those aboard... they returned to that terrible point, together. And the ship knows its way home?”

  “Like any building lived in for a time, an airship begins to accumulate a personality, a soul, after years of use. It...” I dryly swallowed. This had been Roget’s ship since its making, and he had loved it so.

  Miran nodded, her jaw set grimly. “I will soothe the ship, too, perhaps help it remember solidity on its final flight.”

  I turned away. The Fortitude made my eyes ache as if I stared at the sun, but I wasn’t granted the mercy of blindness. “I’ll fetch my white and red robes and my bell so that—”

  “No.” Her hand snared my upper arm, grip strong enough to staunch a seeping artery. “I can do this.”

  “I believe you.” I did, fully. “But this is a mighty burden for any single person. There are almost two hundred souls aboard that ship.”

  Each of them maimed, broken, burned. I imagined what I should not, and pressed a fist to my gut to hold back nausea.

  Miran leaned closer. “How long have you known Captain Roget?”

  “Since I was your age.”

  “You don’t need to see him like this, captain. You don’t need to remember him as he is now.”

  “I’m your superior, and I’m qualified to—”

  “I believe you, captain.” She volleyed my words back at me, sympathy in her eyes. “Ghosts are most attracted to home, but amid their pain, they also crave what is familiar. If you go on board, Captain Roget will be drawn to you. Actually, you shouldn’t even remain on this deck. He might try to greet you, as is customary.”

  I couldn’t repress my shudder, but neither could I back down. “I cannot in good conscience let you board this ship alone.”

  “With all respect, Captain Claybourne, this is about more than your conscience.”

  Stars save us, but she was right. The Fortitude loomed close enough that we could now hear the tormented screams and cries above the roar of spectral engines. If I faced Roget, I would not be able to grant him peace. My agony would only exacerbate his. And even if this were a ship full of strangers, I could not channel celestial grace as could Miran.

  “You’re right. I... I would be of little help. Indeed, my grief and pride would only add to your burden.” That admission had to be one of the most difficult in my life.

  I thought back on how Roget had chided me. I needed to respect Miran and let her do her job. Well then—what job was best suited for me at the moment? What would Roget advise me to do?

  ‘Stop being a stuffy old gray-haired mollywoddle,’ is what he’d say. Very well. I could manage that.

  “Tell me, how can I best support you, Cleric Miran?”

  She considered me with surprise. “Assure me I won’t fall through the deck, for one.” Her smile was thin. “And... perhaps have a hearty meal with a stiff drink ready when I’m done?”

  “That’s enough?” I asked.

  “That’ll mean everything, at that point.”

  “The deck will feel spongy underfoot, but it’ll hold you. Try not to look down. The meal will be ready as soon as you are.” This, I could do.

  Miran nodded, her attention upon the battered airship as it drew alongside. My mechanics began mooring procedures; their ghostly counterparts did the same on their end. Even in death, training held true.

  I retreated to the top of the stairs to grant the ship one final look.

  “You were right about her,” I whispered to Roget, as if the wind would carry my words to whatever remained of him. With that, I took the spiral staircase downward and away.

  That night, cooking duties should have belonged to one of my mechanics per our chore rotation, but he had no qualms in switching days with me. Indeed, all of us were unsettled and grieving that night. The other staff ate as Miran conti
nued her labors.

  As the mechanics ascended to await the ship’s departure, I set aside her food and then took the stairs into the island’s basement, to the carved-out burrow of the chapel. The quartz-flecked dark granite resembled the stars where our souls would one day drift. The cool cave usually filled me with a sense of peace. Today, I felt hollow and old, my aches extending far deeper than my joints.

  Miran found me there, sitting in near-blackness upon the rug.

  She sat to my right, legs folded. I heard the slight hitch and sob to her breath, and I kept my gaze forward.

  “It’s done,” she finally said. “The ship is heading home.”

  “I’ll heat your food fresh whenever you wish.”

  “Thanks. I’d... I’d like to stay here a while more.” Silence lingered for several minutes. When she spoke again, it was at a whisper. “When I was young, I found it contrary that so many chapels are deep underground but replicate the night sky. Why not just worship beneath the stars? I struggled to understand that celestial grace is supposed to be with us everywhere, and grottoes are symbolic of that. Sometimes, though... I feel like a child again. Confused. Uncertain of where to find grace. If it can be found.”

  Her doubt and pain mirrored my own. “When I was younger, I thought grace—a deep sense of peace—was a permanent thing once it was found. Like it was a trinket to own.” I snorted, laughing at myself. “It’s more like a lake, sometimes near dry, other times at a flood, more often somewhere in the middle.”

  “I like that imagery,” she said softly. “Maybe I should have accepted your help, captain. I expected it to be hard, but that... there were just so many...”

  “No one can ever be truly ready for a ship like that, Miran. No one. No matter how old, how experienced.”

  “I know, but...”

  “The soldiers and crew who wanted benediction, you granted it, yes? You assured them that they were on the way home, and would know the peace of the stars soon?”

  “Yes, of course!” Indignation rang in her tone, which relieved me. She still had fight in her.

  “Then you did everything you should do. That you can do. Now it’s my turn.” I pushed myself up to stand. My right knee released a loud creak. “Come. I promised you food and a stiff drink. That’ll make you feel a little better, cleric.”

  “Maybe,” she said softly.

  As we headed upstairs, I was tempted to argue with her on that point, but I did not. Her glum mood was understandable—natural, considering the day. Nor did she sound low enough to make me concerned for her life, though I would remain vigilant for the signs that I had sadly come to know too well, too late.

  Miran stopped at the door to the mess. “Mind if I go to my berth first? These robes, I need to...”

  “However long you need,” I said. “I’ll ready our meals.”

  She paused. “You didn’t eat yet.”

  “I couldn’t.”

  She accepted that with a nod, and went on.

  The men had left the place sparkling, stars bless them. I tucked biscuits in the still-warm oven and started the stew at a simmer. I’d just poured whisky—the bottle from Roget, as appropriate—into the second glass when Miran returned, attired in a civilian shirtwaist and trousers.

  In her hands, she cupped the potted poppy plant. More golden blooms had opened, each like a cheery little sun.

  She looked at me then averted her gaze again, shy. “I thought it’d be nice to have something pretty to look at as we eat. Is that all right, captain?”

  I could have wept then. For Roget, for his crew, for the sorrows to come. For my own past foolishness. For my sheer appreciation of the flowers I had scoffed at only days before.

  “More than all right, Miran.” I pulled out a chair for her.

  We sat, the poppies centered on the table between us. We ate and drank, with no need for words. For all of the awfulness of the day, the flowers did indeed bring some cheery brightness to the room.

  H is for Home

  Xan van Rooyen

  If Seth were being honest, free coffee and biscuits were the only reason he attended Psychopomps Anonymous.

  That, and because the Council insisted. Ever since Seth had turned thirty, officially becoming the oldest living deathwalker in recorded history—a geriatric some even said, but never to his face—the Council had become increasingly concerned about his state of mind.

  Deathwalkers weren’t supposed to enjoy their duty to the dead. They certainly weren’t supposed to get off on the memories of atrocities committed by the arseholes they’d carried. Not that Seth advertised the latter much. Only a select few knew about his unusual tastes.

  Now pushing thirty-three, Seth was still in the game and currently responsible for a territory which included an area near the docks, home to rival gangs. Deaths by 9mm were becoming passe.

  Despite his advanced age, Seth still followed the recently deceased into the Otherworld; still guided their souls across the river to the afterlife—however they imagined it. Or, more frequently in his district, he watched souls drown in the blood-churned waters of judgment.

  “You know how it is,” Keigo said; a skinny sixteen-year-old who favored thick eyeliner and torn clothes. They were one of the more recent recruits.

  “Yup, we know,” Seth said, popping a crick in his neck. He’d heard it all before: the pain and heartache, the misery and fatigue, the anger and bitterness seeping out of the ghosts beneath their skins to infect their own, still beating hearts.

  “You see the best and worst of them,” Keigo continued. “And some of them hold so much darkness. Those memories, they’re like shards of glass, of mirror—” Keigo fancied themselves a poet. “They cut deep while reflecting, all that... you know—stuff.”

  The kid’s imagery could use some work, but his words still hit their mark.

  Seth squirmed, his left thumb tracing the haphazard scars on his right wrist. Unwelcome reminders of another life. He much preferred living in the memories of others, in those shards sloughed off the deceased carried in the Otherworld. Somehow, those shards ended up embedded in the deathwalker’s mind, like pocket lint made of soul stuff. The more heinous the memories, the better—at least for Seth. It made it easier for him to bury his own that way, quashing them beneath the remnants of the dead cluttering up his insides.

  “Oh, we totally get it. You’re not alone,” Delilah said, weeping into a handkerchief. She was eighteen going on eighty, ‘eschewed technology,’ and only read paperback memoirs. As if the clamor inside her skull wasn’t enough? Seth didn’t mind the revenant choir between his ears, he only wished it came with volume control.

  “Yeah, we’re all dead inside,” Seth added, earning reproachful stares and withering glances from those gathered.

  “We all deal with the cost of our duties in our own way,” Daniel said, ever the diplomat. The man had beautiful thighs and even more exquisite fingers. Seth had wasted six sessions flirting with him before discovering Daniel had a kid. Seth couldn’t stand children—present company included—nor those who reproduced. They were only guaranteeing the Council a replacement for when they inevitably croaked.

  Damn witches with their choke-hold on anything magical. Seth didn’t know when or who had decided witches should form the governing body. But he knew better than to voice his opinion on the matter.

  The others continued around the circle, sharing their feelings and pretending to shed their psychological burdens. Seth sipped from his mug of coffee. Dark roasted pure Arabica, and not the cheap kind. This was organic, fair-trade stuff. At least the Council didn’t skimp on refreshments. It almost made the drivel pouring out of the surrounding snot-smeared faces bearable. Bethany’s vegan, gluten-free short-bread helped too.

  “I miss my family,” Delilah said, dabbing at her nose with an embroidered handkerchief.

  Seth cast furtive glances around the circle. Most of the assembled were the progeny of former deathwalkers who�
�d received the unfortunate inheritance of a dagger through the heart and a lifetime duty to the dead.

  “Do you miss yours?” Delilah asked, her gaze landing heavily on Seth.

  He tapped his coffee mug, wondering which lie to tell.

  “You’re an orphan, right?” Daniel said.

  “Runaway,” Bethany chimed in. “At least, that’s what I heard.” She amended when Seth scowled.

  “There was a reason I ran away,” he said. A mistake. The interest on their faces quickly turned to pity with slow nods as if they understood. Seth bit his lip. Better to let them think he had arseholes for parents, that he’d been abused, or kicked out of the house for fucking boys. He didn’t much care what they thought about him but if they knew the truth, the Council might end his deathwalking and he needed it. It was the only thing keeping from succumbing to darker urges. That and the memory of the look on his father’s face when he’d finally figured it out.

  Seth had been eight when it started. It took a couple of years for his father to realize who was responsible for the neighbours’ cats going missing or for the bruises on Seth’s little sister’s arms. It only took three therapy sessions for Seth to realize other kids didn’t dream of murdering their families.

  He remembered the look of disappointment on his parents’ faces, the fear and pity too. They’d assured him they’d get him the help he needed. For a time, Seth had believed it, but the dreams of hurting his family hadn’t stopped. They’d just transformed from dreams into plans.

  He’d tried to solve the problem with a razor-blade when he was twelve, but his dad had caught him before he could finish the job. “Stop,” he’d said, emphatic, commanding. “This isn’t the way,” he’d said, and Seth had wanted so desperately to believe him, but the blade was in his hand and the need to use it overwhelming, if not on himself then—

  “Put it down, Seth,” his father had said, whipping the weapon out of little fingers. And so Seth’s father hadn’t died that day. But Seth had, just a little; not nearly enough.