by Ari Berk
No. No. The children do not come here. They are in other places, other shadowlands. Always on the margins, never able to find their own way home. Never able to find their way here where loving arms await them.
There is yet more to see here, if you would like. Ask them what you will. Yes. Use the death watch and tell me what you see. I suspect you and I may not see this place in quite the same way….
Most of the dark-winged herons, their underbellies glowing white, were perched on the edges of their nests. Others flew in widening circles over the marsh, and made their short throaty calls that fell echoing, searching, among the reeds.
Silas brought out the death watch and stopped its hand.
He could still hear their cries, but the sound had become longer, stretched into wails, long questions drawn across the air with a knife. And where once the birds and their nests stood in his sight, now great platforms of interwoven branches spread across the upper limbs of the trees, and, pulled through the branches, stitching them together, were bits of rotten fabric, children’s blankets long ago grown threadbare, torn by the winds. On the platforms women sat in high-backed chairs, their faces thin and drawn, the tattered crepe of their mourning gowns hanging down from the trees like Spanish moss. Before each of them was a cradle, empty and hollow, lying on its side.
Silas opened his mouth to say something, but several of the women began to wail and cry above him. Another, who had been walking in circles around and around the base of her tree, altered her are and walked close to Silas and reached out her arm in a pleading angle. Unable to look on her face, racked as it was with the pain of loss, Silas closed his eyes. Then, against his skin, he felt the brush of a wing, and in that instant whatever he might have said or asked flew from his mind.
Evening was approaching. Silas stood gaping, trying to speak, trying to recall his question. There was something he wanted to ask, but he couldn’t remember what it was, and after a few more minutes at the edge of the marshes, under those ancient, empty bowers, among the weeping mothers of the lost, he couldn’t remember why he’d even come here. His eyes welled up with tears, became red and salted as though the marsh water had been drawn up into his body and mixed with his blood.
A voice that seemed familiar said, “Why do you stare so among the shadows of the lost? Come away, Silas Umber, let us linger here no longer….”
Someone stood next to him, speaking, but he could neither remember who she was nor turn to look at her. He could hear her singing softly then, something, a little childish rhyme, and he could just make out the words that floated up to join the spilling moon rising over the salt marshes….
Once I saw a little bird
Come hop, hop, hop;
So I cried, “Little bird,
Will you stop, stop, stop?”
And was going to the window
To say, “How do you do?”
But he shook his little tail,
And far away he flew.
The song had ended, or was about to begin again, and flocks of night herons took up their accustomed cries. Silas couldn’t listen anymore, couldn’t remember why he’d come, and he felt, suddenly and very strongly, that he must leave this place. He turned away from the marsh, away from the lady who’d brought him, and without another word, as though she wasn’t there, he walked home, his heart even emptier than before.
Mrs. Bowe had placed a candle in the window.
It was that kind of night. Wandering folk moving, everyone agitated and nervous, both the living and the dead. “Holy Mother, see them home. All to their hearth sides this night, and every night, and all. Bring him home,” she prayed at the window.
Silas was out on some business. She used to leave a candle in the window some nights for his father. A little light to lead you home, she’d say. And except for once, it had always worked.
But now she could hear someone walking along the sidewalk. Someone with wet shoes. Oh, she thought, oh! If he’s gone to the millpond again! She considered herself a peaceful woman, but she would give Silas more than a piece of her mind if he had gone to that place.
She threw open the doors, ready to give him harsh words, but when she saw his face, with all the color gone out of it and his breathing so labored, she gathered him up into her arms as she had done before and brought him inside and over to the large wingback chair by the fireplace.
As she put more wood on the fire, she said, “This is becoming a habit,” and she stooped to pull the wet boots off his feet as he lay his head back. “At least your father’s good boots are not going to waste,” she told him with a smile as she tried to make light of it.
Mrs. Bowe lifted the boots to put them by the fire to dry. She knew from the look of them that he’d been to the marshes; she could feel the drag and suck of the mud on them, the pull of deep places, and the tearlike droplets that still clung to them. The brackish water glistened in the firelight.
“The marshes are the loveliest place, I think, by daylight. I used to walk there very often when I was young. I would take the longest walks along the marsh edge, sometimes even wandering a little ways into the interior, though it was always so boggy. Still, it was a very fine place for bird-watching.”
Silas looked up at her.
“They are still with you, you know. A part of them, all about you, pulling the sadness up out of your bones. I can feel it coming off you now, like water from those boots. That’s how it is with the dead sometimes, Silas. Your losses, their losses, become the same … this is the real danger of the road you’re now traveling down.”
Mrs. Bowe put her hand on his chest and felt the pendant that she knew his father had given him. “Silas, you must be of two minds. Look things straight on, but keep your own wits about you. If you look at the dead for too long, you become like them. Do you understand me? Keep one eye on them, and one on the road home. Always.”
But even as she spoke, he drifted off to sleep.
I might as well have been married, she thought, for all the men who come home late to me expecting to be put to bed and then fed breakfast.
She went to the window and pinched out the candle.
LEDGER
Death be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadfull, for, thou art not so,
For, those, whom thou think’st, thou dost overthrow,
Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill me….
—John Donne, “Death Be Not Proud”
THOUGH DONNE SPOKE OF DEATH’S BEING THWARTED BY THAT HEAVENLY ETERNITY OF THE SOUL PRAYED FOR BY SOME, YET HIS WORDS COME CLOSE TO THE MARK IN MATTERS PERHAPS RELATED TO THE UNDERTAKING. FOR THE RESTLESS DO NOT DIE, IT SEEMS, BUT EVADE DEATH BY SIMPLY CONTINUING. THE EARLIEST CASES IN LICHPORT HAVE NOT BEEN SUFFICIENTLY DOCUMENTED, SO I WILL BEGIN BY VISITING SOME OF THE HOMES ON FORT STREET FOR EVIDENCE. THIS IS, PERHAPS, BEYOND THE PALE OF MY CALLING, AND YET … AND YET, I THINK WITH SOME THE CORPSE MAY ITSELF BECOME A KIND OF LIMBO—A TOO-FAMILIAR TRAP THAT HALTS THE SOUL’S PROGRESS AND KEEPS THE SPIRIT EARTHBOUND BEYOND ONE’S ALLOTTED TIME—AND SO IF I CAN ASSIST THEM TO ACHIEVE A PEACEFUL, NATURAL PASSAGE, I MUST. THE OTHER ROAD FOR THEM, AS IS PRACTICED BEYOND THE GATES OF ARVALE, IS TERRIBLE INDEED. BUT THEY ARE A FASCINATION, I MUST ADMIT, FOR THE RESTLESS ARE PRIVY TO SUCH SIGHTS AS THE LIVING MAY NEVER KNOW….
—Notes concerning the Restless written by Amos Umber.
AND I SHALL RULE OVER MY HABITATION ON EARTH AND SHALL IN DEATH WEAR THE CROWN OF THE TWO LANDS, AND SHALL REMAIN IN WHATSOEVER FORM I CHOOSE AND SHALL FLOURISH EVEN AS I FLOURISHED IN LIFE, AND MY HOMESTEAD SHALL BE AMONG THE EVER-LIVING CEDARS. I HAVE OPENED THE WAY UP TO ETERNITY. MAY MY COFFIN BE MY OWN UNDYING FORM. LET NOT THE DOOR TO THE LAND OF THE LIVING BE SHUT TO ME THOUGH I AM DEAD.
—A spell or prayer from the ancient Egyptian Coffin Text of Aaru the Scribe, translated by Amos Umber
SILAS STOOD NEXT TO THE CORPSE, HOLDING ITS HAND.
He leaned over and put his other arm around his great-grandfather’
s body, hugging him tenderly, not minding that the embrace left small smudges of preserving pitch and honey on the front of his jacket.
“You’re as good as your word, son!” his great-grandfather said, his mouth moving slowly around the sentence.
“I like to keep my promises,” Silas replied, smiling. “Besides, I was wondering about a few things, and I thought of all the people I know in Lichport, you would be least likely to be … troubled by being asked.”
“Happy to oblige and very happy for the company. What would you like to know about the gray legions? I presume you’re not here to talk about the weather?”
Silas raised an eyebrow in surprise and appreciation at his great-grandfather’s directness.
“How many kinds of dead folks are there? I assume that like every person, every ghost is unique, right?”
Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the old man nodded, then cocked his head to one side and squinted slightly, looking closely at Silas’s face.
“So, you intend to follow in your father’s footsteps and take up the family business, eh? I can’t say I’m surprised. You have more of an Umber look about you. But let’s hope you’ve inherited some of my good sense to temper the rest.”
Silas said nothing, admitted nothing. He could not say the words. He could not admit out loud that he had made a formal decision, but he knew, and knew more certainly with each passing hour, that he had already set off down a path from which there would be no returning. Silas only inclined his head slightly in confirmation. “For the moment, let’s just call my questions academic in nature.”
“So be it, but I am not the expert your father was. He was a scholar of the first order and learned things that few if any folk now living ever did. His studies probed deep into the abyss, far into the lore of the dead. I have none of his book learning. I can only tell you what I’ve seen and what I’ve heard. Oh, yes, I can hear them, even sitting here. A person in my state hears everything. The past is a chatty companion, I can tell you. But as for ghosts, your hunch is correct: There are as many kinds of ghosts as there are people who’ve died. You really can’t count on any consistency at all. Some exist side by side with other ghosts who are like them. Lots of dead folks wandering around battlefields, for instance, or in old buildings. Some know where they are, some don’t. Some want to be there. Some don’t.”
“So can the dead choose for themselves whether or not they remain among the living? Are they bound in some way?”
The corpse’s head moved to one side and looked up slightly. “I trust you do mean to be ironic, asking me such a question?” his great-grandfather asked, beginning to make a sound that might have been laughter. “No, no,” he said. “I know you are sincere, so let me answer you in kind. It seems to me there is no absolute answer, Silas. Some of the dead are fascinated by their own condition, or enjoy what they think of as the freedom of it. An existence with no more obligations. Sometimes ghosts of that sort group together, just as in life. There are places in this town where this has been happening for a very long time, just old folks gathering, never really moving on, just enjoying one another’s company, one fine evening going on and on, only dawn never comes to break up the party.
“Other ghosts are stuck, but in a different way. Like the line of a song playing over and over in your head. They’re supposed to forget their lives, move on, but they can’t or won’t. Most of these types don’t even know they’re dead, or don’t want to face the idea of death, can’t admit to themselves it’s just plain over. Those are the ones you may be able to help. Give ’em a little push out the door. Remind them they’ve got places to be. Remind them to put down whatever is troubling them and get on with getting on.
“Others prefer to wait around because maybe they’re afraid of what’s next. Maybe they have some particular business they’re waiting to see to its end. Maybe they just like where they are, or where they were. These are usually pretty clever. They’re working the system, and they know it. This type you may find in very old places of gathering, very old houses, too. Some even get along with the living. Oh, yes. One long party for some, as I said, but in the end, I suspect, someone will have to pay the bill.
“Some of the ghosts that huddle together in groups do so because they share a common experience. Only usually this experience is something not so nice, and it’s the pain of it that holds them close to the world of the living. And, since they share common pain or trouble, they sort of stick to one another, these spirits do, get bound together somewhere in a kind of limbo. Ghosts like that can be a very big problem. Very hard to settle them because you can’t pull ’em apart. Their shared grief or fear makes them strong, sets their feet in concrete, and gives them wills of iron. What’s worse: All that pain together can pull you in, make you start forgetting who you are, where you are. It can draw up old memories that you’d rather not think about. So where the dead gather together, or are bound to a particular place for any reason, you be careful!”
Silas was hanging on every word. Everything his great-grandfather said, he knew, was an important key to who his dad was and how he lived, and who he lived with, so to speak. “What kinds of ghosts do we have here in Lichport?” he asked a little hesitantly.
“All of them. Every kind you could imagine and plenty of things you would never want to meet. This is an old town, and it’s had more than its share of awfulness. Good times too, to be sure, but, well, things have happened here that have left terrible stains on both the living and dead.” The old man reached out to where Silas sat next to him and brushed his dry fingers over the small stains on Silas’s jacket before continuing.
“Silas, this is your town now, your home, and I’m glad you’re staying, but you are walking down a dark road. From what I can tell about that vision last time you were here and from your questions, I am worried now that as much as he lived to help folks, well, your father may have come to a bad end. You’re thinking about his disappearance and how to find him, and you’re thinking about his work. Silas, I must tell you that more and more I feel these things are inseparable.”
Silas sat, his breath catching in his throat. His eyes began to burn, and he put his arm up, pressing it to his face over his eyes.
His great-grandfather took Silas’s hand and said, “From where I sit, I can’t be sure of anything, and I’m not saying he’s dead or alive. I don’t know. I’m just saying that if anyone can find Amos, it’s you, and you’ll do it through seeing the world with your father’s eyes. Your father spent his life helping folks, and that kind of work grants a person, I suspect, a lot of perspective. You might want to consider taking on a little work to fill your days. You never know, you might encounter someone or something who can point you in the direction of your dad.”
“Do you mean I should continue in my father’s work? The work he was actually doing before he disappeared? I wouldn’t know where to even begin. I’ve read some of his writings, and I’m beginning to understand something of the nature of my father’s calling, but I don’t know much about how he did it, or where exactly he left off.”
“Oh, I don’t think he ‘left off’ at any one point. His work was always ongoing. For one thing, there are so many dead. And some come and go frequently, perhaps only appearing on certain days. Others are gone for a long time and then come back for who knows why and then need to be attended to again. So there’s no lack of starting places, if that’s what you mean. But truly, if you open the door, the work will find you. The kinds of things your father saw, well, there may have been a reason they stood out to him particularly. In this, the living and dead share something in common. Every person, and every spirit, sees the world in its own individual way. Though all our paths cross many, many times, in life and death, to some degree, Silas, we each inhabit our own world. You must find the work that is trying to find you. Ask yourself: What would my father do? And where can I do the most good?”
His great-grandfather was looking at his own hand, ancient-seeming, dark but almost translucent as he
turned it over slowly in a beam of light coming through the curtains. When the light struck the sapphire in his ring, a blue flame seemed to dance on his hand. Without looking up, he added, “Perhaps you can recall a portion of the world that has already reached out to you for a little help?”
“I can’t think of anything that needs my help—”
“I mean,” said the corpse, moving its hand out of the light and into shadow, “what parts of town unsettle you? I mean, really, Silas! There are a few streets in this town I wouldn’t walk down on a bet, and I’m already dead! Where do you feel the most uncomfortable, the most scared? There may be a reason why they bother you or why whatever dwells in such a place has sought to frighten you.” His great-grandfather added wryly, “Surely, Silas, not all the streets you’ve visited in Lichport are as nice as this one.”
LEDGER
Away down deep in the Narrows, Dogge Alley winds its odd, dark way between the more optimistically named Silk Street and Pearl Lane. The abandoned cottages and little leaning houses on the Dogge are certainly very old, even by Lichport standards, and have been the location of so many unspeakable acts, that it may surprise the reader to learn that the respectable women of Lichport have made it the object of especial study.
In the last century, the women of Lichport’s Ladies’ Historical Auxiliary, whose job it was to find and exhaustively report on the merits of all the town’s “Ancientest Muniments and Most Curious of Architectural Achievements,” could not leave it off their register. Yes, even those venerable dames, who wore lace on weekdays, dared to descend the dim lanes of the Narrows to make their full and sober judgments of Lichport’s antiquities. However, those ladies, who strained to find the worth of even the smallest piece of carved molding if it was more than twenty years old, and even if it lay within a less-than-fashionable part of town; yes, even they pronounced this lane of cottages in the Narrows “intriguing but not quite quaint,” and “very noisy and somewhat nerve-racking due to an unfortunate reflective quality of the slate and cobbles resulting in startling noises that quite distract from any architectural interests.”
