VOYAGERS

by K. L. Nappier

  "A cordial? Brandy?"

  "Do spirits drink?" Aaron asked. He helped Miss Roscoe to the divan.

  "Spirits for spirits," she said, mustering a smile, and Aridite laughed loudly. "Not for me, thank you," she continued, "I don't drink."

  "But you're dead now. This won't have quite the effect on you it did your father."

  Miss Roscoe stiffened. "Still, no thanks."

  "I'm sorry," Aridite replied. "I didn't mean to upset you. I sometimes forget how voyagers struggle. Something else, then? Lemonade...tea?"

  "Oh, tea, yes, would I love some good tea."

  "Aaron, a brandy?"

  "I'd rather not dull my senses," Aaron replied.

  Aridite turned from the cabinet and looked at him as if he was a silly schoolboy. "Aaron, you're dead. You have no senses to dull. Besides, you want one fiercely."

  "Well, yes, please."

  Aridite opened the cabinet and pulled from it the brandy and the tea, both already prepared. "Would you like it warmed, Aaron?"

  "Yes," Aaron replied absently, and looked where Miss Roscoe sat to see if she were as baffled as he.

  She was. Aridite set the snifter on a brass holder and lit the little candle beneath it, then came around to hand Miss Roscoe her steaming tea. She was reluctant to touch it.

  "It's all right. You'll be able to hold onto it. Everything will seem normal to you here."

  She accepted it, and asked, "How did you do that little trick?"

  "There aren't words for it. The closest I can come to helping you understand is to say 'illusion', but that's far from accurate. That implies this is all fantasy...this apartment, the form you've retained, the form I retain. To use 'illusion' is to say it's unreal, which wouldn't be correct."

  "Yet, you have to warm the brandy while the tea's already hot," Aaron said.

  "Oh, no, I don't have to. I just think it's a nice ritual, don't you?" Aridite went back to check the brandy, blew out the candle, and brought it to Aaron. "But all this you'll catch onto later. We need to settle down and outline your goal. You must think you're anxious to come forward."

  Miss Roscoe said, "I don't think I'm anxious, I know I am. But not about this 'coming forward' nonsense. I need to help Tess. She's only 14. And Marshall..."

  Her voice faltered, and she couldn't continue. Her hands began to tremble, and as she put one to her forehead, Aaron took the tea before it might spill. He sat close, wondering how to offer comfort.

  Aridite said, "Just tell her what's on your mind, Aaron, that would be a start."

  "There's nothing on my mind," he replied, but then looked at Miss Roscoe, her pain so evident. "Except, I'm so very sorry all this happened. I understand how you must feel."

  For a moment it seemed if his words gave her solace, and Aaron had a flutter of memory; as he first saw her descending the stairs like emerald royalty. Then her eyes hardened, and Aaron could feel a sheath of ice furl about her. Her lips tilted bitterly at one corner before she turned away.

  "You have no way of understanding."

  Aaron bristled and stood up. "Fine. Fine, then."

  "Greta," the angel fussed, as he settled into a chair opposite them. "You're so defensive. Apologize to Aaron."

  "Apologize for what?" Miss Roscoe replied.

  "You know you've stung him. And you know you regretted being nasty before the last word even left your lips."

  Aaron said, "Really, Aridite, you don't need…"

  "And if I don't," Miss Roscoe snapped. "I suppose the divan tips backward and dumps me in Hell."

  Aridite laughed. "You are so imaginative."

  Miss Roscoe huffed and her mouth set. "Well..." She looked at Aaron. "I'm sorry. Dying tends to make me snappish."

  "Oh, thank you for an apology made under threat of damnation."

  "It's the only one you're getting, Mr. Shane."

  "Stop it, you two," Aridite said, and stood to stretch. "Nobody's threatening damnation except yourselves, as far as I can see. Maybe you think you need some rest more than anything right now." He pointed toward two doors to his right. "The bedrooms are there. After you sleep, you should be less tense and more willing to listen."

  "I don't think I want to rest," Aaron replied, worried Aridite was preparing to leave. "And why are you always saying that? 'I must think this', 'Miss Roscoe must think that'?"

  "I mean, Aaron, you're dead. You have no authentic physical needs or desires anymore. You're only accustomed to thinking so. The mortal world holds no more threats for you, barring the exception of ghosthood. But thinking so is perfectly natural and you'll cling to it for a time. It's something every voyager works through, and it's helpful to begin recognizing the habit for what it is as soon as possible. Now, you try to sleep a little and then we'll discuss your goal."

  Panic surged in Aaron's stomach, but it was Miss Roscoe who cried out, rising from her seat. "No. You promised to tell me how to help Tess."

  "It's all related…"

  "But there's no time."

  "All you have is time, Greta."

  "But Tess doesn't."

  Aridite softened and went to Miss Roscoe, taking her hands gently. "She's all right. True, she's been told about your death now and she's grieving, but she's safe in her room, and you have no way of helping her through that. Marshall's not in any mental shape to bother her. With all that's happened he'll not get the chance for at least a few days. His mind is occupied with the police and the reason behind your death and Aaron's."

  Aaron said, "And what is that reason? You can't leave until you tell us that. And our goal. We came here to talk about how to get to Heaven."

  "Greta can tell you why you were murdered. I'd rather she did, anyway. She'll be able to make a great story of it." Aridite walked toward the door opposite the bedrooms. "As for your goal, get some sleep and then we'll talk. I wouldn't be surprised if you figure it out on your own, bright as you are."

  "No I won't!"

  The angel's hand was on the door. "For Heaven's sake, you were murdered. Discover who did it."

  Aaron took several steps toward Aridite. "But don't you know?"

  "Yes, of course."

  "Then tell us."

  Aridite smiled. "I can't do that. It'd be like a game master solving the riddle for his players. Just try to rest, all right?"

  "Like a game master? This is no game. There are people to consider. Our immortal souls."

  Aridite lifted his hand from the doorknob, and said gently, "Hush now. Calm."

  Aaron gasped at the sensation. The word "calm" had not even left the angel's lips before the tranquil command had swaddled Aaron's chest. He looked at Aridite's hand, still uplifted in the unmistakable and ancient two-fingered gesture: Fear not.

  Aaron struggled against the sensation. "When will you be back?"

  "When you wake up."

  "But what if we need you?"

  "Just give a shout." The angel dropped his hand, but instead of turning the knob, he walked directly through the wood.

  Aaron rushed after him and flung the door open, then stepped back in shock. There was nothing: A void so black it seemed Aaron could clutch a fistful of it. Cautiously he reached in, and his hand disappeared. He pulled back, startled; the contact confused his senses. Had the void enveloped his hand or had his hand ceased to exist for that moment? He didn't want to know. He closed the door and turned to Miss Roscoe.

  For the second time in less than twelve hours Aaron was alone with her. He felt abandoned. Miss Roscoe looked as if she felt the same. He avoided her eyes and walked over to the divan to sit. His snifter was on the small serving table where he had left it, and he leaned over to take it.

  "So we're supposed to rest," he repeated with sarcasm. "And drink brandy that doesn't dull the senses in an apartment surrounded by a void."

  "Occupying bodies that exist, but on the other hand, don't really."

  Aaron chuckled at her reply, desperate to feel something besides confusion and fear, listening as her skirts rustled
along the carpets. He finally looked at her as she settled next to him.

  "Would you like your tea, again?" he asked.

  "Please."

  He handed it to her. It was still steaming. "I don't know how Aridite expects us to rest," he said.

  "I'm not at all sleepy. Do we even get tired?"

  "Who can tell? The Afterlife is not what I expected."

  "I honestly didn't know what to expect." Miss Roscoe looked around the parlor. "It seems to me, though, it could have been worse."

  Maybe it would get worse. But Aaron didn't want to say that to Miss Roscoe. He was a priest, and his inclination was to comfort, not frighten.

  Chapter Five

  The Courage To Remember

  Greta sipped her tea, Mr. Shane, his brandy. Finally, the minister asked, "Are you cold?"

  "Why, no," Greta replied, surprised that she wasn't. She looked down at her dress. "Usually I wear a wrap with this, when Marshall or Elias aren't around."

  An awkward silence. Greta could see a question skitter around in Mr. Shane's eyes. She was sure she knew what it was. At least he's shy about asking, she thought, with a peculiar mix of resentment and appreciation. Elias Page had not been so shy in asking why she sported with him. He had given her extravagant gifts, feathered Marshall's nest. He had the gall to expect her to offer up her life as part of the parcel. She knew he hadn't asked out of interest. He asked out of pretense, out of a morbid desire to feel like a rescuer; even though his 'rescue' was to indulge his own needs. She'd had no choice, but to feed his vanity for her sister's sake. And her father's. Greta had managed some grim amusement in telling Elias a bizarre tale of an abused orphan, swearing him to secrecy, watching his eyes widen as if he were a child being read a ghost story.

  So, she wanted to be offended by the curiosity she saw in the minister's eyes. But she saw something else as well, something that never accompanied Elias's questions. Real compassion? Honest concern? For years Greta hadn't seen these things in a human face, then in a matter of months, she had seen it in Judge Tandy's and now, Mr. Shane's.

  Peculiar. She wanted to put him at ease. Maybe it was because they were together in this crisis. But no. She must be careful. He was the son of that old fool Father Shane, and she had no proof that he was any different from his sire. After all, look how he got into this mess, skulking around windows. Ah, there was a test for him.

  "What were you doing at Marshall's window, Mr. Shane?" He blushed. Greta smiled, caught between thinking the blush charming and satisfied that she had skewed his guard. "Were you peeping?"

  Mr. Shane's blush gave way to an expression of offense. But he collected himself soon enough. "No, that's not it. I had come to apologize to you."

  Greta was shocked into a moment of silence and lost her smile. "Apologize?"

  Mr. Shane wet his lips. "For being the clergy that stood by watching as you struggled with a beam." Their conversation at the party flashed into her mind. "I wanted to speak with you before my nerve failed me, so I returned to the house. I was surprised to see the party had ended so soon, and I was drawn to the windows when I saw you struggling with Mr. Fielding. I saw it all."

  Greta leaned back on the divan. "You'd come to apologize."

  Mr. Shane looked at her as if perplexed. "Yes. And I haven't, yet. Miss Roscoe, I'm sorry. If things were different than they are I would have offered you what help I could in removing your...mote." Greta didn't know what to say. Could he honestly be so different from his father? Could he honestly not know about his father? Mr. Shane's expression softened even more. He asked, gently, "Was it Tess you did it for?"

  Greta was still thinking about his apology. She looked at him, and she could not remember when she had met someone who seemed so eager to listen. Something was opening in her. She didn't understand it, like so many things she wasn't understanding. Resistance, that familiar armor, cracked a little under the strain.

  "Yes, of course. Her welfare, her future, is all the reason I have for my life. Or rather, had. I suppose I should get accustomed to speaking about life in the past tense."

  "So you were blackmailed into mistressing?"

  "Not the way you mean it."

  "Poor. Your family is poor? Or you have no family at all, except Tess."

  "Wait a minute, and I'll tell you. My family wasn't poor, at least, not at first. We weren't exactly the Anheusers or the Busches, but we could have been. We could have moved in those circles. My father, Lawrence, is sheltered at LaFontaine Institute now."

  "It must take a great deal of money to care for someone like that."

  "Money that Marshall controls."

  "Mr. Fielding? Why?"

  "Because he's my half-brother, not my cousin. And his legal father blackmailed mine for 24 years." She waited a moment, seeing the impact of this, giving her companion a moment to listen again instead of think. "Three years ago Father had a mental collapse. Shortly after Mother's death." Greta took a great breath. "Suicide. It could have been suicide. It was all Marshall's handiwork."

  She watched Mr. Shane, ready for his shock and disgust. He was shocked, that was certain. But Greta couldn't find disgust in his eyes.

  He simply asked, "What happened?"

  "In a nutshell... No, this can't be reduced into a nutshell." Seeing the long, painful path before her in telling the tale, Greta lost her nerve. "Never mind. What does it matter? I'm dead, and Tess is completely at his mercy. If I could have seen this, if I could have somehow known… I think the factory ghetto would have been better for us. That's sufficient to say."

  "Sufficient?" Mr. Shane was clearly unsatisfied, yet his mood as he leaned toward Greta didn't seem like morbid curiosity, but again like concern. She could almost believe he took his priestly calling seriously. "Miss Roscoe, you must know how healing confession is for the soul. Well, now that soul is all we are, think how much more healing it must be."

  "Marshall's the one who needs confession, Mr. Shane, not I."

  "No doubt he does. But I can see the pain in your eyes. Your regrets. Forget confession then. Just talk to me."

  Was it the trauma of her death, or the weight of her life that made her chest ache as she looked at Mr. Shane? She didn't want to trust him, there was no good reason she could think of to confide in him. But something much like trust was struggling up through the cynicism she had layered carefully over the years. It was a feeling so long buried she had forgotten it was there at all. She would tell him then. Again, what would it matter? They were both dead. As she leaned forward, resting her elbows in her lap, she dared to look directly at all those awful years. And as she spoke, it was almost as if she were living them over again.

  No, not re-living, not quite. As the years reeled backward, it was more as though she were present as a witness. And how far back she went. In life, Greta could have recalled her youth perhaps to her ninth or tenth year, but no further. Yet here she was, recalling a day when she was three years old viewing herself as that toddler. To realize she had so long a memory.

  A Sunday picnic in Forest Park. Now that the day was in her mind's eye, she wondered how she could have forgotten it. To see her toddler self upon the old checkered cloth, plucking with chubby baby fingers at errant strands of grass poking through the weave. She remembered doing that so well. She knew how warm the June breeze was on her cheeks, sticky with the remnants of fudge. Yet that same breeze cooled her toes when Mama (yes, Greta had called her Mama, hadn't she?) removed Greta's tiny shoes and white stockings. That had been the rarest of pleasures, bare feet. The privilege had been granted only in the confines of the park for a brief time after the late afternoon meal. Gracious, why had they stopped doing that, going to the park on Sundays? Why? But as Greta watched herself gazing down at those baby toes, attentive to her own stomping as she marched in a circle she heard his voice, and remembered why.

  He said, "A fine day, Roscoe."

  But he didn't seem to mean it. He approached Greta's parents, each propped on one elbow as they stretc
hed on the checkered cloth. Greta had not understood most of the exchange about to take place, limited to a three-year-old's mind and vocabulary. But she wasn't that toddler now. She was a grown woman and this day in the park was only a memory witnessed. She knew the conversation with an adult's comprehension.

  Husky even then, his hair more golden than gray, Burgess Fielding stood over Greta's parents as they scrambled to rise and greet him. Greta's three-year-old self hardly acknowledged him occupied as she was by the business of any toddler. She looked up only when her mother reached down and tugged Greta's blouse sleeve, shepherding the child back into the boundaries of the picnic cloth. But Greta's parents knew who he was. Everyone knew who he was, if they were old enough to understand power. Greta's father snatched his derby from his bushy, auburn head and held it against his heart as he accepted the older man's proffered hand. Lawrence Roscoe was a slender man, a few inches taller than Fielding. But after that day in the park he somehow looked smaller.

  "Mr. Fielding," he exclaimed, and seemed unsure if he should replace his hat after they shook hands. "You remember my wife?"

  "Mrs., delighted again," Fielding replied perfunctorily. "So, Roscoe. Thought it over?"

  Greta's father stammered before her mother interrupted him. "Sir," she said, addressing the intruder, "it's Sunday. The Lord's Day. Must we discuss business?"

  Then she smiled that smooth, icy smile, the one Greta would come to know all too well. But on this day, it hadn't yet frozen her porcelain skin, not stiffened the very strands of her hair, dark as the fudge she made for their Sundays. Was this the first time Greta had noticed that frosty smile? Fielding all but ignored her, exchanging a quick, thoughtless smile for hers before addressing Greta's father.

  "So. Have you?"

  Lawrence Roscoe glanced at his wife, and answered, "Well, I thought we agreed until Wednesday to reply."

  "But we're both here, Roscoe."

  Greta's mother spoke up again, her voice now as cool as her fixed expression. She directed the chill toward her husband as she deftly maneuvered little Greta back onto the checkered cloth again. "Lawrence, please. It's Sunday."