The Ghost of Soda Creek

by Ann Walsh

  “Kelly,” he said. “It’s all right, Kelly. I will come back, I promise. Everything will be all right.”

  “Will it, David?” Kelly had asked, and he had nodded his head, but not spoken his answer. He kissed her again outside her front door, holding her hand, looking at her as if he was trying to memorize her face.

  “I’ll see you at the ceremony,” he said as he left. Both of them knew that David was to leave that night, that they wouldn’t be alone together again. Both of them knew, but neither of them said good-bye.

  By eight o’clock it was completely dark, the full moon hidden behind thick clouds that promised to bring snow before the night ended. Silently, people began to gather in the community hall, summoned by the sounds of dancers and drums. One small light showed from the kitchen; otherwise, the only illumination in the hall came from the banked candles on the table, now lit and guttering silently every time the door opened.

  Basil and his people, in full dance regalia, moved slowly, solemnly, in a circle around two drums, their steps measured, their chanting muted. Even the tiniest, lightest dancer seemed to move heavily, and as the hall filled, people grouped around the dancers, silent, watching.

  Kelly stood near the door, her father on one side of her, David on the other. “Tomorrow we’ll bring in a tree,” said Alan. “Clara thinks it would be a good idea to have a Christmas Eve party, with small gifts for everyone, sort of a community Christmas. Basil has offered to teach us the friendship dance then, so we can all join the dancers, share with them.”

  “Yes,” said Kelly. “But tonight is a different kind of sharing, isn’t it, Dad?”

  “Ah, little one. I know how hard this day is for you. I ... I find it difficult too.”

  “I know, Dad.”

  A gust of wind set the candles flickering again as the door opened and Naomi came in. She stood near Kelly, watching the dancers, and Kelly wondered how the dim lights in the room could pick up the colours of her eyes, one blue, one green, so clearly.

  “Kelly, are you ready?” The strange eyes swung towards her.

  “Yes,” said Kelly after a moment. “I think so, Naomi.”

  Basil had seen Naomi enter, and he gestured to the drummers who fell silent. The dancers stopped, moving to the edge of the hall. The drummers picked up their skin-covered drums, placing them against a wall, leaving the centre of the room empty.

  Naomi nodded at Kelly. “Let us begin, then,” she said, and stepped into the centre of the hall.

  “We are here to say good-bye to Emily Hyde,” she began. “I ask you all to come closer to me, to form a circle, to reach out and take each other’s hands.”

  Silently, the group moved inwards, towards the slender woman. Kelly held her father’s roughened hand, David’s hand firmly clasping hers on the other side. She caught a gleam of white against a dark suit, and watched Father Glenn, beside David, reach out to take Clara Overton’s hand. Ed Crinchley stood without crutches, Ben and Bob on either side of him, supporting him. The twins’ eyes were wide; they stood together between Basil and Joan, among equally wide-eyed children from the reserve. People from the commune were interspersed among the others; George beside Ben, David’s dark-haired aunt near Mrs. Terpen.

  “There is a power in a circle, and there is power in this night,” said Naomi. “Let us use that power now as we think of Emily Hyde, to bring her spirit here one last time so that we may honour her memory.” Naomi stepped away from the centre, taking her place next to Basil, reaching for his hand and for Trisha’s. “Think of Emily,” she said again. “Think of her, speak to her silently, ask her to join us here.”

  The centre of the circle grew misty, wavered, and there, alone on the freshly polished floor, alone, but close to those she now thought of as friends, stood the tiny ghost. She stood erect, looking gravely around her, standing as tall as a two-year old could.

  “Welcome, Emily.” Naomi spoke from the circle. “We bid you welcome here. We wish to bid you goodbye so that you may be released, may leave us, and freely, without sadness, go to where you want to be.”

  The small figure nodded seriously, as if she understood what Naomi was saying. “I think she does understand,” thought Kelly. “Not the words, they’re too complicated for her, but the meaning of the words.”

  Naomi spoke again, her voice deep, the words flowing from her in what was almost a chant, almost a song.

  “Emily, small one,

  We bid you welcome here.

  Come, be with us,

  Listen to us,

  Share with us,

  Know our love.

  Know that you will be remembered,

  Know that you are free to leave.

  Come, be with us,

  One last time.”

  She paused, then called to the twins. “Tommy, Trisha. Will you be the first to tell Emily good-bye?”

  The twins, still holding hands, stepped forward and spoke together, spoke the words they had written and memorized as their farewell to the ghost-child:

  “In the ghost place

  Let there be Christmas every day,

  Let there be candy and gum,

  And your own T.V.

  In the ghost place,

  Let Emily have

  Lots of happiness.”

  They stepped back into the circle, and Naomi smiled at them. There was a small cough, and Ben moved forward, a piece of paper in his hand. He read:

  “May you be safe,

  As the bulb underground,

  As the grass, snow-mantled,

  As the seed, earth-cushioned.

  May you be safe.”

  He stepped back and, after a moment’s hesitation, Bob took his place and spoke.

  “I shall remember you

  In the clay’s softness,

  In the sheen of the glaze,

  In the yarn’s strength,

  In the glow of colours.

  In all these things

  I shall remember you.”

  It was quiet in the hall; the candles flickered, and the small figure in the centre of the circle nodded gravely. From his place between Ben and Bob, Ed Crinchley spoke, his voice rough and deep.

  “I shall remember you

  In the health of the young,

  In the power of the river,

  In the reading, in the books,

  In the history, which is yours.

  I shall remember you.”

  Clara Overton moved only slightly away from her place in the circle before she began to speak.

  “May you be remembered

  In the smell of fresh bread,

  In the tart taste of rhubarb,

  In the richness of cream,

  In the warmth of coffee,

  In an infant’s cry. . .”

  Her voice broke, and she stepped back, reaching for Father Glenn’s hand. Basil took his turn, his feathered headdress swaying as he spoke, keeping the rhythm of his words.

  “We shall remember you

  In the salmon’s high leap,

  In the dancer’s feet,

  In the moving of the moon,

  In the pulse of the drums,

  In the rise of sacred smoke.

  Be proud, small spirit,

  We shall remember you.”

  As he rejoined the circle, the voices of his people came from where they stood. “Be proud, small spirit. We shall remember you,” they echoed.

  There was silence again. Naomi turned her head, her eyes searching out Alan Linden. “Will you, too, speak to her?” she asked.

  He nodded, looking intently at Kelly for a moment before stepping into the centre of the circle.

  “I will remember you, little one,

  As the flowers blossom,

  As the trees bear fruit,

  As the machine runs smoothly,

  As a daughter cries,

  As a wife once smiled.

  I will remember always,

  Little one.”

  He took Kelly’s hand again as he
rejoined the circle, and she saw, reflected dimly by candlelight, tears moving slowly down his cheeks. Her father met her eyes, and the pressure of his hand, holding hers, increased.

  David stepped forward, without letting go of Kelly’s hand, and stood, half facing her, as he spoke to the ghost-child.

  “May you be loved.

  Always.

  May you be remembered,

  Always.

  In sun-haloed hair,

  In a smile,

  In a laugh,

  In a kiss,

  In all my dreams.

  May you be remembered,

  May you be loved.”

  He turned so his last words were spoken directly to the still, silent figure in the centre of the circle, but Kelly knew that the words were for her as well. David bent and kissed her, then released her hand, placing it in the hand of Father Glenn, closing the circle as he stepped away from it. George, too, had left his place and now stood beside David, waiting.

  “Now?” asked Kelly. David nodded, and George spoke softly, not disturbing the silence, the intensity of the rest of the group.

  “We thought it best, Kelly. David’s bus leaves soon.”

  “Good-bye, Kelly. I love you.” David followed his uncle out of the hall, into the night. The candles flickered, the door closed softly, and he was gone.

  “Kelly?” Naomi’s voice startled her. “Kelly, will you say good-bye? Are you ready to do so?”

  Kelly swallowed, and nodded. She dropped her father’s hand and the young priest’s hand, and took a step into the centre of the ring of people. In the candlelight, the small ghost’s face seemed pale, almost frightened.

  “Emily, little one,” said Kelly, and moved closer to her ghost. The tiny figure in the red dress lifted her arms, her lips forming a hesitant smile.

  “Kelly?” she said. “Bye, Kelly? Yes?”

  Kelly dropped to her knees beside the child, reaching out her own arms, feeling again the jolt of cold as she touched the small, outstretched hands. The candlelight caught the golden ringlets, burnishing them against the velvet bow which swayed slightly as the ghost lifted her head, looking at Kelly, silently pleading.

  “Yes, Emily, good-bye. It is time for you to go, go home, be with your mother, be happy. It is time to say good-bye, Emily.”

  Still holding the small, cold hands in hers, Kelly spoke the words that she had written for the tiny ghost, the tightness in her throat easing as the words came, her voice growing louder as she spoke until it echoed through the hall, vibrant, strong.

  “Emily, little one,

  I say good-bye with love,

  And I shall remember you

  In the softness of a mother’s touch,

  In the twisting braids of hair,

  In the gentling of a lover’s kiss,

  In all the farewells,

  In all my farewells,

  I say good-bye with love.

  Good-bye, Emily.”

  She knelt, still holding the ghost’s hands, and watched as the child lost her pale, frightened look and the tentative smile grew until the tiny face seemed to glow in the candlelight.

  “Bye, Kelly. Bye.”

  Naomi began to speak again, and with her words, the ghost of Emily Hyde, two years old, began to fade, become misty, slip away.

  “Go, Emily, go in peace.

  Let the wind take you,

  Let the water take you,

  From this world

  With your blessing,

  With much love,

  With gentle memories,

  We ask you to be gone.”

  Naomi’s words ended, the candles flared briefly, swaying as if moved by a wind that could not possibly have crept into the closed hall, and a thin curl of mist spiralled up into the darkness.

  “Good-bye, Emily,” Kelly said again softly. The tears began as she knelt there in the centre of the circle, kneeling alone, her arms still reaching out but now touching only emptiness. She knelt, and she cried.

  “Good-bye, Emily. Oh, Mom. Good-bye.”

  Acknowledgements

  This book would not have been possible without the following people who gave so freely of their time, their knowledge and their support.

  Dave Jenkinson

  Jean Kozocari

  Members of the Alkali Lake Band

  Robin Skelton

  Dale Thomson

  Father David Weir

  Jean William