The Ghosting of Gods

by Cricket Baker

  Bethany notices Captain Wadsworth, and I suppose she’s wondering what his financial assets might be.

  “Are you headed for William’s place?” Ava pointedly asks. “I remember you admired him so. George’s brother?”

  Bethany glances surreptitiously at Vincent before answering Ava. “William? Oh, yes, William. I remember now that we suggested you seek him out. No, no, William doesn’t entice me.” There’s another quick glance at Vincent. “I simply had to get away, you know how it is. I had this feeling that…that someone else awaited me in Memento Mori. Someone handsome, with an oily moustache.”

  Leesel shifts onto her knees in her chair and begins drawing numbers in the air. Her face scrunches in concentration.

  “It’s been dreadful, of course,” Bethany says, sighing. “I paid a band of graverobbers to escort me north. What strange men they were, bent on digging like tunnelers, going on about a box of threads and other religious artifacts. I told them William might have it. Do you know, they ran off and left me! Apparently they’d gotten the idea into their small heads I was either possessed, or a vampire. Now, I concede vampires are often beautiful, but do they possess quite the sparkle in the eyes that I do? Or quite the color of blue?” She pauses and opens her eyes wide for our consideration. “And so, I’ve traveled alone. It’s been truly exhilarating, facing danger as I have. I’m simply exhausted. I hope to enjoy a nice, hot bath tonight. What a wonderful dinner, though a trifle salty. I couldn’t eat another bite.”

  She refuses further questions about her travels, adding it’s Vincent she wants to hear about.

  My eyes don’t want to stay open, despite my anxiety over Bethany’s appearance. My stomach is full, and the wind outside has risen to provide a welcome white noise to Bethany’s chatter and the phonograph’s high-pitched music.

  I’m half asleep in my chair when Mrs. Wadsworth chings her knitting needles against a wine goblet. “We’ll view the dead now,” she intones.

  42

  the viewing

  We sign our names in the ledger while Bethany laces up her boots. She made it through dinner before realizing they were off. She’s blushing, lacing as quickly as possible, but it takes some time.

  Servant Sarah hands each of us a lit candle. Mimicking our hosts, we hold the unflickering flames to our faces and fall in line to march up the creaking stairs.

  “The second floor is where the Judgment takes place,” Vincent says, stopping before a door on a tight landing before the staircase curves up again. There are no hallways on this floor—just the door. He reaches inside the neck of his nightgown and pulls out a tiny key on a chain. Turning the lock beneath a glass doorknob, he pushes against the door. It glides open.

  Stone hearths flank each end of the great room, baking with fire that casts ginger light and generous heat. The outer wall is solid windows, yet the furniture, bulky with velvety cushions, faces inside the room. There’s no extra seating for visitors. The four separate wingback chairs form a circle around a tiny, but high, table. A crystal ball, set on thin prongs, is placed there.

  Servant Sarah enters last and busies herself dousing the flames of hurricane lamps lining the windows. “I’ll be back with coffee,” she says. As she passes me, she murmurs, “I must sober them up or the Judgment falls on me alone.”

  I don’t know what she’s talking about, but she’s out of luck. A decanter of dark liquid is plucked from beneath a cushion by Captain Wadsworth as soon as Servant Sarah’s out of the room.

  Mrs. Wadsworth dumps her weight into a chair. She extracts a ball of black yarn from a basket on the floor. Something else is in the basket, for as she clutched for the yarn she wanted, there was the sound of chinking. Moving closer, I see that the basket is filled not only with yarn, but with crystal balls.

  Vincent speaks over my shoulder, his breath hot on my neck. “Hideous. She knits one after another. Soon we’ll have to prop them on the windowsills in place of lamps.” I give him a questioning look and he turns me so that I face the interior wall opposite the windows.

  Ships. Yarn ships. Masts and sails sag atop canoes of knotted yarn, lined up one after another on bookshelves deep enough that Mrs. Wadsworth’s marine creations are at least three in depth. There must be hundreds of them. Most are small, about the size of a dinner plate, but some are so big that their sails are folded in half to fit on the shelves.

  Bethany gazes at the ships, wistfulness on her face. “I love the sea,” she says. “I miss it so. My sister…”

  “Woopsies,” Leesel says.

  “To the sea,” the Captain toasts.

  Poe runs his fingers along the spines of the books that are shoved between ships. “Do you have Poe?” he asks.

  Vincent selects a few dusty volumes. “Edgar Allan? Of course. We have all the finest channeled works.”

  “I’m called after him, you know. Been my nickname since I was five. My grandfather used to retell Poe’s stories, and I was hooked for life on the macabre. It was Poppy who gave me my nickname.”

  Bethany sashays along the wall and stops before a painting. “Oh, my,” she says. “Oh, my.” She giggles into her hand, but is soon collapsed over a chair laughing with hysteria. She barely regains control of herself, looks back up at the painting, and howls louder than ever. Vincent seems uncertain what to make of this display of hilarity, shifting his slight weight from foot to foot.

  “She’s in and out,” Leesel tells me.

  “What?”

  “Elspeth. She’s in and out of Bethany, checking on us. She’s gone again now.”

  Ava, an art lover, stands before the painting. She didn’t hear Leesel, and I hold a finger to my lips so that Leesel knows not to tell her mother. “It’s a Salvador Dali,” Ava says. She turns to Vincent. “Exploding Clocks? So, what, art is channeled into Memento Mori, as well as literature?”

  “It’s an original,” Vincent says. He avoids looking at Bethany, whose hilarity has subsided to giggles. “A gift, from the Reaper. It’s meant to remind us of his power. With time comes Death. We are most grateful for our asylum.”

  Bethany wipes at her eyes. “It’s the most wonderful painting I think I’ve ever seen, Vincent.”

  His shoulders sag with relief.

  “So she’s not so far away?” I ask Leesel. Uneasily, I look outside at the trees bending sideways in the cold winds. “Do we need to go?”

  “Elspeth doesn’t like to be alone in the dark. She won’t travel at night. We’ll leave in the morning. It’s okay, Jesse.”

  I feel unsure. About Leesel.

  Ava’s looking suspicious at how Leesel and I are whispering, so I head over, feign interest in the art that amuses Bethany. It’s a painting of what looks like melting clocks, sliding down a wall. Or maybe they’re watches, the pocket kind. I don’t see what the fuss is about. Then I think of George and his life’s work as a master clockmaker. Bethany has a sick sense of humor.

  Coffee arrives with Sarah. She passes around steaming cups, then goes to throw wood on the already blazing fires.

  “Shall we begin the evening’s entertainment?” Vincent invites, chuckling as if he’s made a joke.

  Flames pop in the fireplaces as all conversation dies away. Wind whistling at the windowpanes reminds me of the cold outside, but now I have sweat dotting my forehead. The air in the room is dense. It’s difficult to breathe. Poe teeters beside me, and Ava leans against me. “The fires are too hot,” she complains.

  “Too counteract the cold that is coming,” Vincent says. “The séance.”

  That gets my attention. My God. Are they mediums?

  Bethany sighs, appearing mildly bored.

  The asylumists open their mouths and pant.

  Poe backs away to lean against one of the bookshelves. His hand clutches his crucifix, and I know he believes he shouldn’t be in the presence of a séance. I also know he loves this sort of thing. He’ll pray throughout, but he won’t miss any of it.

  Frost forms on the crystal ball.

/>   “Allow me to manifest,” Vincent says. He unwraps the bandages from his hands. Squeezing his eyes shut, he reaches out and cups the crystal in his palms. The fires die in their hearths. The sweat on my face chills and stings. With their eyes fixed and staring, our hosts continue to pant, though now their breath shows up in puffs of gray.

  With only the reflected light from snow outside the windows, the others are only shadows in the room.

  Vincent cries out in pain. The crystal projects a scene into our midst. It’s three-dimensional, slightly transparent in appearance. My view of the others across from me is mostly obscured.

  Rain falls on a thatched roof. A tunneler peers down a chimney, not seeming to mind the smoke that billows up through its skull. Hugging the skeleton’s legs is a boy. He’s trying to pull the tunneler away from the chimney. When the tunneler finally gives up the chimney, I see that its bones have blackened. “B-b-but y-you don’t n-n-need to h-hide from h-h-her, Poppa,” the boy protests. He ducks his head and closes his eyes, trying to get the words out. His head jerks as if he has the hiccups.

  Scene change.

  Now the boy is a few years younger, but I recognize his snub nose and ears that stick through his hair. He digs in a graveyard. Furtively looking about him, he clangs his shovel against the tombstone. The scene speeds up. Others come in and out of view, trying to pull him away. The last image is the boy clanging on the tombstone, alone and with night falling.

  He wants his father back, I surmise.

  Looking around me, at the faces so raptly spying on this boy’s life, I shudder at the idea of having my own life laid bare for everyone to see. But this is how it is. Discarding my belief in Santa Claus was a relief. Santa Claus could see every bad thing I did. I was glad to get rid of him. Then the priests found me, brought me into their fold, taught me that one day God would make sure every sin I ever committed would be shouted from the rooftops.

  There’s no getting rid of God.

  Scene change. The boy is the same age as in the first scene, maybe a bit older. Sobbing, he kneels beside an ax and a shattered, blackened skeleton. “It’s my fault, Poppa. I should never have told Mama where to f-f-find you. F-forgive me,” he laments. He reaches out a hand and touches his father’s bones, but quickly jerks his hand back, seeming to be repulsed. “Poppa, I found the one and asked f-for help. She t-t-told me we c-c-couldn’t be separated. She p-p-promised me…” He clamps his eyes shut and works his mouth, his head jerking with the effort of making words. “Poppa! She told me a s-secret. She t-told me the Presence knows h-h-how to give you back to m-m-me, but the Presence is p-p-possessed, yet will be f-f-free again…” There’s a scream behind him, and he turns, a look of horror on his face. The scene dissolves.

  Poe backs farther into a corner, knocking books off a shelf. And yarn ships.

  We next see a toddler sucking his thumb. I guess it’s the boy. As I’ve noticed before, scenes don’t play in natural sequence within crystal balls.

  Morning dawns in a field with sheep. No. Not sheep. Tunnelers crawl with woolly skins thrown over their backs. Huddling in a group, they eventually separate, and I see the boy. He lies dead, fallen upon his Poppa’s bones.

  Ava grips my hand. Bethany sniffles.

  “Poor Bethany,” Vincent says. “We shall end this manifestation.” He rolls the crystal off its pronged base, and the death scene inverts.

  The boy’s words…The Presence knows how to give you back to me. “What do you know of the Presence?” I ask my hosts.

  “Not my concern,” Captain Wadsworth rumbles.

  Servant Sarah refreshes my drink. “We’ve never experienced the Presence of the Holy Ghost,” she explains. “Judgment is time-consuming. Looking into the past, we have little time for the Presence. If it even exists. I’ve seen no proof.”

  “But plenty of proof we have for Death, don’t we?” Vincent sings. He’s smashed.

  Captain Wadsworth raises his decanter in a toast. “May Death pass over us!”

  Snowballs explode against the window in front of me.

  Captain Wadsworth twists, holding his decanter high, and looks out the window. “Here they come,” he says, his tone grim.

  43

  how hunchbacks are made

  The crystal’s manifested scene vanishes as the asylum residents rush to the window where the Captain now stands with bare feet planted wide.

  Poe beats me to the window. “What was that?” he hollers.

  “It’s out of view,” Captain Wadsworth booms. “Move down, to the right!” I’m pushed aside as they shift position.

  “There it goes!” Mrs. Wadsworth croaks, pointing with a knitting needle.

  “Oh, Sweet Reaper, save us!” Servant Sarah cries. She presses her face to the cold pane.

  “You’re fogging the glass,” Vincent says curtly.

  She holds her breath, her cheeks puffing out, but she lets it go with a hiss. “I see it. There, the other side of the garden, dragging its ragged shroud.”

  Leesel tugs on my arm. “Put me on your shoulders so I can see,” she demands.

  “No.”

  “What is it?” Ava demands to know. She stands on tiptoe, trying to see out the window to where the crazies are pointing. “Jesse, I don’t want Leesel looking at it.” She jumps back just as a gray form slams into the glass.

  Servant Sarah covers her eyes, her fingers spread apart so she can still see. “Gracious, that was a dense one, wasn’t it?”

  Across the room, Leesel directs everyone’s attention to a shadow by a fountain.

  “Remarkable sighting, young lady,” Vincent says and applauds. “That’s a rare one. Notice the ancient attire? The cape? The spectacles? Score three for you.” He marks in a small book and asks Leesel to spell her name for him. She ignores him.

  Ava and I stick our faces to the window. A tall black figure wearing a mask and carrying red roses drops to one knee in the snow, lifts the flowers toward the asylum, and blows a kiss. Bethany comments that the phantom’s stature does not match that of Vincent’s.

  “Look,” Poe shouts. “What’s that thing? And how many points do I get for seeing it first?”

  He scores two and a half. This is added onto his five, which he receives just for participating, Servant Sarah explains.

  Bethany, who has been yawning, curls up in one of the abandoned wing chairs.

  “So there’s all kinds of different ghosts,” Poe says. “Rapture.”

  Servant Sarah serves more coffee. Vincent fascinates Poe with a lecture on the various densities of ghosts. Bethany claims amazement at his knowledge. Outside the wind picks up even more, lashing against the windows and shifting the house so that it creaks with the gusts.

  Vincent strokes his moustache. “I must boast concerning our window sports here at District Eleven. In any given game, one is likely to spot quite an assortment of species, and of course there’s no telling how many shy, devious, invisible ghosts there are floating about. It’s no wonder we’re so often distracted from the viewing.”

  Poe is captivated. “How many kinds of ghosts do you have here in Memento Mori, do you think?”

  “Let’s see. There are poltergeists, banshees, spooks…apparitions if you want to count those…iron ghosts, shades, specters, and so on. Not to mention your garden-variety spirits, of course. Many ghosts come from before the last Beginning. Others evade capture by crystal. Still more roam due to surplus of ghost combined with low harvest of virgin crystal. We recycle when possible.” Vincent looks out the window and purses his wet lips. “Oh, fudge.”

  Servant Sarah screams. Mrs. Wadsworth practically tramples her as she charges to her window to see what frightened the servant so. Vincent and Poe join them, and they dart as a pack from window to window until Captain Wadsworth assumes command. “Spread out. They’ll come from all sides, the ungracious traitors!” He shakes his fist in the air, empties the decanter down his broad throat.

  “Tunnelers,” Vincent spits. “I must apologize, especi
ally to you, Bethany. For months now, renegade tunnelers have been roaming Memento Mori, plotting treason by exodus. Respectable tunnelers do not appear until well into the night, to make sure we don’t have to look upon them.”

  “Why do the respectable ones come here?” I ask.

  “For the wheelbarrow, of course. To transport crystals to the appropriate gravesites.”

  Looking out over the asylum lawn, I spot three skeletons clad in woolskins. They’re raking up crystals. One of the tunnelers winds up and pitches, hard and fast. The crystal strikes the window in front of us so hard the heavy glass cracks. Servant Sarah faints.

  “That crystal was huge,” Poe gushes. “Oh, no. Look out!”

  The other two tunnelers pitch their own crystals, exploding them against the windows. Luckily, the glass doesn’t crack this time. Their crystals were smaller.

  “Why are some of the crystal balls larger than others?” I ask Vincent.

  “Denser ghosts require larger crystals. Hunchbacked tunnelers are created in this way. Look there? See? They possess solid identities. Commendable. Though they exhibit bad behavior at this time.”

  Small explosions of snow on the lawn reveal new tunnelers arriving on the scene from underground. They fight over the remaining crystal balls surrounding the tipped wheelbarrow. One of them races around the lawn, retrieving the crystals already thrown. Lining up, they all take aim. Crystals blast the windows.

  For a moment I imagine stones in their hands, but I shake it off.

  Not stones. Crystal balls.

  As quickly as the attack began, it ends. I creep up to the window with Poe and Vincent and look out. The tunnelers are gone.

  Servant Sarah hugs herself, crying softly. “This work is becoming very stressful. Things are changing. It’s unsettling.”

  Ava, carrying a sleeping Leesel, asks if we can be shown our rooms.

  “But we didn’t finish our viewing,” Mrs. Wadsworth argues. “We didn’t get to see how the boy died.”

  “Does it matter?” Vincent asks. “Is there one of us who judges him worthy of retaining his identity? He was defective. No crystal for him!”