Page 19 of The Prestley Ghost
“Yes,” Alex said. “Yes, for you, for me—I want to try.”
* * * *
The actual preparation proved fairly straightforward; John said they did not require equipment aside from the usualsalt and iron and blessed candles, for protection—not from Alex, but from anything else interested in an invitation. He said the best time would be a liminal time, an in-between: noon, twilight, dawn, midnight, a time of passageways and transitions. He also asked what would work as an anchor: letting Alex move more freely, wherever the object was, and also incorporating physical sensations and existence.
“Hmm,” Alex said. “Clothing, or rings…well, there’s, er, my body, I suppose…”
“I was thinking that,” John said. “If you’re not squeamish.”
“I suppose I always knew vaguely that some clergy did ghost-raising and laying work,” Alex said, “but I do have to say you’re the most gleeful rector I’ve ever met, when it comes to digging up graves.”
“I’m fairly new to it,” John said, “but I like giving advice and doing good works. For all my parishioners, including the dead ones.”
“I hope you know this means I’ll be moving in with you. I won’t have a title, a family, a job, even possessions…one of your charity orphans, essentially.”
“I don’t mind,” John promised, “it’s a large house, and you’re welcome in it; you make Charles happy, and I could use help organizing the library. Since you like books.” The last part was teasing, but Charles saw the emotion there too, and wondered at it, that he’d never realized how much his brother wanted company, a home, a family, bustling into all the corners and crevices of life.
He said, “You can have any job you want, designing fashions or helping me talk to various hauntings; I think we’ll be busy, after we successfully handle this case. Family reputation and all.”
“I might like that,” Alex said. “I can help, I think.” He didnot comment on the way Charles had mentioned the family, not running from it, not in terms of guilt. Charles loved him for that.
“Something personal,” John said. “If you can.”
“Well, bones and such, but honestly that doesn’t feel like me, exactly…I mean, I think of me as alive, if that makes sense. I like being pretty and fashionable, not, er, a decaying corpse.”
Charles couldn’t not wince at the thought; but Alex went on, slowly, “Rings, though…I don’t have the Foxleigh signet, they sent it to my father…but if you could just find the very small emerald in silver, if it’s still there, it’s on my left hand…” He held out his hand, in demonstration. The emerald was indeed there, and shimmered ghostly in silver and green. It was, surprisingly, the least ostentatious of the rings.
Charles thought about rings, and old loves, and where this one might’ve come from; he understood that it might’ve been a gift, which would mean that Alex still had those feelings, still cared, even if he’d said it hadn’t been true love. He bit his lip.
But Alex said, “It’s mine—I mean it was the first piece of jewelry I bought. Not a family heirloom, not a gift. I bought it with the money from the poetry—and yes, I knew Oliver had practically forced people to buy that volume, but I still made money from the writing of it, and they were my words—and also from some profits at a gaming table. Later I could afford larger and louder pieces, and of course I happily wore all the family adornments, and sometimes won or lost more pieces, but I just…always kept that one. I don’t really know why. But perhaps it’ll work.”
“Independence,” Charles said, because he knew. He understood. “Your life. Not your father’s, not anyone else’s. It was what you wanted. Poetry, art, friendship, enjoyment.”
“I sound like a pleasure-garden.”
“You sound like someone who wanted to be happy.” He did not add,I know how it feels to want to be happy,but hethought that Alex heard the words, because of the smile, and the touch of airy fingers to the nape of his neck.
“All right,” John said, “Charles and I will look for your ring, by which I mean Charles will do most of the work—sorry about that—”
“Here to be helpful,” Charles said, which might’ve been more sarcastic, more grimly determined, more martyr’s words, before; but he said it more gently today, and John’s expression answered that too.
“I think we should do it today,” John said. “Midnight, for the ritual—it’s a half-moon, tonight, and autumn, which should help—so we can do some excavation in daylight.”
“I can keep watch,” Alex offered. “Not that anyone would question you. Being the resident spiritual experts. But I would also like to help.”
“Then we have a plan,” John said, and they did.
* * * *
The excavations proved surprisingly easy. Alex did not particularly want to look at himself; Charles, shoulders starting to tire from shovel-work, understood. He knew what he was meant to look for; he was not bothered by the dead, and Alex shouldn’t have to face himself, fifty years gone.
He could do this. For them all.
The bones made it easier, in a way. The remains did not resemble Alex, despite the shortness and the obvious expense of the burial. Charles found the ring in question, and touched dry brittle bone gently, with a napkin. Alex, appearing behind him, said, “It doesn’t look like me. But it is.” His light voice was contemplative. “I thought…I don’t know. I thought I’d feel more. I suppose I’ve had over fifty years to grow used to it.”
“You’re you,” Charles said, turning to look at him. “Theyou who wanted to stay, to be alive, to be part of the village and talk to people. To me.”
“It’s almost as if it’s someone else.” Alex looked at his bones again, and then away. Charles shut the casket, wiped dirt across his face, clutched the ring. “It’s someone who…isn’t me anymore. He was lonely, and ridiculous, and in love with pleasure, and not sure what he wanted, or how to even ask the question. He died with friends, and he wasn’t alone, though I don’t think he knew how important that was. At least it was quick.”
