An older lady befriends and adopts a ghost she found in her garden
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Michael Goffrey bid his wife farewell as he left for his next shipping job, and Gail Goffrey was once again faced with the fact that her house was cavernously empty.
She had expected the house to feel empty after her children grew up and moved on with their lives; that was the sort of thing one always heard about from the mothers and wives left behind. However, everyone seemed to stress the loneliness—not the rather more intense boredom.
Gail had always preferred quiet and alone time, so she did not take issue with the solitude. However, though she still had to cook and mend and clean and tidy and all the other tasks, it was one thing to do so for six people and quite another, shorter thing to do so for two. It was even less of a thing to do so for one, since Michael had been promoted to first mate and now had to accompany the airships personally, no longer simply loading and unloading at the cloudends as he once did.
Empty and meaningless. That’s what it felt like. With her family, she had people to help and care for. With just herself, she felt as though she were wasting time walking in circles for no other purpose than to exist.
She made it to the second day without any significant issue.
She was out tending to the herb garden when it happened—a bug wandered in front of her. That shouldn’t have been a problem. Bugs were some of her favorite creatures. But after the first smile, it hit her that she hadn't seen a new kind of one in months—this one already had three sketches in her notebook.
She’d run out of garden bugs to document.
Bugs, of all things. Bugs were everywhere, bugs had never-ending variations, bugs were constant. And she’d run out of them.
Stabbing the trowel into the earth perilously close to the offending bug, she sat back on her heels and looked up at the sky.
"Well, Lord, I reckon you put me on your good Earth for a reason. And I don't think it was just to sketch bugs." She smoothed her apron out, flicking bits of dirt off of it. "I also doubt I'm done with what I'm supposed to do down here, otherwise I wouldn't be here. But if you don't mind me saying, I'm awfully bored of where I am, though I do love my house and my husband and my town quite fierce. But I have all the time in the world, and I'd like to do good with it, if I could. So if you could show me what to do where I can—give me eyes to see as who I can do good towards—then I would appreciate it mightily."
Gail had prayed similar prayers before, with varying regularity. She knew the good Lord had heard her, as he always did. And if he answered with more solitude and time and boredom, then she supposed that was where she was meant to be for the moment. But she dearly hoped there might be something new this time.
So, really, she shouldn't have been surprised to see someone under the loquat tree. But then again, it had been raining since before dawn, so no one in their right mind would have been outdoors. She should know, since she herself had been out gathering moss for terrariums and hadn't heard a breath from anyone all day, even near the city.
Her first impression was that the lad was quite young. Younger than her youngest, in fact, who had not too long ago started her career as a professor at the nearby university. Looked perhaps like he could be one of her students. Very slight of build, as though he needed to eat more, and small looking as he sat hunched in the rain and letting the wet drip down his messy hair, full of loose ends that had gotten free from his ponytail.
Gail stood at the edge of her garden for a moment, resting her pail of moss against the stone border as she observed him.
He didn't move, just sat there with his face turned towards the soil, and didn't seem to see her. Part of his shoulder seemed stained, perhaps with mud. With the house not a few feet to the left, she wondered if he'd tried to knock and not gotten an answer, what with her out and about.
Well, unexpected or not, there was really only one thing to do.
Gripping her pail handle resolutely, Gail marched her way through the garden paths and stood in front of him. He shifted at the sound of her approach, turning his face up towards her—his eyes were pale, as if someone had sketched them on and not bothered with paint. What's more, up closer, the brownish stain on his shoulder looked rather like dried blood.
He tilted his head, as if trying to tell where the sound had come from.
"Well then," she said after a long moment of trying to figure out what to say, "who might you be?"
"Oh." He looked more directly at her, and somehow the eyes looked a bit more colored in, like they remembered they could be brown. "Dreadfully sorry, ma'am. I seem to have gotten lost in the rain. I hope you don't mind me taking a few moments here under your tree?"
He hadn't answered the question, but he seemed more surprised than shifty. "Not at all. Unpleasant weather to be lost in, for sure. If you'd like, you can wait it out under a roof."
"Oh," he said again, and looked to his left; this time it seemed like he understood what he was seeing. "I suppose that would be nicer."
"Well, you're welcome to my roof, if you’d like," she said. She wondered how long he would take her up on that.
He awkwardly stumbled to his feet before she could offer her hand. "That's very kind of you, ma'am."
"Would you like anything to eat?" She went ahead and led the way to the kitchen door.
He hummed thoughtfully. "Thank you ma’am, but I don't think I'm hungry."
She didn't think he would be, but, well, it wasn't like she had experience with this. Which concerned her—she had no idea what she was supposed to be doing. At least he didn't seem to be wicked. She supposed he must need a helping hand and, while she needed to figure out what that help was, he was still just a boy; she would do him the courtesy of treating him accordingly.
The porch and floors, old and creaky since long before she and her husband and infant son had moved in decades ago, greeted them with typical fanfare as they trudged over the threshold. She dripped her way over to the stove, where she put the kettle on; it was unlikely that her visitor would want any, but she most certainly did. Setting her pail of moss by the stove to deal with later, she glanced back to see the lad standing in the middle of the space, staring up at the roof.
Gail wondered if he noticed that he wasn't wet.
"Say," she said, carefully pulling teacups out of the cupboard, "what did you say your name was?"
He looked at her sharply. "I… I don't think I did."
"Hmmmm. Well, how should I call you, then?"
He stared at her.
In the background, the rain continued on.
"Should I just call you ma'am, then?" He said, smiling faintly.
Gail squinted at him. "Now then, young man, are you dodging the question deliberately, or do you just not have an answer?"
"Oh." He glanced around the kitchen, then back to her, and blanked. "Sorry, what was the question?"
Gail rested back against the counter. She picked up her glasses from where she'd left them this morning, and stuck them on, pushing the temples through her sodden mess of hair. "I was just asking what your name was."
His eyes widened. "I… don't… Didn't I answer that?"
"Not as I can recall."
"That… that was rude of me, then, wasn't it?" His eyes were still wide, and the brown was fading.
Maybe it was rude of her to keep pressing the matter. He seemed not to know. Gail pressed her glasses firmer on her nose, trying to reach some kind of decision—but whatever was going on with her guest had been set in motion.
"What is my name?" He asked, his voice rising. "I can't remember my name."
"That's alright, dear," she said, trying to distract him, calm him down. "Do you remember where you were before my garden?"
It had the opposite effect.
He stepped back, towards the door, and glanced around with eyes that no longer understood where he was. "No… I-I can't remember… where am I? Do you know my name?"
"I'm afraid I—"
The kettle shrieked into the space between them with a rush of steam.
The lad cast a wild glance in its direction, stepped backwards. Gail, startled into motion, scrambled to shut the thing off.
When she turned back, the space where he had stood was dry and empty. She and the rain and her pail of terrarium moss had been left alone again.
Genres: Cold War spy movie + fantasy shenanigans (comedy) + psychological/ existential drama
Languages: English, Romanian (dialogue, translated), occasionally, Russian (dialogue, translated)
Synopsis: the Moon is stolen on the day of the scheduled first landing. A team of spies is summoned for the task, but there is something strange and perhaps otherworldly about them. Who stole the Moon, how will these brave men save it, and what will they learn about the nature of reality and existence itself in the process?
Links to all parts below:
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5
Part 6
Part 7
Part 8
Part 9
Part 10
Part 11
Part 12
Part 13
Main inspirations
Aka the main stories floating around in my subconscious around the time I was writing this
Spy/master HBO original (it's about an ex communist Romanian spy teaming up with an American one (also a German spy woman etc). It takes place in the 70s. It's mostly action and mystery too I guess. I watched it with my extended family and they (all generation X, all their formative years were during communism) found it quite faithful to history and very entertaining. I personally recommend it a lot!!!
Romanian folklore (various cornerstone fairytales) - will make a larger post only to explain them
Dracula by Bram Stoker - themes of rationalism vs the supernatural, intrusive fantasy, weird foreign villain ruins everything and characters of the author's nationality save the day. Lovable American character (Southern; fan favourite)
The Master and Margarita by Mikhail Bulgakov - also themes of rationalism vs the supernatural, people claiming to be free thinkers but being blinded by propaganda, people refusing to believe even as the evidence hits them in the face
The boy in the castle by Evelyn M. Lewis - indirectly, in the way the relationship between an innocent child and a jaded old man is the main emotional core of the story
Various songs featured in the Spotify playlist linked below
Dedications
This story, which I initially intended to be merely silly and whimsical, I ended up putting a lot of heart and soul into it. I hope all of you will find it beautiful and meaningful, not only amusing. Therefore, this story is dedicated to
My beloved grandma, who passed away in early September
My Romanian friends in our summer school this August
@greater-than-the-sword for letting me read her inspiring short story which somehow actually became a main inspiration for my story haha + your Halloween playlist thankssss
@purpleisnotacolor for writing those amazing thought provoking posts and discussing folklore with me ever since last year around this time (You, specifically, have the post-credits scene dedicated to you)
@mrgartist @o-lei-o-lai-o-lord @flickeringflame216 and the rogue squadron for being my daily dose of whimsy and shenanigans (Zaki, the scene I spoiled to you on discord is now dedicated to you)
@catkin-morgs-kookaburralover @sea-angle and my others friends who I hope this story will be a source of encouragement to
@enigma-absolute and my other Romanian speaking mutuals
Thank you @inklings-challenge for creating this challenge and assigning me to team Chesterton, which was the most out of my comfort zone ever. What with my writing the whole thing in the last week and posting the last part 1 hour past midnight, you got a full deluxe "my college profs when they give me an assignment" POV
@inklings-challenge Today is the first installment of my Christmas novella, The Patience of Hope.
Author’s note: This is a short, twelve-chapter story, written in the fortnight before Christmas, and scheduled to be posted on each of the t
Each day's instalment will be released at the same time each day, and linked on this blog ten minutes later. I may have to edit the posts to make the link display properly, since I'm scheduling the posts a week or two in advance. Posting daily for the next twelve days. (I may be foolish.)
Please advise if I can or should @ the inklings challenge on future posts (because it's being scheduled early they will be individual posts, but I don't expect to make more than one different post on this blog in that time).
(I can add a pinglist for following posts, just @ me if you want to be added.)
I finally finished my entry for @inklings-challenge! Just a month and a half late, but what's six weeks between friends? 😆
Tagging @lady-merian and @kanerallels because I think you were kind enough to comment on the first part
Anyway:
Greenroot Growing
Posted on Ao3 at https://archiveofourown.org/works/51990529 or read below
"Where should we be next, Zillah?" Vesta asked.
Zillah straightened up, shook her long brown braid back, and surveyed the ruins of the village of Cubrickton. The survivors of the fire had been relocated to the remaining homes, and wounded were being treated in the Home's infirmary. Hestia was helping to rebuild some of the houses, but high summer meant there would be plenty of time and available hands to rebuild before the harvest. They could probably move on.
"How is Eden doing?" she asked.
Vesta shrugged. "She's okay. Getting tired, but everyone has been treated so the heavy triage is over."
Zillah nodded. She closed her eyes and pressed her palms together, focusing inwards on her Gift. She opened her eyes again. "We're still supposed to be here," she said, frowning.
Vesta looked around. "Why? Did we miss someone?"
Zillah shrugged. "Don't know. Maybe there's something else coming and they need our help building?"
"Might as well." Vesta moved towards the nearest burned-out shell. She picked up a half-burned board, tucked it under her arm, and began sifting through the rubble for others.
Zillah worked her way along the side of the ruined wall, collecting china plates that must have fallen from an interior shelf. Some of them were intact.
A purple light formed in the air between them, rippling oddly in the air. Both the sisters turned to look at it, then look at each other in consternation.
"Or maybe we're here for that?" Zillah suggested.
"Any idea what it is?" Vesta asked, backing away carefully.
"My Gift just says it's a portal, which is less helpful than you'd think," Zillah replied.
"Is it dangerous?"
"Don't know."
The sisters watched it grow larger and brighter. Then, as suddenly as it had started, it vanished, leaving a young man in strange clothing behind. He dropped hard against the stone and rolled over to slam against the foundation of the house, as if he'd fallen from a height.
"Well." Zillah looked at him, then bent over to check his pulse. "Still alive. Better make a stretcher for him, in case that fall rattled something."
"What's his name?" Vesta asked. She laid one of her boards on the street, then pulled a length of twine from her pocket and began tying shorter sticks to the top and bottom. Under her hands, the air shimmered as her Gift turned the boards into a full stretcher.
"Paul," Zillah replied. "I can't see his home. It's very far away. For now he belongs with us, I think."
They carefully loaded him onto the stretcher and carried him towards Home. The big egg-shaped structure, apparently woven from willow branches, was on the edge of the town, and they passed through a hole in the side into the clay-lined infirmary inside.
Eden looked up as they entered. She helped Zillah transfer the young man to an empty bed, then unwrapped the orange band that wrapped over her curls and covered her ears. "What's his name?" she asked.
"Paul," Zillah answered. "He was unconscious when he....appeared."
Eden looked Paul over, focusing intently while her hands hovered over his body. "Just bruised, I think," she said. Briskly she refastened her headband and grabbed a pot of salve from the workbench, then rolled him over and began peeling his short tunic away from his back so he could apply the salve to his back and shoulders.
Vesta allowed the stretcher to fall back into pieces of wood and twine, and put the twine back into her pocket. She headed back towards the entrance to throw the pieces of wood away, and met her twin sister coming in.
"Another?" Hestia asked, seeing Paul on the bed.
"He's not a villager. He just appeared. Like a Major Gift, but there wasn't anyone there to use it," Vesta explained.
Hestia raised her eyebrows. "A True Miracle, then?"
Zillah joined them. "I think so. He's from far away."
"Well, there's not much to do until he wakes up," Hestia decided. "Does he need to stay here or can we get moving?"
"He belongs with us, so probably we can go. Did you say our goodbyes?" Zillah asked
Hestia nodded.
"Good."
They made their way through the clay-lined rooms of Home to the driving bench at the front, where a woven window opened into the streaming sunlight. A map of Gasardia was pinned to the wall, covered with careful annotations in colored ink.
Hestia found Cubrickton, on the road between Thire and Philomel. She added a purple X and the date to the map, tracking their journey so far. Zillah would update the logbook with details of their work while they traveled.
Zillah sat on the bench, facing the map, and pressed her palms together. She allowed her eyes to unfocus, looking at what her Gift was saying rather than at the map itself.
Finally she looked up, puzzled. "We're supposed to be in Acoda Keep."
"We can't get to Acoda Keep!" Hestia objected.
"I know that and you know that," Zillah replied. "But apparently my Gift thinks we can."
Hestia sighed, and traced the road south. "Acoda Point is at least a three day journey," she said. "I guess we could start in that direction. If we end up having to stop, we'll figure it out from there."
Zillah nodded. "Thanks. We'll pass through Lorton tomorrow, so I'll check our stores. We can stop at the market."
Paul woke up. His last memory was of hiking in the woods near his home, so waking up in a bed was concerning. It didn't sound like a hospital, but he couldn't decide whether that was better or worse than the alternative. Also, his head hurt. And he was thirsty.
"Here's some water, and then I have a Head Healing Potion for you," said a nearby voice. A hand touched his shoulder and then helped him sit up to drink from a cup.
Paul opened his eyes. The person helping him was a young woman about his own age, with wide blue eyes and softly curling brown hair. She put the cup down on a table next to his bed.
"I'm Eden. Do you know your own name?" she asked.
"Paul," he said.
She nodded. "Good, then the fall can't have exploded your head too badly." She handed him a smaller cup, this one filled with a thick liquid that tasted of rosemary.
Paul drank it, and reached for more water. "Where am I?" he asked.
Eden twisted her fingers together. "I'm not sure how to explain, exactly. You're in our Home, in Gasardia. My sisters say you came through a portal, and you came from very far away. Maybe even a different world."
"Gasardia is....?" Paul asked.
"Gasardia is all the land from the Northern White Mountains to the Besstwing Sea. We're currently on the road between Thire and Philomel, though we plan to turn south soon, but I don't think that helps you."
Paul shook his head, then stopped when it made the pain worse. "No. I think you're right about this being a different world. Unless you just have different names for places I know, but I doubt it."
Eden nodded. "That's what Zillah thought. She said your home was farther away than anyone she's seen before."
Paul nodded, then thought about what Eden had said and frowned. "Wait, how does she know that?"
"That's her Gifting," Eden said, taking the empty cup from Paul's fingers and turning to put it away. "Zillah knows what a person's name is and where they belong. She says that your home is far away but you belong with us for now."
Paul's shoulders stiffened. "So you're—"
"Of course not!" Eden whirled around, wide-eyed. "We don't make anyone go anywhere. Zillah's job is to tell the truth, not make people do things. We can't return you to your home, but if you wish to go somewhere else in Gasardia we'll give you what help we can." She paused, and then added, "I'm sorry, I didn't let you finish your question, did I? I try not to do that. That's my Gifting: I hear intentions and emotions."
Paul blinked. "These....Giftings. Are they magic?"
"They're gifts, Paul. I don't know how else to explain them. I don't think anyone does."
"Oh."
Eden shifted back and forth on her feet, then said, "Do you want dinner? I can bring you food here, or you can come join us at the table."
Paul followed Eden through the interconnected clay-lined rooms of the Home, feeling the floor sway slightly below his feet.
"Is the floor moving, or is that dizziness or something?" he finally asked.
"That's real," Eden told him, "We're moving, and Home always rocks when we do that. It's the legs moving."
"Legs?" Paul asked, ducking through one last doorway and entering a wide room.
The room had several tables. At one end, a round table was set near a fireplace, covered in brightly woven cloth. At the other end, four long workbenches were covered in books, tools, fabric, and all sorts of creative detritus.
In the middle of the room, a young woman was standing on a platform that was set below the floor of the room, so that her head was level with the tables. Her clear similarity to Eden marked her as another of her sisters, though this one's hair was pulled back into a long braid. She appeared to be walking on the unseen platform.
She turned to smile up at Paul. "Legs!" she confirmed. "It's the simplest way to move Home. We keep the legs partially assembled when we're not using them."
Paul looked at her, puzzled. When he listened, he could hear thumps and creaks from below. "So...you're controlling legs on the house?"
She nodded. "I'm Hestia. Vesta and I have the Crafting Gift, so we manage the legs."
"So Eden has empathy or something, and she said Zillah knows where people should be, and now you and Vesta have a crafting gift. What does that do?" Paul asked. He crossed to one of the chairs at the round table, so he wouldn't tower about Hestia so much. Eden served him a slice of bread and some roasted vegetables, and then went to sit over by the benches.
"We make things - assemble them out of rocks and sticks and whatever else is on hand - and they become real," Hestia explained. "They only last as long as we're paying attention, but that's long enough. We have six legs for the Home, like an ant, and we make them work by walking or swinging when we need to move."
A few minutes later, two more women entered. One was a mirror image of Hestia, and Paul realized she must be Vesta. She came over to the table and set down a sizzling pan, which promptly turned into a piece of flat slate rock with hot sausages on it. The other woman looked a little older, and her brown hair streamed straight down her back, well past her waist. She sat down and began slicing the rest of the loaf of bread.
"Any progress?" Hestia asked, looking up at them.
Vesta sighed. "We have the list for Lorton, of course, but no. Zillah still says Acoda Keep, and I don't see anything that will get us in." She turned to Paul. "I'm Vesta, by the way, and this is Zillah. Your name is Paul?"
Paul nodded. "What's Acoda Keep?"
Zillah sighed. "Acoda Keep is a fortress controlled by Brusha, the harbor city to the south. There's an herb, greenroot, that can be used for powerful healing. Brusha's army torched most of it, about a decade ago, and now the only greenroot is in Acoda Keep."
"I assume it's heavily defended?" Paul asked.
Vesta nodded. "We've dreamed of getting some for years, so it can be grown again, but there's no way we can get in."
"So why try?" Paul asked.
"Because that's what my gift says, and Giftings only work if you listen to them. And maybe we'll find something unexpected - you never know - but the point is obedience. If you aren't careful to listen to your gift, it'll seem to be working just fine, but it'll be less and less effective." Zillah stabbed her sausage and took a bite.
"Do you want to swing in a bit?" Hestia asked.
Zillah sighed. "I should. It'll help me sort out my thoughts. Unless you need a turn, Eden?" she called across.
Eden flapped a hand but didn't turn around.
"Okay," Zillah replied, and continued her meal.
"So you have the Crafting gift too, right?" Paul asked Vesta. "What sort of things do you make? I mean, what do you like making?"
Vesta's eyes lit up. "I don't get much use out of them, but I love making weapons. Swords and spears in cool shapes, and especially powerful bows and arrows, and I like making armor too. Though temporary armor is ridiculous. Once in a while there's a use for the ranged weapons, but armor that falls apart if you're knocked unconscious is just dangerous."
"Do you see much fighting?" Paul asked, worried. He didn't have any background in weapons training!
"We mostly see the aftermath," Vesta explained. "The cities are all fighting each other, and there's bandits as well, but Zillah's gift keeps us where we can be useful, which means avoiding a lot of the fighting. Even if we were better at fighting, Eden's gift means she can be overwhelmed easily, so we have to be careful."
"Oh, okay."
Zillah had finished, so Hestia brought the house to a halt and climbed out of the hole in the floor. She lay on her stomach and stuck her head and arms into the hole, apparently rearranging the legs. Paul felt the house settle onto the ground, and then pick itself up again. Hestia got up and served herself at the table, and Zillah descended into the hole and disappeared from sight.
"Zillah likes to swing instead of walking," Vesta explained.
"How high are the legs?" Paul asked. The movements up and down had surprised him.
"The Home is usually around ten feet off the ground, but it varies a little," said Vesta, passing her sister the vegetables. "We need the legs to be long so they can take long steps."
Some time later, Vesta knelt by the hole in the floor and helped Zillah out, and Eden took her place walking Home. Hestia and Vesta set up a loom and set up fabric they were weaving, and Zillah moved to one of the work benches and pulled out a box of dried herbs and a mortar and pestle.
"Can I help?" asked Paul.
"You could read to us," suggested Eden.
"Uh, sure," Paul said, looking around to see if he could spot any books.
"Before you read, we should discuss Lorton tomorrow," said Zillah, smoothly working the herbs into powder. "We need more flour and cheese, but Cubrickton gave us enough vegetables to keep us for a while. Eden? How are your stores?"
Eden cocked her head to the side, thinking. "I have plenty of bandages, but I'm shorter on burn paste than I'd like to be, especially going into the dry season. We should get more."
"We have quite a few lengths of fabric to sell," Hestia piped up. The loom click-clacked steadily under their hands.
Zillah nodded. "Paul? Anything you need? Lorton is a market town."
Paul shrugged. "I'm okay, I think. I guess I might need different clothes, if we want me to fit in." He hesitated, then added, "What about for Acoda Keep? Will you need anything for that?"
The sisters looked at each other. The room was quiet with nervous energy for a moment.
"It's hard to say, since we don't know what we're going to do," Hestia said slowly.
"That's fair," Paul replied. He pursed his lips, thinking over what they'd said. "Do we know anything about the keep?"
Zillah shrugged, then began transferring powdered herbs to a new container. "Not much. We've been near there, even to Brusha, and it's all cliffs and rocky islands down there. I've seen the keep from a distance, but I don't know anything about the inside."
"We could visit the bookseller in Lorton," Vesta suggested. "They might have maps."
Hestia nodded. "I'll ask around. Someone is bound to know something."
"We need pots for the plants," Eden spoke up. "And jars, for cuttings. Aunt Comfort told me once that greenroot propagates easily."
"What about seeds?" asked Paul.
"It wouldn't hurt to bring papers for seeds," said Vesta, "but I don't expect we'll find any. They're keeping it restricted, and leaving seeds out just makes them easy to steal. Any seeds they have are probably in a vault somewhere."
"Okay," Paul said. "So maps and information, and pots and jars and...I guess shovels? For digging up plants?"
"We have trowels," Eden assured him.
"Right. Okay. And...." Paul searched his memory for adventure stories and the supplies needed. "Rope? Just in case it's useful?"
Zillah nodded. "It wouldn't hurt, especially with all the cliffs."
"Right. And then....I guess we don't know," Paul ended.
"Do you have a gifting?" Hestia asked.
"I....don't know. People where I'm from don't have gifts," Paul explained. "Is there something I can do to get one? Some trick to get it going?"
"The only 'trick' is obedience," said Zillah. "You get quiet and listen, and do what comes to mind, as long as it isn't dangerous or anything of course. It takes practice to know what to listen for."
Paul blinked at her, but she didn't seem to have anything more to say. "Okay then. I guess I'll try that."
"And we'll fit it together," Vesta added. "Now can Paul read?"
Since the topic seemed to be over, Paul turned to the shelf Zillah indicated and looked over the books available.
They left Home and split up when they reached Lorton. Eden and Paul went with Hestia: Eden would use her gifting to help Hestia haggle and ask for information about Acona Keep for as long as she could, and then Paul would accompany her back to Home if she got overwhelmed. Zillah and Vesta would go to the book sellers, to look for maps, and then stock up on necessities.
Vesta had found a tunic for Paul. It was worn and a little threadbare, but it would attract less attention. She'd also given him a few coins. "We don't have much spending money, but you can have a share in case you see something useful. It's only fair."
Paul thanked her and slipped them into his pocket.
Lorton wasn't a large town, and the market reminded Paul of a large flea market from home. He hefted the bundle Hestia had given him and followed her to a row of stalls selling fabrics. As they approached, Hestia looked over at Eden, whose fingers flickered as she indicated who was in a good mood and who should be avoided.
"Can they hear us from here?" Paul asked, surprised that she used hand signals instead of speaking.
"No, probably not. But sometimes speaking is difficult," Hestia replied.
Hestia approached the seller Eden had picked, and Paul followed Eden as she drifted towards the back of the stall, running her hands over the colored fabrics. Hestia called them back a few minutes later.
"All set," Hestia announced, looking pleased. She turned to look across the market, pursing her lips as she considered where to go next for information. "We'll try the brewery, I think," she decided. "There's usually a few older soldiers and sailors there."
An hour later, Eden was safely back at Home, the other women were still in the market, and Paul had some time to himself. Remembering Zillah's words, he thought he might as well start listening for a gifting.
He sat down on a fallen log and tried to listen. Nothing happened.
Paul sighed, rearranged his legs, and listened again. This was stupid. There was nothing there. They had no reason to believe he had a gifting in the first place, so that was to be expected.
He tried once more, and the only thing that popped into his head was that the inside of the huge clock tower, with all its gears and springs, would be interesting to see. That obviously had nothing to do with a gifting, so his mind must be wandering.
Still, Zillah had said to do what came to mind, so he went and looked. The clock tower's narrow stairs were a long climb, but the workings at the top were pretty interesting to watch. Still, nothing magical happened.
The next morning, they headed south again, into Brusha territory. Zillah's gifting still said Acoda Keep.
"We did find a map," Zillah announced, spreading it out on the table. They all crowded around to examine it.
The Keep was a five-sided fortress, with thick walls and reinforced towers. It took up practically all of the island it was on. The center was open, so that greenroot could be cultivated, and storage rooms were marked along the perimeter.
The oceans and cliffs nearby were marked, and it was obvious that there was no easy way in or out. The rocks were steep along this part of the coast, and the water was too deep to easily cross.
"We don't know how many soldiers are there," Vesta explained, "but we're not exactly fighters anyway. If there's a back door or a secret entrance, nobody we spoke to knows about it."
Hestia nodded. "Same here. There is a loading dock," she pointed it out on the map, "but that's guarded as well. Though that door can't be locked from the outside, so if we do manage to get in, we could use that as our way out."
"Can Home go in the ocean?" Paul asked.
Vesta frowned. "Like a boat, you mean? We've never done it, but probably. We don't know much about sails, though."
"I suppose we could make very, very long legs," Hestia said.
Vesta thought it over, then nodded. "It would be tricky, though, with the waves and the rocks."
"You don't feel very certain," Eden commented.
Vesta shrugged. "I'm not."
"So we'll keep it as a possibility, but not a strong one," Zillah decided.
They headed south. Paul told Zillah about how he'd listened and nothing had happened, and she'd shrugged and said that was how it was sometimes, and to keep trying. So he did. It was still pointless.
He read to the women in the evenings, or helped with the simpler parts of medicine-making. He tried to help with the weaving as well, but Hestia and Vesta could settle into a rhythm so fast and smooth that his efforts were obviously slowing them down. Eden taught him to spin yarn, and kindly told him he was doing well for a beginner before re-spinning his attempts.
During the days they often came across people who needed help: broken bones to set, fevers to heal, houses to build. They were away from the contested territories, so military attacks were rare, but accidents still happened.
When Paul was on his own and was tired of listening to nothing, he started drawing. Paper was expensive, but a slate and chalk were easy to find. He drew Home in its various configurations, and his bedroom and bicycle from his real home, and animals they passed, and odd bits of half-remembered machinery. It passed the time.
Finally they stopped, at the top of the cliffs on the shore near Acoda Keep. The cliffs were high above the waves, and the salt air blew fresh against their faces.
"That's Acoda," Zillah said, pointing. "And there on the shore is Brusha Harbor. The big island in the distance is Pofash; it's controlled by Brusha also."
Paul peered down over the cliff. The waves broke on a narrow shore of rocks and sand. "Are there ways to the bottom?" he asked.
Hestia leaned over too. "Not easy ones."
"We could make one," Vesta suggested. "It wouldn't be any harder than our tree-climbing rig. Just longer."
"That sounds fun," said Eden, sitting at the edge of the cliff to run her fingers through the sandy soil.
"Well, let's have lunch," Zillah said, always practical. "Maybe something will come to us."
Paul finished his bread and leaned back on the stiff grass, letting the sun warm his skin. An insect buzzed above him, its wings flitting in the sunlight.
Suddenly Paul got the urge to draw. His fingers felt almost itchy with it. He sat up, frowning around.
"What is it?" Zillah asked.
"I want to draw," Paul said. "It's...weird."
Zillah smiled slightly. "It always is."
Eden crouched next to them and handed Paul his drawing slate. He hadn't noticed her get up in the first place. He thanked her and set to work.
He drew the bug first, with its slim body and flitting wings. Then he rubbed it away and began to draw again: something that was like the bug and like a helicopter and like an old da Vinci drawing, but not exactly like any of those.
Finally he passed it to Zillah. "I can't think of anything else to draw."
"Then it is done," she replied. "What is it?"
Paul shook his head. "It looks rather like some of the flying machines from my home universe, but not exactly. And it needs someone who knows way more than I do to build and construct it."
Zillah smiled and passed it to Vesta. "Can you and Hestia make it?"
"It - it won't work!" Paul objected. "I have no idea how these things really work!"
Vesta grinned at him. "Hestia and I don't need it to actually work, Paul. Just mostly."
Paul couldn't believe he was doing this. Hestia and Vesta had assembled a coalition of rocks and sticks and ropes and a bedsheet, and now he was inside it and flying over the edge of a very high cliff. It took both of them to focus enough to make the linkages work, but somehow they were off the ground. Zillah was in the front, calling out directions to the island she could barely see in the moonlight. Eden sat next to her, straining her ears for attention or aggression from the guards ahead.
Paul sat in the center of the ship, helping to pedal the wings of the flying ship. Pots and jars were strapped into a net behind him, and Hestia and Vesta sat on either side of him, their focus entirely on the ship.
They flew out to sea and approached the keep from the rear, trusting the darkness to hide them. Eden reported that the guards were sleepy and bored and unlikely to wake up. Paul held his breath as they crossed into the keep, the tension of the moment thrumming through him, but no one shouted out their presence.
They landed with a thump in the center of the keep. Eden immediately pointed in two different directions; someone had heard them. Paul and Zillah scrambled out, hoping it was gardeners and not guards they had to deal with.
Their luck held; the two men who came to investigate had no weapons and seemed stunned by the sight of their flying contraption. Paul didn't blame them for that. He and Zillah were able to use the confusion to their advantage and soon had the men tied up.
Eden came out next, carrying pots and jars and a trowel. Paul and Zillah took the pots and began digging up greenroot plants and packing them to be transported. Eden drew a sharp knife from her belt, and added cuttings to the propagation jars.
Paul was just finishing his second plant when Eden hissed. All three of them turned and sprinted for the flying ship. They made it inside just as a pair of guards entered the courtyard and saw the ship.
"Fly!" Eden whispered to her sisters. She secured the jars as Paul ran to his set of pedals.
They heard shouts outside, and a few spears or arrows clunked off the side of the ship, but they were already airborne.
Paul laughed with relief as they flew into the clear sky. They could go back to Home and disassemble the flying ship, and no one would be able to figure out what had happened. They had done it.
They were still breathing in their success when the air in the middle of the ship began to glimmer purple. "Zillah!" Vesta called, "is that another of those portal things?"
Zillah turned away from her navigation to look at it. "It is," she said. She got up and came back to hug Paul. "I think you're going home."
Paul nodded. It felt right. "I'm glad I could help after all."
"Come back if you can," Hestia said, as she and Vesta came to give him their hugs. Eden didn't say anything, but she squeezed his hand and smiled gently at him.
Last time on Terrarium Lights: Gail discovered whether or not the immaterially non-existent can be touched. (Next part >>here)
Gail had mostly finished the terrarium for Mrs. Oberson—she was slow at it without Michael. It really only needed one thing more, but she was stuck wavering between driftwood or extra plants.
The lad came by every day. Each time, he appeared visibly relieved to have made it back another day, to still be a part of reality. Mostly he spent his time standing beside her as she did chores, or sitting nearby while she gardened or read or worked on the terrarium.
Sometimes he was as talkative as a windship broken loose from its moorings, other times he kept a quiet watch. So far, he hadn't brought up names again, or visiting town, but he did talk about his memories, and asked Gail questions about anything and everything he could imagine.
He told her about the vague snippets he remembered. There were more fantastical places that he was pretty sure he had been to—one he said floated above the clouds, higher than an airship could go, and with trees growing in and through it and holding the earth of it together. He also became more assured that someone had been with him, though he couldn't seem to place any distinct aspects about them other than that they were there.
"He was my friend, though," he said. "I remember that. I don't know what we were doing or why we were where we were, but… we were in it together. We had each others' backs."
He had much more distant memories of somewhere a lot more like the world Gail knew, like Santa Juliana. Streets with cabs and powered cycles and gearmounts. Sea and sails hovering in the distance. Airships and windships and letterships and more humming overhead.
In her turn, she told him about the lighthouse, and the yearly commemoration there, started four years ago by the lighthouse keepers as a way to honor those lost at sea. It was a time of remembering and mourning and celebrating those who had made it back to shore because of the lighthouse. Since David had been lost at sea, she went herself.
"Not all of us go," she said. "Benjamen and Timothy can find it hard to get here, and we've all agreed that we don't want to make more of David’s death than he would want. We want to remember his life, who he was, and be grateful as much as we can for the time we had with him. Michael and I have made it a habit to go, though, and Charity has gone twice. It can certainly be a hard time, though. He… he was very young."
She told him about her collection of bugs and sketches, and showed him her very informal notes on the denizens of the garden. She also pulled out the encyclopedia that her children had gotten her one Christmas, and confessing that she was touched by the present, but rarely used it—she much preferred observing her little friends on her own, without the weight of needing to understand the more formal knowledge surrounding them. Mostly she used it after she had finished her observations. Then it was very interesting and amusing to compare to her own scratchings.
Meanwhile, the lad showed a surprising aptitude with electrical knowledge. During their times together, he repeatedly asked questions about how power got generated this far out into the country without any visible lines, and had rattled off several different kinds of possible models or modes that might have be used. He’d been hoping Gail would recognize one of them, but without luck. He also seemed to understand how their generator worked with some kind of mix of electric powering and the heat and steam generated by their internal heating system and kitchen. Most of his questions about how it worked she did not understand at all, and he did not know any way to explain it to her, so he poked around the house and had to remain satisfied with knowing little. It proved useful, however, when he suggested a simple fix for the inconsistent flickering of the lights in Michael’s office. Thankfully, she understood enough about things once they reached indoors and interacted with normal life to be able to sufficiently regear the cogstow. Anything more complicated she would leave to Michael when he returned. She had no idea about the pipewires at all.
And yet, Gail still did not know how to regear the problem of communicating with her ghost about who he was.
For now, she found herself stuck with just praying, and keeping her eyes and ears open for the results.
"So why terrariums?" He asked one day. He was standing by the desk where some of the ingredients were kept, leaning over it to get a better view of the sand, gravel, ground charcoal, rocks, spray bottles, pieces of bark, and whatever other odds and ends had ended up tucked away in cubbies.
Gail was darning socks in the sitting room. She had zoomed her glasses in further so that she could see the details better—she had never been particularly skilled with needlework, even in her younger days when she’d been able to see without extra aid. The increased size of the world gave her a comical picture of her serious-faced companion staring at her from across the room, features distorted in the curve created by the more intense zoom (she had a cheaper pair of glasses).
"Hmmmm. Well, I can't quite remember how it started. It was an idea that Michael picked up in his travels, I think. He got a few books from somewhere and it… fit somehow. I like collecting odds and ends and we both like making things and working with our hands, even if I’m not as steady with it. I like plants well enough, but sometimes they can be a handful to manage, so I like the simplicity of it all once its done and set up. A lovely thing to look at, a world unto itself, almost. And," she added with a chuckle, "much easier to take care of than most gardens. Or worlds."
"That makes sense." He poked at one of the jars of rocks. "I agree that they are quite pretty. I like the moss."
"Me too." She barely avoided getting her fingers pricked by her needle. "It's a very peaceful creature, somehow."
"Yeah. I've noticed, too, that for all the materials you have to make them, you don't seem to have too many around the house. Do you tend to make them more for other people?"
"I do." She pulled the thread to. "Well, the collection is bit of me being a packrat when it comes to keeping materials, a bit of me being slow at the job, a bit of Michael traveling often, and a bit of us giving them away. They can be quite nice as gifts. For example, Mrs. Oberson, she has arthritis, and trouble in her back. She used to garden, but can't now. I thought she might like to have plants about her again, and ones that don't require much effort or memory to take care of—she's complained to me often enough that she can hardly rely on her own mind anymore. So I imagined she might like something to brighten the house up, bring new life to the place."
Last time on Terrarium Lights: the ghost returned and tried to make sense of nonsensical memories. (next part >>here)
It turned out to be all very well and good to offer the lad help and a place to stay (as much as he could stay anywhere), but then she had to figure out what to do with him.
He seemed to be having trouble figuring out what to do with himself, too, and spent the rest of the day hovering at her shoulder—at which point they both discovered that he quite liked to talk, despite being firmly uncertain about anything he was saying. It was making working on the terrarium rather difficult, and she had trouble with the fine details at the best of times, but she found herself enjoying the company more than she expected.
It was nice to have sound in the house again.
By the end of the afternoon, she had learned he was pretty sure he had been traveling with someone else—the blue-moss cave was one of two places he was pretty sure he remembered, along with somewhere growing purple trees on blue and crimson rocks—he was pretty sure he had studied something at a university at one point, but had no idea what or where—he didn't know if he was from this area but he was pretty sure it seemed kind of familiar—he didn't know his name but he was pretty sure he knew what names were—and so on.
He asked her if she knew any names, and she found herself absently replying that she had no idea, before realizing her mistake.
To tell the truth, she had gotten distracted. When names got brought up, it occurred to her that if she could figure out his name, she might be able to find out who he was. If she started going through obituaries, maybe she could find out who he was—or had been. She was turning over the idea of looking through recent obituaries anyway, to see if any matched; while she wasn’t sure what had happened to the lad, obituaries about old folks dying peacefully in their sleep would hardly work.
Mainly her conundrum was that she didn’t know if she could tell him, either about the research itself or if she found out anything. The lad had gotten startled enough when realizing he couldn't remember his name; she had no idea what he would do if he realized he might be dead.
For now, she decided, it would be more helpful to the lad to listen to what he was saying and try to respond. She was about to rally her forces to his aid (her next strategy being to go through all the names from the Bible that she could remember), but the lad had gotten diverted again and was asking her about the papers open on the top of the desk.
"Oh, those?" she waved a hand. "I was trying to figure out if I'd be able to send a letter or two to Michael to pick up at his layover, but there don't seem to be any good letterships making their way out West. Probably wouldn’t get there in time. I forgot to put them away this morning."
Last night she had been trying to write a letter to him in her head, and had kept getting stuck on their guest. Hopefully, by the time Michael got back she'd be able to share information with him in some way that made sense; for now, she contented herself with keeping her diary updated and detailed.
"Who is Michael?"
"My husband." She took a second to fold the map and directory and timetables up, and stow them in their proper cubby.
"You're married?"
Gail had to chuckle at the surprise written all over the lad's face—the face of a child who finds out their parents' name isn't, in fact, "Mum." "Have been for the past thirty-three years, or at least so I've been led to believe."
"O-oh." He blinked. "I see. Do…do you have kids? I… I hadn't heard any… um…." He gestured vaguely around him.
"Four, but none living here," she said, resuming her work on the terrarium. "The youngest moved out a year ago, and she's working full-time as a professor now. Passed her last examinations for that station not six month hence."
"Ah. They’re all doing well for themselves, then…?" This sudden twist of information had rendered him back to incoherence.
In all fairness to the lad, Gail remembered it taking her some few decades to figure out how to talk to people. "Quite well, I'm happy to say. One took after their father, got into the shipping business. Moved rather far away, up north, where his wife’s family is from, but he writes often. A captain of his own airship now, in fact."
"Ah, congratulations," the lad said with awkward, but heartfelt, enthusiasm.
"The other is working in an orchard a few days journey away, seems quite happy with it." Gail knew quite well she could spend far longer than the lad would care to endure talking about her children, but kept the descriptions short. If he wanted to know more, he would. “From his letters, he seems like he’s getting rather taken with one of the other workers there, though I’m not sure he realizes it, himself. But they all seem to be well settled. I’m quite happy for them, though Heaven knows I’d like to see them more regular. ”
He cocked his head. "And the fourth?"
She carefully measured out how much gravel she’d need in between the layers—perhaps more carefully than she truly needed. "The Lord took him when he was a lad. Not much younger than you."
"Oh." He shuffled his feet. "I'm sorry to hear that."
Gail rested her hands on the desk, looking out the window at the bright, clear day. "Thank you for that. We miss him dearly."
Even after decades of practicing how to talk with others, she never quite knew what line to take in this particular conversation. David’s death had been something she had come to terms with, but it wasn't like it went away. One couldn't just brush over the soul-deep hurt, say that they'd been fortunate overall with getting to have him in their lives at all. But it wouldn't be right to dwell too much on the loss, not when there had been so much good.
She looked back at the ghost in her living room, standing there and watching her with soft sympathy; she wondered where his mother was, if she knew what had happened to him.
Gail dropped her plan of searching through the obituaries for the time being. Death wasn't a matter to be rushed; let him get there in his own time, when he was ready. She turned back to the desk, to the terrarium, and poured in the gravel.
"Maybe I can take you by the university sometime," she said, more abruptly than she meant. "It has been longer than I sometimes remember since I've visited my Charity, and I'm sure you'd find the place interesting. Deep into the city, it is—perhaps you’d recognize something of it. And we'd pass by the lighthouse on the way, too, if we did."
"Oh?" His tone was polite. He could tell that she was shifting the conversation, and was letting her.
"A nice place. A lighthouse and a café and the good souls that run both establishments, and it would break up the journey into the city. Though such a trip couldn’t be immediate. I'd have to let Professor Charity know ahead of time." She smiled to herself—the title still felt new and strange in her mouth, but she liked it. "The city might be nearby, but sometimes the letter system is abominably slow. Practically faster to send a whole package aboard a lettership to catch up with my Michael than to send a note to the university."
She could sense him nodding thoughtfully behind her, as if he knew what she meant. Maybe in some part of his memory, he did.
"I…I'm not sure if I'm quite ready for… something like that," the ghost said in a small voice. "I feel disheveled, and… and… I don't know where I can even go to get a change of clothes, or a bath, or anything like that. I don't… I don't know where I live."
"Ah." Gail turned in her chair, facing him as much as she could and with one arm hitched over the chair's back. "That is a dilemma. No idea at all? Perhaps if you remember a neighborhood of some kind we could take a look. Or I could, rather, if you'd prefer not to go yourself just yet."
Could he change his clothes? Should she urge him to try, and perhaps find out there was something wrong? She didn't want to lie to him and pretend he could be normal, but she also didn’t want to discourage or frighten him unnecessarily. But… he deserved to know.
He tugged at the bottom of his waistcoat again. "That's… that's very kind of you. I appreciate it, I really do, but… I have no idea. Honestly, I'm not even really sure where I've been that hasn't been here. Just… vague recollections of things like trees. Or that I was in a city once. But nothing clear, nothing that makes sense."
The ticking of the clock in the background became more present, more audible.
"I’m sorry to hear it," Gail said softly. "I will be honest, I'm not very sure what I can do to help, but… I do think it might be something that will get better with time. After all, you've been telling me bits and pieces of things you remember. Maybe more will come."
"True, but… I don't know." He looked around him, as if hoping something in the room would give him a clue. "Those feel like memories but they also feel… distant? Temporary? Not unimportant, but… I don't think I lived in a cavern of blue moss or whatever weird places I've thought up that don't seem to be from around here. It's all… dark. Did I have a family? A home? A… a change of clothes." He trailed off.
"It will come," Gail reaffirmed, unsure of what else to do. "At first, you didn't even realize that you had memories missing. So maybe, now that you know they are, you can look for them, and maybe you'll be able to hold on to something."
"Yeah." His shoulders slumped, somewhere between resignation and relief. "That's true. Like… what I'd imagine waking up out of a dream is like. I hope."
Gail nodded.
"So, um, yeah… I think for now I'd rather not try and go anywhere new."
"I understand. You're welcome to stay here as long as you need."
"Thanks." He smiled, but his eyes were foggy again. "Even here, every now and then… feels like I can't quite see it…"
"Well, it is getting on towards evening." Gail pushed back her chair. "It’s time for me to light the lamps. That should help."
The blank unfocus didn't change.
Pursing her lips, Gail looked him over, turning thoughts around in her head. "Well, I can't quite offer you a change of clothes—my Michael is of rather a different build than you." She snapped back into motion, busying herself with moving around the room and gearing on the lights, calibrating them deftly. "But if you'd like, you can look yourself over in the washroom. And if it helps, your clothes are fine. Your hair is a tad messy, with a few loose strands and all, but easy enough to put right.” She hesitated, hand on the last lamp. “Only thing with your clothes would be that stain on your shoulder."
"O-oh." The brown seeped back into his eyes, staring at her as she geared the lamp on and turned back to him. He reached up to touch his hair cautiously, as if he expected it to come alive and bite him. "I had forgotten about my hair."
"Just a simple fix needed," Gail assured him. "Washroom is right over there, and we've a decent sized mirror, too. You can go and check the matter out for yourself."
Nodding, he meandered his way over.
Gail went to close the blinds, noting the first stars beginning to poke out of the depths of navy sky.
"Lord, give me wisdom," she muttered. She didn't even know if he could see himself in the mirror, much less do anything to actually alter his appearance.
She didn’t like how she was edging on covering up the truth. She had always taught her children that honesty was better than secrets, and she had no intentions of turning hypocrite at her age.
But how could she break the news to him?
This was the best she could do, for now, to try and tell him—or show him—that something in particular was amiss, beyond what he was assuming.
A few minutes later, he returned with his hair neatly combed and tied back into a proper ponytail. He seemed to have made an effort to clean his face up some, as well. However, the bloodstain on his shoulder remained unchanged, rip and all.
"I'm afraid I couldn't find anything on my shoulder," he said apologetically, if a tad bewildered. "Is it still there…?"
Gail sized him up.
The injury or stain or whatever it was still clearly visible.
"Well, I suppose it might have just been a bit of grime, or shadow," she said, unthinkingly approaching him, "you look quite the charming lad." She dusted off his shoulder, adjusted his tie, as she would with her own son.
He beamed, the melancholy in his features giving way to bashful pride. "That's very kind of you, ma'am."
“Shall we go into the kitchen?” Gail gestured toward it, hoping he wouldn't notice the sudden strain in her smile. “It’s about time for me to get my bread kneaded and in the oven, if you’d like to hang around.”
He nodded and headed towards the kitchen.
Gail waited a moment, looking down at her hand.
The sensation still sat there, like her skin was reliving the moment of touching and not touching. His clothes, his body, had not reacted to her at all. But there had been something there. Nothing physical, nothing solid, nothing like a person--but something. Like the feeling of a blanket that's been drying in the sun but isn't done yet, warm, soft, but wet and clinging. Except not there at all. And still there was a prickling in her hand, like static build-up during a cold winter.
In her mind, too, there was something more, a sudden flash, like an unveiled lamp, a moment of brightness and lostness, emptiness.
She closed her hand around the feeling, keeping it her palm and engraving it in her mind.
It was odd, but it was him. Maybe it meant something. Maybe it could help her figure out some way to help him. And if nothing else, she had connected with him for an instant. That alone was value enough.
He, apparently, had not noticed anything odd.
Squaring her shoulders, she followed him into the kitchen, and decided that, for now, she would not bring up the clinging charge and heat that moved with her.
Last time on Terrarium Lights: Samuel was taking his state of unbeing rather hard, had a literal lightbulb moment, and vanished into thin air.
(Next part >>here)
Gail was beginning to get concerned.
That night, she had cleaned up the mess in a mixture of confusion and worry, carefully scouring the floor for broken glass, and wondering what in Heaven's name had happened.
This seemed similar to the first time he had vanished, so perhaps it was a way of him processing what was going on. She wondered how many days it would take for him to reappear this time, and hoped he was doing okay, wherever he was.
It was almost a week, and he still hadn't shown up.
Michael had been delayed, again, but in the Lord’s mercy he was due back in the next couple of days, so maybe he'd have some idea of what to do about the situation. But for now, Gail worried.
Something had happened, clearly—Samuel had been startled and upset by something before he’d broken the terrarium—and, well, how does one track down a ghost? There was the possibility of searching obituaries, or the hospital in town, but those had limited value. They might give her more information (and that was a powerfully vague 'might'), but they were unlikely to tell her where Samuel had gone, or, more importantly, what had happened to him after his presumed death.
Finally, she decided she had to do something, so she went by the church and the graveyard in the off-chance he went back to visit the graves. No luck; he wasn't there.
It had been an unsure shot, but it was disappointing to have it miss.
She took a moment to pray in the chapel again, squared her shoulders, and headed back for another day of waiting.
On the way back, the distant lighthouse caught her eye. Gail remembered what she had been trying to the other day, when they’d been writing information down and forming plans—they had meant to go to the lighthouse.
She stood for a long moment at the crossroads.
It was something of a trek to get there, and it was only a faint hunch. She didn’t even know if Samuel remembered that the lighthouse existed. He hadn’t brought it up since the churchyard visit, at least.
But she had come all the way here because there was an itch in her bones, and the thought of sitting still and waiting when there was an option to explore flared it up again. Still was not an option for her right now, and even if it didn’t do anything, a long walk would be good for her. She was searching, and by golly she was going to do a thorough job of it.
Straightening her hat on her head and offering an extra prayer for guidance and wisdom, she strode out towards the lighthouse to find what might be there.
*
The lighthouse was not as secluded as some lighthouses often were. It was decently close to the city, and along a prominent coastal road (if a tad off the beaten path), so the lighthouse keepers also ran a sort of bakery café for passerbys. Both Mr. and Mrs. Seward enjoyed baking, so it was a good passtime for them, and a decent way to bring in extra income for upkeep and the like. Mr. Seward mostly attended to his duties as the Head Lighthouse Keeper, but when he had the time and energy he would help in the kitchen, while Mrs. Seward ran the bulk of it. It being both a pretty area and a distinct landmark meant they got rather more business than one would expect, and soon became a fairly common spot for smaller cultural events and gatherings.
There were not many people about as Gail made her way up the path—a peddler with his steamwheel, a horse, plus a gearmount or two—so it did not encroach too heavily upon the quiet air of the woods, or the swooshing of the sea waves just beyond the tree line. The closer she got, the stronger rose the enticing smell of fresh bread from the windows of the café, built against the side of the lightkeeper's house.
Gail was at the door, wondering if she should go in—after all, Samuel had expressed discomfort with the idea of being around people, so it was likely he would be in a more isolated spot—when a scramble of movement, disappearing around the corner, caught Gail's eye.
If it wasn't anything related to her quest, it was at least bound to be something interesting—she hoped—so she quietly made her way around the edge of the café.
Samuel was hovering uncertainly in the corner between the back of the café and the house, as messy as she had ever seen him, curled into himself and with wide eyes like a rabbit that's just been targeted by a hawk.
Gail stopped short in shocked recognition, before putting her hands on her hips, the part of her still wading through the surprise half-wanting to give him the piece of her mind that had sprouted at her surge of relief and confusion. The rest of her quelled the impulse, more concerned at his scared state.
He froze upon spotting her, with a wild look, like he was about to dart away again. Gail got the impression he was scared of her.
Gail pursed her lips, regretting not knowing his full name. "Samuel, lad, young man," she said as the pieces stopping whirring about and suddenly clicked together, "have you been keeping away from my place because you feel bad about that terrarium?"
He winced visibly.
She shook her head, unable to quench a laugh. "Good heavens above, you think I'd get mad at you for an accident like that? It’s a small matter in the end, and can be redone. More importantly, where have you even been this last week? Are you alright?"
At her laugh, he shrank back in confusion.
"Well…" he looked at her pleadingly. "You had worked really hard on it and had been keeping it and taking care of it for so long, and then I ruined it because I messed up and overreacted to a different thing, which was the lightbulb, which was something you were kind enough to provide me with—and also you've been doing so much and going out of your way to help me after I invaded your garden, and I've just been a drain on you throughout all of that and haven't given anything back. And then I broke the terrarium. So I thought I should try and figure something out on my own instead of leaning on you too much and maybe breaking something else in the process or just continuing to inconvenience you while you’re just trying to live your life."
Gail put her hands on her hips. "Well, young man, it seems as if you've got a lot to say for yourself and not a lot of sense about the matter. Why, you didn't ask me for any of that. You weren’t somehow imposing your will on me, I was the one that volunteered—if I hadn’t wanted to or couldn’t have or had some reason to keep you away, I could have simply not helped you. But I did, because I wanted to. So please believe I'm being honest when I tell you that I helped you because I wanted to, and I still want to."
There was a noise from inside, like someone calling out questioningly. She realized she was standing behind the building and talking loudly at what might possibly look to others as empty air. Taking a few steps further towards Samuel, she pulled her voice back to a more normal volume. "We can go talk this over somewhere else, if you'd rather. Don't want to scare the locals." She winked at him, hoping to lighten the mood.
The miserable droop of his shoulders and face indicated that he did not share her amusement.
"Doesn't matter," he muttered. "They can't see or hear me."
"Ah.” She stopped chuckling, letting her pang of sadness at his response manifest on her face. Cheerfulness would have to be put back in her pocket for when he needed it. “So you tested it out?"
