D. Jackson - A Plunder of Souls

Janna hadn’t known what to make of the robberies and the symbols carved into the corpses. Maybe Mariz would.

After some time, the regulars sauntered out of the Dowsing Rod. No more than a minute later, as if they had been watching the tavern door, several of Kannice’s usual patrons filed in. Ethan finished a second bowl of chowder, and lingered over a second ale until at last night fell.

He waited until Kannice and Kelf had carried another tureen of chowder from the kitchen-to the cheers of Kannice’s hungry customers-before picking up his tricorn from the bar and catching Kannice’s eye. She was speaking to Tom Langer, one of her usual crowd. Ethan saw her falter, her grin slipping. He nodded once to her. She forced a small, thin smile in return.

He wended his way through the crowd to the tavern door, and slipped out into the warm air. It was another hazy night; the gibbous moon cast dull shadows across the lanes. A freshening breeze out of the west carried the suggestion of rain, and perhaps a respite from the heat. But thus far this had been a summer of empty thunder and deceptive zephyrs.

The streets of New Boston were largely deserted, and because this part of the city was sparsely populated, they were dark as well. Faint candlelight from a few windows spilled out onto the cobblestone lanes, but Ethan had to place his feet with care on the uneven pavement.

The Walters house was more brightly lit than most; its windows beckoned to him with a welcoming glow. No one passing by would have guessed that the family within had been haunted by a shade, which perhaps was the point.

Ethan approached the house and knocked once on the door. After several moments, it opened. Ruth stood before him, holding Benjamin, who was crying.

“She’s here,” the woman said, and walked back into the common room.

He removed his hat and entered, shutting the door behind him.

Darcy stood at the mouth of the corridor that led to Patience’s bedroom. His face was careworn, his upper lip beaded with sweat.

“Thank you for coming back, Ethan,” he said over the sound of his son’s fussing.

“She’s back there?” Ethan asked.

Darcy nodded, swallowed.

“Let’s go see her,” he said, trying to infuse the words with a confidence he didn’t feel.

Darcy faced Ruth. “Do you want to-?”

“We’ll wait out here,” she said, her voice tight.

He nodded and led Ethan to the back room.

The shade of Patience Walters made no effort to conceal herself. When Darcy and Ethan entered the room, she was by the window, gazing outside. Perhaps she could hear them, for she turned as they stopped in the center of the room. She looked first at her son before turning to stare at Ethan, and while she offered nothing by way of greeting-no gesture, no change in her countenance-she kept her eyes fixed on his.

She looked much as Ethan remembered her; through the murky green glow that clung to her like silver mist on blades of grass, he could see the lines around her mouth and eyes, the smooth brow and high cheekbones, her upturned nose. She was dressed in a simple gown and petticoats; a kerchief covered her head.

Her eyes shone so brightly that at first Ethan didn’t realize Patience was the sole source of light in the bedroom. Darcy had not lit the candle on her chest of drawers.

“Try speaking to her,” Ethan said.

Darcy glanced his way, looking nervous. But he gave a nod and faced his mother again. “Can you hear me, Mother?”

The shade fixed her gleaming eyes on him and, after several moments, nodded slowly.

“My God,” Darcy whispered. “Are you all right? Has something happened to bring you back to us?”

She didn’t reply in any way. After staring at Darcy for a few seconds more, she turned back to Ethan. Her movements were slow, graceful; she almost appeared to be underwater. She reached with her right hand to her left arm, and began to push up the sleeve of her gown.

“What is she doing?” Darcy asked.

“Did she use blood to conjure?”

“Yes, sometimes, but-” Darcy raised a hand to his mouth, reminding Ethan of Patience. “You’re right. That’s just what she’s doing. Can she-?”

“No,” Ethan said. “But I can. I think that’s what she wants.”

He pulled out his knife and held it up for the shade to see. The bobbing of her head was achingly slow, but for the first time a smile touched her lips.

Ethan didn’t cut himself; he didn’t have to for what he needed to do. “ Veni ad me, ” he said in Latin. Come to me.

Uncle Reg materialized beside him, his russet glow adding to the light in the room. He didn’t spare Ethan so much as a glance, but stared hard at the shade before them. She turned her gaze on him, her eyes widening.

“Can you communicate with her?” Ethan asked.

Reg nodded, still not looking at him.

“Ask her-”

Reg rounded on him, eyes blazing.

“Right,” Ethan said. “You know what to ask her.”

Ethan’s ghost faced Patience once more, and for a long time the two shades remained motionless, gazes locked.

“What are they doing?” Darcy finally asked.

“My spectral guide is finding out what he can from your mother’s ghost.”

“To what end?”

“I’m hoping he’ll be able to tell us why she’s here.”

“Can he speak? Great-Grandfather never could.”

“He can’t, either,” Ethan said. “But he can be quite expressive in his own way.”

For several minutes more, the shades regarded each other, communing silently. At last they broke eye contact, and Reg turned to Ethan. He appeared troubled, his eyebrows bunched, his habitual scowl more pronounced than usual.

“She’s not here by choice, is she?” Ethan asked.

Reg shook his head.

“Is she being held here?”

The ghost hesitated before nodding.

“What does that mean?” Darcy asked. “How can she be held here?”

Reg’s gaze flicked to the younger man, but immediately fixed on Ethan again.

“He didn’t like the way I phrased the question,” Ethan said. “I’m not sure yet what he means.” He chewed his lip, eyeing Reg. “It’s not that she’s being held here. Rather, something is preventing her from moving on. Is that right?”

This time Reg didn’t hesitate at all when he nodded.

“A conjuring?”

Another nod, emphatic.

“Is this related to what we saw at the burying grounds today?”

Reg answered with a small shrug.

“We have work to do, you and I.”

A fierce grin split the old ghost’s face.

“Is she … is she well?” Darcy asked. “I feel foolish asking that about a spirit. But is she … suffering in any way?”

Ethan looked to Reg, who shook his head, though he appeared troubled once more. “I don’t think she’s suffering,” Ethan said. “But this isn’t right. She doesn’t belong here, and until she can move on to the realm of the dead, she won’t be content.”

“Is there anything I can do to help her?”

“Don’t be afraid of her,” Ethan said, watching Reg. “Let her see you. Let her see her grandson.”

Reg nodded. Patience, who had been watching Ethan’s exchange with his ghost, turned her glowing eyes to her son and smiled.

Darcy smiled in turn. “We can do that.”

Ethan turned back to Uncle Reg. “ Dimit -”

Reg threw up a hand, forcing Ethan to stop. He had been about to say Dimitto te, Latin for “I release you.”

“There’s more?” he asked.

Reg nodded. He pointed to Patience, and to himself. He held up two fingers. Then a third, a fourth, and a fifth. He held up his other hand, and opened his fist one finger at a time.

“God help us,” Ethan said, breathing the words.