M. Rose - The Secret Language of Stones

I described how I crafted the talismans and then answered her questions about how I came to make the first one. When I explained about hearing the first dead soldier talk to me, she leaned forward a little.

“And how many of these charms have you made? How many soldiers have you spoken with?”

“More than fifty by now.”

She put her hand on mine. “Isn’t that too difficult a toll on you? Aren’t you being emotionally bruised?”

Tears welled up in my eyes. Oddly, no one had guessed. Not even Anna. And I’d never volunteered it. Not even to my mother. My tremendous sense of guilt prevented me from complaining. And now, of all the people asking, offering empathy, it was a woman who’d been consort to the tsar of one of the largest countries in the world and witness to its entire government toppling. She’d lost everything and yet offered me sympathy.

“It’s the very least I can do. Millions of men have died, leaving behind tens of millions of grieving mothers and fathers, wives, daughters and sons. How it makes me feel-” I shrugged. “That’s unimportant.”

“That’s very noble, my child, but you must take care of yourself as well. Listening to the dead has to be very painful. Do they tell you how they died?”

“Sometimes.”

“Do they speak of the suffering they endured?”

“Except for one”-I thought of Jean Luc-“no, no, they don’t. They aren’t suffering when they find me, or I find them. They’re haunted by the grief of those left behind and need their loved ones to let them go, so they, the soldiers, can move on. That’s why they give me messages to deliver.”

The Dowager nodded.

“So they don’t tell you about the pain?”

I understood then what she was asking. She needed to prepare herself for what she might hear if indeed I found any of her grandchildren.

“No, they don’t.”

“I don’t think you could bear it if they did.”

Or you , I thought, but didn’t express it.

“But this one who did tell you, do you know why? What was different about him?”

Ah, how to explain about Jean Luc? What did I even know for certain?

“I don’t know, but rest assured, it’s not something likely to happen again.” My voice broke, and I was embarrassed. No, it wouldn’t happen again. There would never be anyone else like my ghost lover.

“It was so terrible…,” she said. “So terrible you haven’t recovered still?”

How to tell her how difficult it was to hear Jean Luc describe the last attack on him and his men. How for hours afterward I was unable to do anything.

The words of the dead are much heavier than those of the living because each requires so much effort and energy. We take our words for granted. While we live, our minds and our bodies are connected, but once we die and the connection is severed, the soul is awkward on this plane without having a corporeal presence.

Jean Luc said it was like being one with the air, and the feeling, while freeing, was too limitless, too uncontrolled. Ghosts are unhappy creatures, not pleased to be stuck in our realm, uncomfortable and disassociated. Remaining with us is a hardship.

“Do these talismans you make always work?”

“No. A few times I’ve created one and not heard a spirit.”

“Do you know why?”

I shook my head.

She rose and walked to the window, where she stood looking out at the sea.

“I think I’m afraid of what you do,” she said. “We’ve always embraced the mystical in our country. The long winters and dark nights lend themselves to tales of the strange and incomprehensible.” She turned back to face me.

Behind her, in the sky out the window, the sun peeked through clouds, illuminating her from behind. For a moment she seemed to float there, surrounded by a nimbus of opalescent light, very much an otherworldly creature herself.

“At first I hesitated about meeting with you. And even now I’m not sure I want to proceed.”

I didn’t know what to think. Grigori and I had risked our lives to come here and meet with the Dowager. Anger bubbled up inside of me, but I couldn’t show it. This woman had been the tsarina of Russia. The mother of its last ruler. The grandmother of its now uncertain future. She wasn’t like the women who came to me in the shop who knew their sons, fathers, brother, lovers, and husbands were dead. This woman had no idea how many of her loved ones she had lost, had no idea how much deeper her grief would go. Compassion supplanted my anger.

If I were in her place, I might not want to know either.

“We don’t need to proceed, Your Highness. If you’ve changed your mind, we can abort the exercise.”

Her fingers worried a string of marvelous pearls looped twice around her neck, their luminosity and shimmer exaggerated by the black silk behind them. Other than two simple gold bands she had on her ring finger, the strand was the only jewelry she wore.

I knew, because the Orloffs had talked of it many times, how the royal family had been stripped of all their possessions. Their vast stores of money, securities, antiques, artwork, and jewels had all been conscripted by the revolutionaries. The remaining Romanovs were broke. Even those who’d managed to escape with some treasures had little left. Most needed to sell their valuables in order to live.

“In addition to the locks of hair, I brought more keepsakes, the few I still have. I wasn’t sure if they would aid you.”

I watched her withdraw a purple velvet pouch from inside a hidden pocket in her voluminous skirt, open it, and pull out the sapphire enamel box I’d noticed in her bedroom. Twisting the double-eagle insignia, she opened it and stared down into its interior, lost in thought.

I’d never had insights into what people were thinking. Only the dead spoke to me. But I imagined, based on our conversation so far, she was wondering if it would be better to know the worst about her family or be left with hope.

With a sigh, she tilted the box toward me, showing me its contents.

One would have expected emeralds, diamonds, sapphires, and pearls to be nestled in the casket lined with pale robin’s egg blue satin. But none of those would have been worth as much to the Dowager as the items she withdrew.

“This is the first tooth Alexei lost.” She placed it in front of me. Next, she took out a faded coral length of grosgrain. “This is a ribbon from Anastasia’s confirmation bouquet of flowers.”

There were a dozen other small keepsakes, and she described each one to me, lovingly.

“I wanted to make sure you’d have what you needed.” Her voice broke. A tear escaped from her eye and rolled down her cheek. She blotted it with a handkerchief embroidered with a royal insignia.

Anna told me they called her the Lady of Tears. In one lifetime, she’d already witnessed the assassination of her brother King George I of Greece, the premature death of her first fiancé, the early death of her husband in 1894, the abdication and then assassination of her son Tsar Nicholas II, the execution of many members of her family during the Bolshevik Revolution, and the dissolution of her entire way of life.

“Excuse me, I just miss them so,” she whispered.

“I understand, and I am sorry.”

Returning all the items to the box, she composed herself, and once she was again in control, she continued. “So you have what you need, correct? These items will work as a conduit and enable you to make contact with them if they have indeed passed on?”

I nodded, then answered aloud. “Yes, that’s correct. I might only need the locks of hair, but thank you for bringing all these other bits and pieces. I might be able to use them as well.”

“You won’t destroy anything in the process?”