Jory Strong: Ghostland

Aisling looked down at her own worn and work-stained clothes. She thought about the priest’s hesitation when she’d asked if she would be able to return home.

Fear lodged in her chest and throat again as she wondered if she’d survive this city, this task that had brought armed men and a servant of the Church to the San Joaquin in order to retrieve her.

Aziel turned from the window. His wet nose found her ear in a rooting, affectionate gesture conveying his belief everything would be okay.

She smiled despite the turmoil of her emotions and the sight of the Church that loomed ahead when the truck turned onto a narrow street. They passed through a heavily guarded gate, then slowed to a stop.

“Here we are,” the priest said. He smoothed the black material of his cassock as he glanced at the streaks of red marking the impending sunset.

Opulence, wealth, pictures painted by masters who’d been dead hundreds of years before The Last War. Those were the impressions Aisling was left with as she was led through the hallways by a woman in a nun’s habit. “Now that I know your size, I’ll arrange for fresh clothing,” the nun said as she ushered Aisling into a small, comfortably furnished room. “Take a shower. There will be food waiting when you’re finished.” She glanced at the ferret with curiosity. “Do you need anything for your pet?”

“A litter box.”

The nun nodded and shut the door. A lock slid into place with a nearly silent click, trapping Aisling in a room with handwoven rugs and polished wooden floors, furniture that was pleasing to the eye as well as functional. It didn’t look like a prison, but even without the locked door, the unfamiliar city and lack of money or allies made it one.

She glanced out into the nearly dark sky and let her thoughts flow to the hot shower and the promised meal. They were all prisoners of the night and the predators waiting in it.

Aisling pulled Aziel from her shoulder and set him on the back edge of a chair before going into the bathroom. She stripped out of her clothing, and shivered with pleasure when she stepped under the hot water. She stayed until a shadow announced the nun’s return.

Dismay filled her when she left the shower to find her clothes missing, replaced by a long black dress with a wide skirt. It was a modest garment, meant to conceal the female form.

Aisling didn’t want to wear it, but the dress was her only choice other than wrapping herself in a towel or bedsheet. Her eyes widened when she saw a hair dryer next to the sink. It was a luxurious use of electricity she wasn’t accustomed to.

In her enjoyment of the hot water, she’d gotten her hair thoroughly soaked. The thick, honey-blond strands curled around her buttocks when unbound and could take hours to dry.

Using the hair dryer was almost as blissful as the shower. She lingered several minutes beyond the point where her hair could be braided and coiled at the back of her head.

Aziel was helping himself to a piece of chicken by the time Aisling emerged from the bathroom. She laughed at his naughtiness. He wouldn’t have dared to get on the kitchen table at home, Geneva would have…

A lump formed in Aisling’s throat. She blinked, suddenly overwhelmed by homesickness and worry.

The ferret looked up from the meat clasped between his paws. He chirped excitedly.

Aisling forced away all thought but appreciation for the food in front of her. She joined Aziel at the table and ate. When it was done she checked the door and found it locked. With no books to read and no one to talk to, she lay down on the bed with Aziel curled on her pillow.

It was getting late when the sound of the door opening woke her. “Come, they’re waiting for you,” the nun who’d escorted her to the room said.

Aisling slipped from the bed. “I’d like my clothes back.”

“They’re being washed. When they’re clean, they’ll be returned.”

It was such a small thing, considering everything that had happened and might yet happen, but the knowledge she’d soon be wearing her own clothing lifted Aisling’s spirits. “Thank you,” she whispered as Aziel reclaimed his perch on her shoulder.

The nun’s expression gentled. “Come,” she said, her voice warmer. “They’re waiting for you. I believe it must be important given the mayor’s presence.”

Aisling was led to a room. It was cold, as if it wasn’t used much and therefore wasn’t heated often. Though the nun had said the mayor waited, there were only two men in the room-one was the priest who’d come for her, the other a much older man wearing bloodred robes.

“You’ve met Father Ursu,” the unknown priest said. “I’m Bishop Routledge. Your services are needed. In exchange for a successful performance of them, you’ll be granted a license to practice your skills in Oakland. You’ll be provided with a residence in the area of town where others with controversial abilities have settled. You’ll also receive vouchers for food and transportation as well as a small fee in order to ease your transition.”

He started to turn away. Aisling said, “Father Ursu told me I’d be allowed to return home.”

The bishop halted. He smiled, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Returning home with a financial reward is a possibility. But first let’s see if you succeed tonight.”

Aisling tried to appear confident, unafraid. His voice and wording confirmed what she already knew. There was no choice about whether or not she would help them. “What service have I been brought here to perform?”

She asked, and yet she knew there could be only one thing they wanted of her, to enter the spiritlands where the dead waited for judgment or rebirth, where they found heaven or hell, depending on belief. It was a shaman’s gift to go into the ghostlands, to walk in the afterlife and bargain for answers and help from the beings found there.

“An important constituent is in need of aid. He asked me to act as a go-between. A woman acquaintance of his has disappeared. The police haven’t been able to find out what happened to her. Our constituent wants closure, even if the news is bad. It’s not something the Church would typically condone or take part in, but there are extenuating circumstances. We’re hoping a shaman or shamaness might be able to locate her, especially if her soul has already departed.”

Bishop Routledge retrieved a photograph from a table Aisling hadn’t noticed. He handed the picture to her. “The woman’s name is Elena Rousseau. I fear time is of the essence. Father Ursu will remain with you. I have other matters to attend to.”

The bishop left the room without another word. Father Ursu indicated a chair next to the table. “I’ve witnessed this kind of thing before. I won’t interfere.” He picked up a chalice and handed it to her.

Aisling managed to contain her expression and her thoughts when she glanced down to find grains of salt in the silver cup. Aziel chattered happily as he buried his hands in the white granules and threw some of the salt to the floor.

Father Ursu cleared his throat. His face was tense. “It’s nearing midnight. The police have discovered several bodies recently. We have reason to believe the victims were all murdered during the witching hour.”

Aisling wondered again what abilities he possessed. Fear lurked deep in his eyes, as if he’d seen some of the beings drawn to the dead hours of the night.

She moved to the center of the room and sat on the bare, cold floor. If she’d been at home she would have put Aziel on her lap and enclosed them both in a circle of chalk or ash, or surrounded them with the fetishes she used when she wanted to project her astral self into what most thought of as the ghostlands. Though in truth it was a land of spirits, an ancient place holding much more than human souls. But here, under the watchful eyes of the priest, guided more by intuition than reason, she plucked the ferret from her shoulder and set him away from her.