Ghosts: An Accidental Turn Novella by J.M. Frey

Author:J.M. Frey
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: REUTS Publications, LLC.
Published: 2016-04-03T22:00:00+00:00

Part Four

I’m gasping for a few moments of quiet time with my pipe. Without Kin. Just to drown this buzzing, itching desire and the horrific shame that flares under my skin, in the base of my spine, lingering on the back of my tongue. To numb all the places and patches where Kin has touched me before, where I want him to touch me again. But my pipe is in my writing box, and that’s on the blanket with the Goodwoman of Pern, and I don’t have the guts to look her in the face right now. Not yet. So instead, I walk the perimeter of the festival.

It makes me feel better, one eye on the people, one eye on the darkness beyond, like I’m patrolling. It makes me feel like I have a purpose.

On the far side of the massive bonfire from the Goodwoman’s blanket—and presumably Kin—Lord Gallvig is standing on a small, knocked-together wooden platform, accepting strips of cloth from a line of people. Some of the cloth looks new, some worn, and some even looks like it was torn from wedding finery or funeral shrouds. I lean against the pole of a pastry tent and watch the lord wrap the cloth around and around a long length of pine, until the end is absolutely bulbous. Some children offer up string to tie it all in place, fussing over their knots and bows, tongues poking out and eyes squinting in their concentration.

When it’s done, the lord walks twelve circles around the fire with the cloth-stick held aloft. Every time he passes the ruins side, the children squeal with delight and shout the name of a month. When a whole year’s worth of laughter has been counted out, a woman who must be the lord’s wife wreathes the head of the torch with a garland of dried flowers and fruits, herbs and winter wheat.

Together, her cheek resting on his shoulder, fingers intertwined, they touch the ball of fabric to the flames. It catches slowly, sweetly. Deep beneath the layers of cloth there must be pitch. The torch, once lit, doesn’t smolder or flicker out.

The lord plants the torch into a hole bored into the side of the ruin wall. The scent of sage and clary, rosemary and golden roses, weeping martins and forget-me-nots perfumes the clearing as the fire licks at the wreath. It is the bouquet of mourning and remembrance, of filial love and neighborly admiration, and gratitude.

I breathe deeply and am filled with shame.

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