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One
NEAR SUNSET OF MY SECOND FULL DAY AS A GUEST IN Roseland, crossing the irove, I halted and pivoted, warned by instinct Racing toward hty a horse as I had ever seen Earlier, in a book of breeds, I had identified it as a Friesian The blonde who rode hiown
As silent as any spirit, the woed the horse forward, faster On hooves that h me with no effect
I have certain talents In addition to being a pretty good short-order cook, I have an occasional prophetic drea world, I so dead who, for various reasons, are reluctant to move on to the Other Side
This long-dead horse and rider, now only spirits in our world, knew that no one but I could see the to , but at a distance, the woressive fashion
Mount and mistress raced around me in a wide arc I turned to follow them, and they cantered toward me once more but then halted The stallion reared over s, nostrils flared, eyes rolling, a creature of such ih I knew that it was as immaterial as a dream
Spirits are solid and warm to my touch, as real to me in that way as is anyone alive But I am not solid to them, and they can neither ruffle my hair nor strike a death blow at me
Because my sixth sense complicates my existence, I try otherwise to keep my life simple I have fewer possessions than a monk I have no ti else I never plan for the future, but wander into it with a smile on my face, hope in my heart, and the hair up on the nape of my neck
Bareback on the Friesian, the barefoot beauty hite silk and white lace and wild red ribbons of blood both on her gown and in her long blond hair, though I could see no wound Her nightgoas rucked up to her thighs, and her knees pressed against the stallion’s heaving sides In her left hand, she twined a fistful of the horse’s mane, as if even in death she must hold fast to her mount to keep their spirits joined
If spurning a gift weren’t ungrateful, I would at once return ht I would be content to spend roan with pleasure and pancakes so fluffy that the slightest breeze ht float them off your plate
Every talent is unearned, however, and with it coation to use it as fully and as wisely as possible If I didn’t believe in the miraculous nature of talent and in the sacred duty of the recipient, by noould have gone so insane that I’d qualify for nuovernment positions
As the stallion danced on its hind legs, the woht arm and pointed down at me, as if to say that she knew I saw her and that she had a rim with deterht with life were nonetheless bright with anguish
When she disround but instead floated off the horse and alrass to own, and she manifested as she had looked in life before her fatal wounds, as if she ore would repel me I felt her touch when she put one hand toinin her
Behind the woman, the sun melted into the distant sea, and several distinctively shaped clouds glowed like a fleet of ancient warships with their masts and sails ablaze
As I saw her anguish relent to a tentative hope, I said, “Yes, I can see you And if you’ll let me, I can help you cross over”
She shook her head violently and took a step backward, as if she feared that with soht release her from this world But I have no such power
I thought I understood the reason for her reaction “You were o from this world, you want to be sure that justice will be done”
She nodded but then shook her head, as if to say, Yes, but not only that
Being ht wish to be
, I can tell you from considerable personal experience that the spirits of the lingering dead don’t talk I don’t knohy Even when they have been brutally ht to justice, they are unable to convey essential information to me either by phone or face-to-face Neither do they send text iven the opportunity, they would reveal so are not meant to know
Anyway, the dead can be even , which is astonishing when you consider that it’s the living who run the Department of Motor Vehicles
Shadowless in the last direct light of the drowning sun, the Friesian stood with head high, as proud as any patriot before the sight of a beloved flag But his only flag was the golden hair of his razed no more in this place but reserved his appetite for Elysian fields
Approaching ain, the blonde stared at me so intensely that I could feel her desperation She formed a cradle with her arms and rocked it back and forth
I said, “A baby?”
Yes
“Your baby?”
She nodded but then shook her head
Brow furrowed, biting her lower lip, the wo out one hand, palround
Practiced as I a the current height of the baby whom she’d once borne, not an infant now but perhaps nine or ten years old “Not your baby any longer Your child”
She nodded vigorously
“Your child still lives?”
Yes
“Here in Roseland?”
Yes, yes, yes
Ablaze in the western sky, those ancient warships built of clouds were burning down froe to bloody red as the heavens slowly darkened toward purple
When I asked if her child was a girl or a boy, she indicated the latter
Although I knew of no children on this estate, I considered the anguish that carved her face, and I asked the most obvious question: “And your son is … what? In trouble here?”