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  “We wanted thee to know that we meant no offense in our maltreatment of thy person. And, as I’ve oft heard expressed in these newer times, ‘We were only following orders.’”

  “That will be quite enough Sir Isaac,” The Reverend pointed at him, indicating that he was too close to the coronation chair. “Only if the two of you did follow orders. You know, I was considering rewarding you, for the thorough way you carried out your orders, with a two-month stay haunting the Swine Manure Nutrient Recovery Plant in Bugscuffle, Tennesse. Pretty hot there this time of year. But upon further reflection I decided not to mar this joyous occasion by disciplining you. Therefore, I will grant you clemency. Now, I’d suggest that the two of you be off to your crypts.”

  Newton and Darwin were not going to tempt the Reverend a second time, though they both wanted to hang about and enjoy the festivities with the rest of the spirits, they decided that it was better to immediately comply with the Reverend’s wishes and disappear into the safety of their crypts.

  At the end of the line of disembodied spirits who had come to pay their respects to Butterfield came an elderly ghost with a staff in one hand. In the other he held the hand of someone who wasn’t dead at all but very much alive.

  “Wally, this is Old Tom Parr and the young lady is very special to me … to the two of us I think. If it hadn’t been for her I’m not sure what would have happened. Things could have gotten quite muddled I suspect. Don’t know. Anyhow, it is my privilege to introduce to you Miss Emma Ludshorp.”

  “Oh … the witness,” Butterfield muttered a bit incoherently.

  “Please to meet you sir … Old Soul … I mean,” Emma said as she curtseyed.

  He gave her a weak smile as his attention drifted down to her feet.

  “Nice shoes.”

  “Aren’t they? They are actually slippers. Ruby slippers.”

  “Yes,” the Reverend interjected. “I thought, considering all she’s done and the fact that I couldn’t let her walk about upon these cold stone floors barefoot, that she deserved a pair. After all Miss Ludshorp has done far more service for the community than merely dropping a house upon a solitary witch. I hope you enjoy them Emma.”

  “Oh I will Reverend”, she exclaimed with delight as she clicked her heels and vanished before Old Tom Parr could follow after her.

  “Well that’s the end of the line Wally. More than enough ceremony for one day eh?”

  “No. No. Wait … Reverend. You promised,” Bradshaw’s ghost exclaimed as he rushed over to the north transept door and opened it.

  A tall woman, with an impressive braid of silver hair, tentatively edged her way through the proffered opening.

  John Bradshaw’s ghost grabbed her hands and pulled her through.

  The woman was anxious, confused, and understandably reluctant to enter a dimly lit specter-filled church. She dug in her heels, literally, but eventually succumbed to the ghost’s fawning protestations and insistence that she allow him to convey her to where Butterfield and the Reverend were holding court.

  “Here she is Reverend,” the ghost of Bradshaw said with great pride, “Ms. Zoraida Fernsby!”

  “Oh yes Ms. Fernsby. Pleasure to meet you. I almost feel as though I know you. Johnny has been positively gushing to me about your artwork for years. What a stroke of luck that the ill-advised actions of WITCH have provided him with the perfect social setting to make your acquaintance.”

  “Reverend, may I remind you that she had nothing to do with those ill-advised actions.”

  “Yes. Yes. Of course Johnny. Calm yourself. I’m quite aware of Ms. Fernsby’s heroic stand against the misguided Hecuba.”

  “Ms. Fernsby,” the Reverend continued dotingly, “I’m so pleased that you could join us today. As I was saying, Johnny is a great fan of your paintings. Garbage isn’t it?”

  Zoraida was beginning to sort out some of the events going on around her. Being a WITCH, she knew a lot about ghosts. Their presence in the Abbey didn’t surprise her much. But the Reverend was something else. He was obviously pretty powerful. All the ghosts were bowing and scraping around him. The ghosts were also being very deferential to the wrung-out young man seated near him on a throne. Zoraida speculated that he was that Wallace Butterfield person that Maeva had been talking to her so much about on the telephone. His being exalted and seemingly worshiped somehow put her at ease, made her feel that she couldn’t be in any danger if they were going to treat a mortal like that. So, Zoraida relaxed and warmed to the Reverend’s welcoming attention.

  “Yes. I do paint garbage.”

  “Well, that makes sense. I mean, that’s why Johnny here is so smitten with your work. He spends most of his free time at the Mucking Marshes Landfill. I believe he’s caught a glimpse or two of you out there with your paintbrush and easel. Strange thing that — he detests being encased in garbage, but over the centuries he’s developed a certain aesthetic appreciation for refuse. I’ve heard him wax poetic about one of your landscapes … I think it depicted a steaming transfer station at sundown?”

  “Oh I did paint that. I do think I did a good job of capturing the moment.”

  “As did our Mr. Bradshaw. Bet you didn’t know he was spying on you? Mind you he’s no perv — just a regicide.”

  “No I didn’t know that he was about but I’m normally pretty toasted on absinthe when I do my best work.”

  “Of course, not that I’m trying to play matchmaker here, but I promised Johnny a vacation after this whole Butterfield thing had come to an end. He had this idea that you might like to take a couple of art lessons from some Polish chap.”

  Bradshaw’s ghost chimed in, “Reverend, that would be Zdzislaw Beksinski.”

  “Yes, of course, the ghost of Mr. Zdzislaw Beksinski. And I do believe he’s willing to take you on as a pupil Ms. Fernsby. However, there is a wrinkle. He is a bit of a shy fellow — reclusive. But aren’t all ghosts. I’m afraid the only way you can study with him is by going to see him. As I recall he resides in Poland.”

  “The Sanok Cemetery in Podkapacle is his place of residence,” the Ghost of John Bradshaw added.

  “Thank you Johnny… I guess the question is Ms. Fernsby, are you willing to take the trip on us — with Mr. Bradshaw here — to Poland? If you find the idea of traveling alone with him to be inappropriate, I could arrange for a chaperon. The ghost of Amelia Bloomer perhaps? I assure you that she’s more than a match for Johnny.”

  “Oh, I’m sure that won’t be necessary. Mr. Bradshaw seems to be quite the gentleman.”

  “Well Ms. Fernsby don’t let his clothing fool you. A laced collar alone is no sign of character. But I take your response as a yes. Delightful! Johnny will conduct you to your plane. Remember, all expenses are on us and you’ll find a gift of a complete trousseau in your new Louis Vuitton luggage.”

  Zoraida smiled appreciatively as the ghost of John Bradshaw rushed up to the Reverend and for the first time in their acquaintance grasped his hand.

  “Oh … steady on Johnny. It’s just a holiday. The Marshes still are waiting for you. But enjoy yourself for the time being. Who knows, perhaps you’ll learn to paint happy little trees, happy little clouds, happy little mausoleums — that sort of thing?”

  As Zoraida Fernsby and the ghost of John Bradshaw disappeared out the north transept door, the Reverend turned his attention back to Butterfield. “You know, I think it’s time for us to take a vacation too and I know just the place. Stand up me boy, I’ll have us there in just a matter of seconds.”

  The Reverend and King Edward’s ghost helped Wallace to his feet. Then the Reverend held up his lantern. As he did so, the Cosmati Pavement began to glow and move as though it was a carousel.

  “It’s liminal space. Think of it as sort of twilight between what is and what isn’t. This is a threshold into it and out of it. It’s kind of a
place where the boundaries of math and science — reality itself — dissolve and reconstitute into a myriad of different forms.”

  Reverend Poda-Pirudi began to circle Butterfield, still holding up his lantern, the pavement moved more and more rapidly beneath their feet.

  “I had this one built years ago. I’ve made many others since then and placed them all about the world. But, I must tell you this one is pretty powerful. Well, we should be off.”

  He opened the door to his lantern. Again, a bright light shot forth.

  Chapter Twenty

  The Holiday

  It was so odd. He was a good kilometer up in the air and was falling through a fluffy cloud, but wasn’t scared. Wallace Butterfield was not tense or apprehensive. As Butterfield exited the cloud, he saw a large archipelago below. Around it, the sea turned from a deep sapphire blue to a bright green. Squealing with delight, he clasped his knees to his chest and spun wildly. Wallace crashed into the sea, sending up a huge geyser of water in his wake. Dropping like an anchor, Butterfield continued to descend till he hit bottom. As he did so, hundreds of blue ribbon eels with brilliant yellow dorsal fins popped their heads out their holes and stared at Butterfield in amazement. He was grabbing at his throat, tearing at his collar as saltwater came rushing into his lungs. Wallace Butterfield had heard how people who were drowning didn’t experience pain. Certainly, this appeared to be the case. Strangely, it was somehow exhilarating. He had heard about that too.

  The ribbon eels’ heads swiveled from side to side as they tracked Butterfield’s movements. He contorted and convulsed and paddled in circles about the sea floor. But he was not dying. The ribbon eels knew that. And after a while, so did Wallace.

  At some point it began to dawn on him that, though he was breathing in water, he was not choking and certainly wasn’t in the throes of death. He really hadn’t panicked. It was more like aquatic theater. Butterfield had felt an obligation to be in terror for his life, since he was at the bottom of the ocean. But upon reflection, he realized that being at the bottom of the ocean and breathing in water was just one of these new states that he had been experiencing — like falling out of the sky. Things like this had been happening to him whenever the Reverend opened his lantern door. Butterfield began to relax, and as he did so he discovered that breathing in water now seemed as natural to him as laughter was to a baby. And indeed Butterfield was laughing, — hysterically.

  Being here was a delight. Exotic fish were everywhere; schools of silver trevally and blue and yellow fusilier rushed by him, giant manta rays lumbered about, parrotfish, lionfish, damselfish, regal angelfish, surgeon fishes were everywhere amongst the eccentrically twisted corals and sea fans. All were pulsating with a richness of color that he had never beheld in anything. Thousands of shades of reds, oranges, yellows, greens, blues, and violets shimmered all about him, but they seemed drab compared to the new colors he was seeing. The colors embraced the far ends of the electromagnetic spectrum. He saw infrareds, ultra violet, polarized light, even left and right circular and elliptical polarized light. Along with his vision, his sense of smell was heightened. Butterfield could detect the individual components that made up the salt water he was swimming in. He knew the identities of the fresh water streams and tributaries that had intermingled with it. And, as he breathed water in and out of his lungs, he could tell which currents had conveyed the ocean here. He could name them too, as well as the deep-sea vent that had added a hint of sulfur to the mix. His hearing was intensified too. Wallace Butterfield could hear anything he chose to, from the seismic movement of the Solomon Sea plate deep below him to the sound waves that were being pushed ahead of the local sharks that were cruising along the chasm.

  Sharks were plentiful. Black-tipped sharks and grey whales were patrolling the corals looking for their dinner. They were intrigued with Butterfield and made runs at him, veering off to go around him at the last minute. He could feel their fins brush by him. To Butterfield’s surprise it was a pleasant sensation, very friendly, very comforting.

  There were other creatures here as well, but not of the present time. Long-dead fishes and saltwater crocodiles and prehistoric animals like mosasaurs, a behemoth cross between a fish and a crocodile. They were stacked up on the bottom of the canyon, snoozing, like the ghosts in their crypts on the floor of the Abbey.

  “Wally.”

  Butterfield heard his name being called.

  “Wally would you mind coming up here?”

  It was the Reverend. Butterfield could see his reflection dancing and shimmering across the surface of the water.

  Pushing his feet off the bottom, Wallace Butterfield began to swim upward with the dexterity and power of a gigantic frog.

  As his head popped out of the water, the Reverend exclaimed, “There you are my boy. Having a good swim, are we?”

  “Why, yes, I think so. To tell you the truth, I’m feeling ecstatic, not at all like myself.”

  “Well, of course, you’re not. I remember feeling the same way when it all happened to me.”

  “When what happened?”

  “When I became the Old Soul, as you’ve become — though you aren’t very old yet — but that will come with time.”

  The Reverend was sitting on a small sandy beach. Most of the shore had been taken over by mangrove roots. The interior consisted mostly of coconut palms, and kerosene, queen ebony, and rosewood trees. It was a little island surrounded by much bigger ones, all mountainous. Butterfield could see the volcanic cone of a large summit off in the distance. The Reverend’s island was just a bump in a string of islands that formed the outer part of the huge lagoon.

  “It’s the Marovo Lagoon.”

  “Yes it is. I don’t know why I know this, but I do.”

  “Oh you would. You’ll find that you will know more and more things as the days go on, some incredible things. But let’s have lunch shall we? I’ve had a picnic basket packed for us. And to tell you the truth, I’m famished.”

  Butterfield noticed the large wicker basket next to the Reverend, who was fondly patting it with his right hand. He had also changed for this outing. He still had on his black shirt with its clerical collar, but, from the waist down, he was dressed in local traditional garb: a warrior’s tapa skirt made from pounded tree bark and painted with a pattern of intricate geometric designs in brown and black on a background of light grey.

  “Well, we have a small feast here. There’s coconut milk, crab, banana, pineapple, and papaya. Oh look, Johnny has packed some char-broiled tuna steaks and this.” Reverend Poda-Pirudi held up a six-pack of ale. “It’s Nuzu Nuzu Ale. I love the stuff. Made locally you know. It’s the best ale brewed on the Solomon Islands. Well, actually it could be the only ale brewed here, but it’s good stuff.”

  He uncapped a bottle and handed it to Butterfield, along with a plate of food. The two of them began to eat in silence. In a short time the picnic basket was nearly empty. Taking his eyes off their feast for a moment, Wallace noticed that the Reverend was leaning against something that appeared to be very old and manmade.

  “I don’t know what that is, but I know it is very important.” Butterfield gestured to a large stone box.

  “Oh good. You’re picking this up very quickly. I am pleased. It is indeed very important. It’s as important as the Abbey. It’s been here much longer than the Abbey has been around too. I used to come here when I was about your age. I was quite the lad back then. These islands hadn’t been inhabited with people that long, but, still, there were clans across the length of them.” The Reverend then pointed his thumb against his own chest and said with mock swagger, “I was a great warrior.”

  “You? I wouldn’t have pictured you as a warrior.”

  The Reverend laughed. “Of course not. But time can change a man and I’ve had lots of time. I hate to say this, but back in the old days I was a fierce headhunter, t
he scourge of these neighboring islands. I had a great war canoe with tens of warriors. We’d paddle out to other islands and take heads and prisoners. I used to come to this place to stack up the heads of my victims near this stone box you’ve noticed.”

  Butterfield’s face twisted with disgust. “Why would you do that? Taking heads?”

  “Well, I was driven by — let us call it an ill-fitting spirit. I had bad dreams all the time. Like you — but I hadn’t manage that first-rate technique of yours of pushing it up out of my head. It totally controlled me. Awake or asleep, it was always whispering in my ear to go out and kill. So, taking heads became a passion with me. Maybe like playing with a telegraph key was to you? Or maybe not.”

  “I’m not following you. I pushed my spirit up out of my head?”

  “Yes indeed. Quite a feat that.”

  “Anyhow, once you’ve got an impressive collection of heads, what do you do with them? I decided the best thing to do was to put them on display next to this sacred stone box—”

  “How did I push my soul out of my head?” Butterfield insisted, feeling a bit put out.

  “Sorry. I’m leaving out some details, aren’t I? When you were awake, you wouldn’t let it take hold of you. But at night, when your defenses were down, it would force its way into your brain. Then, you would simply toss it out. What an amazing display of willpower and such a simple solution to a complex problem. I wished I had figured that one out. As I was going to say, this box contains the skulls of some of my people’s greatest chiefs and warriors. Many of them were from other lands that my people inhabited before they came to these islands. They were carried across the land for thousands of miles and transported across the sea for thousands of miles too. My folks believe that this is a very sacred spot. In our legends this is where our souls are collected when we die. From here, at sunset, they are transported across the ocean in a great stone war canoe—”