Old Ghosts in New Times
Not to rob the grave or anything...
But I've been thinking about Grai's spirit in Hoarfrost to Roses, and how human beings are so intricately made, with the bad and ugly trying to overcome what is inherently good in us. Not that we're all that bad, but like Grai, when life circumstances come against us, when we think there's nothing left for us but death, or when we see the world bullying us into our grave, sometimes the only thing that can save us is our spirit -- our life.
I so enjoyed writing this story because I got to explore my own complicated essence. How negative musings can be jolted 180 degrees simply by connecting to the part of me that wants to live, and live in peace. The part of me that wants to turn winter's hoarfrost into colorful blooms that brighten the day.
Grai stretched out and leaned his head on the masonry wall, whereupon his grandfather’s favorite dog had been immortalized as a statue. He shivered as he surveyed what was once a patio, but now only a clearing of broken stone and rubble separated from the courtyard by an arbor of twisted wisteria. The wound in his side pulsated and still bled, though he’d wrapped it with a torn shirt he found in the root cellar. His waistcoat, blood-soaked and stiff, he’d taken off that morning and discarded.
With half-closed eyes, he watched his spirit move about the garden, bringing life into the heirloom roses that had once made his grandfather proud—something he had dreamed to accomplish in reality. A useless gesture now in the winter. Pulling his coat tighter over his shoulders, he groaned as a spasm of pain passed through him. If he lived long enough to fulfill his dreams of rebuilding this place, it would surprise him. He assumed his death would come in a matter of days, and then his stepfather would celebrate by selling the estate. The man who, no doubt, paid to have him murdered.
The work of his spirit brought him solace, though, and he enjoyed observing the transformation of dead plants into blooming heirloom roses. He guessed his spirit was performing these minor miracles to please him, to get his mind off death. If nothing else—through his spirit—he could imagine his dreams being fulfilled. For that, he could die in peace.
His spirit slid under the wisteria to the courtyard where the colorful lights of budding roses filtered through the mildewed branches. Grai opened his eyes with a start, surprised that the spirit’s work ended abruptly, and the quivering image returned to his side.
“Why did you stop?”
“A trespasser is here in the garden.”
Grai moaned. They were after him, still? He tried to move, the pain too unbearable. He swallowed. “How many?” he whispered.
“I saw only one. A woman. A very pretty woman.”
“A woman? A spy.”
“Perhaps,” his spirit answered and looked back the way he had come as if he wanted to return to where he’d been. “She’s gone now.”
He seemed disappointed.
In 1879, somewhere near Port Townsend, WA, there was a mystery, a romance...and a ghost. Here, and today it's on sale. I hope you enjoy the read!
