by Hecate Kantharsis
My first ghost boarded when I was four.
I had pneumonia and died twice in one night. For many, many years afterwards, I had a memory that I could not explain. My brain put it in the category marked “Dreams” but somehow that didn’t seem right. Like a patched spot of plaster on the wall where a mouse once chewed through, when the light was right my eye was drawn to it, and I walked over, looked and prodded a bit, knocking once or twice to see if it was hollow or still well-sealed. Finally, I learned what had happened and it was all clear…except for wondering what the ghost wanted to tell me. After all, I had finally acknowledged a visitor’s presence, now I needed to give it a berth and feed it so it could tell me about its journey. We have had some interesting conversations over the years. I think that Prima (my first ghost) still isn’t entirely sure why she’s here either. But, we are still finding plenty of excuses for each other.
Then came several ghosts close together. I am still not sure who was first and who was last. To make things easy, I call them all the Lares. We moved a lot. People entered my world and left it again (or, rather, we left theirs) but, somehow, they also stayed with me. Sometimes, years later, I would be around them again and realize how different their ghost was from them…but, that was only to be expected: The intervening years had let each grow with different companions.
There are ghost lovers, too, people with whom I had long and rambling conversations when we had both passed into that sweet plain after the ecstatic flight up the mountainsides of our bodies. I used to think that they stayed because of me, but, I have grown to suspect that they haven’t jumped ship because they actually like each other. Sometimes I eavesdrop on their conversations.
There were some ghosts I forced off. I tried to reason with them. I tried to love them. I tried to change them. Then I realized I couldn’t and, actually, they were too loud for everyone else. They let the rigging fray. They didn’t know (or care) to put the cover back on the water barrel or coil the line neatly. They told tales. They looked in others sea chests without permission. A ship cannot survive with ghosts such as those. So, I tried to change myself and the Lares and Prima and the lovers all mutinied. After some thought, I luckily discovered that there always were enough launches to let the unruly ghosts go with fresh water and rations.
After every port, we have more hands. There seems to be no problem keeping the deck well-scrubbed and the lines neat. It is funny, but the paint never even seems to wear now.
I look back and wonder if my younger self is one of those ghosts, but, we talked it over and decided that, no, my younger self is just me. I am me and she is me, too. In a way, she is frozen. The ghosts have a life and have occupations. They do not wait patiently to be interrogated and examined, turned over and over like a tool I once used and now seems blunt and ill-suited to my hand. I hug her and tell her over and over again how I still need her, need her there and here; that she is the fixed foot on the compass rose as we sail.
The voyage is fun now and the ghosts fill the sails and I laugh to feel the wind at my back.