The Ghost sat on the cliff’s edge. As he always did at this time. This time of year. At this time of day. It was his favorite place.

No one saw him. Even on the few times they happened to wander by.

Tonight the weather was violent. Lightning crossed the sky like the creases of Thor’s hands. The Ghost just looked on. He was not getting wet. But that was no wonder. He was so long dead. He could not remember his own name.

As the rains bore down. Something began to happen. He felt something.

It was power. A power to exist. It was short. He knew. There was only one thing to do. He laughed. He shouted. He heard his own voice echo in the rocks.

For no reason he threw his hat in the air. It fell to the ground again. But this time with a clang of metal.

Existing in a place, in time, was the delight the eternals gifted him every now and again.

The rain fell in a roar with his laughter. The echo filled the valleys below. His joy was complete. He tears was the joy of the rain. All was worth it for a moment. But he could not remember why.

“Hello?” A voice called out from the darkness.

The rain ceased very suddenly.

The Ghost turned to see a young man walking down the mountain to his stoop. He seemed to be looking for someone.

“Hello.” He called aimlessly.

“There is no one here.” Another voice called down.

“I heard it clear as day.” said the man.

“We all did.”

“I tell you he was close by!”

“It wasn’t real. It was the voice of the mountain. Everyone knows that. The devil’s work.”

“The devil ain’t got a voice box.”

The Ghost froze as the lightning again lit up the sky. The power of its light seemed to vibrate through him. The man stopped: he had seen him.

Oh the time was passing too quick! He had not been ready for so short a moment to explain! What could he explain? He had forgotten so long ago!

He grinned a confused grin, and waving: faded into the cold mist.


The village of Keythos was a small and insignificant collection of people. Nestled into an uncomfortable geographic oddity. Being below snow capped mountains the nights could get very cold. But also being on the southern edge of a mountain range where the persistent trade winds blew most all precipitation North and Westward. And somehow, not that far South of Keythos, were lush grasslands full of wild game. And yet somehow people had settled in Keythos and had a proud tradition in desert living. Provided for, in good measure, by imported goods and foods, despite the high population of farmers to any other profession.

Most members of this society descended, by claim, accident or infidelity: from three families who had laid claim to the land going back at least three generations. Those landholders held this place as their own as if they had always been there, and that before them there had been no people, at least no one that anyone spoke of. Which, I can say, no one wondered at the arrowheads laying in the dirt or gave a second thought on whose hands it was that lifted the obsidian and threw it down to find the right piece to turn to use. But somehow in the passing of land from those people to these present ones came the curse of dry land that they held as their provincial pride and heritage. The shadow ghost of the old inhabitant did not rejoice either in the loss of the land or the treatment of it. For the understanding of it had passed away with their living on it. The trees were taken for shelter. Leaving the cactus to grow and the grasses to die.

To this town few came - none stayed. Travelers felt the eye brand of ‘stranger’ upon them; even those of amiable business connections desired no extra time or expense on it or its inhabitants. Treatment whether civil traveler, vagrant or criminal, most folk from the outside were lumped altogether in the latter categories.

This idea of stranger let go the usual aversion to guilt and made way to legitimize their inflation of prices, their dirty looks at them, increasing their natural desire to spit in public; and, on the whole, inspired a collective absorbed together in comraderie of uncreative jokes and malicious heckling. Indeed I could have written ‘un-Christian like behavior’ but then you would have read that to mean whatever you wanted. But like all children of religion, they read their Old Testaments with the perspective that they were ‘the chosen’ and everyone outside could not be. If only by segregation of dress and mannerism. Nevermind that they did not have a clear idea of what a Jew really was because who really believes in slingshots and giants? Particularly when you have carte blanche from Deity and gunpowder? Ignorance and Religion take long walks on the corpses of the hopes and dreams that only Love and Understanding caretake. But if love is meant by “spare not the rod”: then beatings is what you give your child. If you know shepherding, however, the rod is a tool for guiding an ignorant beast, gently through perilous country, not at all a scourge to be feared. But a tool of guidance that was there to be trusted. But when left to ignorance the accounts of the ancients only detailed their desires and justified their hatred.

There were four leaders, chiefs the locals had the gall to call them, who represented and decided all things public. They were all cousins who shared a passion for making quick decisions for the feeling of justice. But something grew overtime: the growing feeling of power in the fear of the populace at each sacrifice of Able that was made with the gallow’s dance. Most outsiders watched their own behavior carefully and uprightly and dared no dissent as they passed through. For fear of the local rush to justice. And pre-justice was a preweighed scale out of most human behavior. The locals knew how to contain a running man very efficiently. Court proceedings were usually done the following day after capture. Sentencing was relished and public and perhaps a little way in part due to hangover. Hanging was the popular spectacle; drinking heavily to gloat was the preamble to justice. So it is that the unimportant overreach in their attempt to matter. But matter to what? To whom? The people did not know because they were little different than their chiefs. Maybe not naturally, but it was safer to blend in.

For the townsfolk it seemed, on the whole, safe. For the corpse that was left to hang was never a familiar face, no one they knew or had any reason to find lovable. He had come from somewhere, but to them he had come from nowhere but hell itself. To be a criminal was the result of crime. Was not Justice and the Rope invented to correct wrongdoing for this very purpose?

And yet the dead terrified face framed in hemp winding spoke of the error by simply having a face. The dead face of justice was only the end of the story for that face; rendered unable to tell the story of his own passage. And so they grew to fear death of all kinds because the story would never be heard. Neither by their neighbor or by their god. Death, you see, is the living fear of silence; given over to us in our nightmares of being unable to cry out. To dare fate we thrive in our daily lives. By facing near death: we conquer fear.

But Death is no more conquerable than the womb that brought us here. And silence to some is the release from the chaos that cannot be opposed. Is it irony, perhaps, that we are released from a place of peace and sent into chaos only to sway under the urgent need to keep all the chaos under grips; when death offers us release? But what good is release? If you never felt the value of good in the struggle? God, whether we know what he is or not, is no robot against our displeasure. The struggle is part of the gift. And release… well. We all might pine for it here and there, but in doing so we feel the loss in focus on those little pleasures of small accomplishments of no material consequence. What else can we call ‘happiness’ other than this? No. Not that. You are thinking of Joy. And that has no need of reason.

The Goose, mentioned in the first few chapters of this book: was the liveliest place in Keythos. It was a building erected over a natural cave. It had stood there as the very first building the original settlers had erected. In fact the trees that had once spread around the plateau had clustered tall and thick over the cave entrance. Many of them had been used to build the now worn and dusty structure. At the bottom of the cave was a deep well. No one knew who dug it. They assumed it had been their ancestor. But it was, as it so happened, those same hands who dug it that had made the potshards and arrowheads they cast aside from their barren fields with disdain. What good, after all, could a stranger have to give when it was only to be coerced or cheated for free? And once cheated: why remember it?

The Goose having both a cooled area out of the sun and access to pure water. Which I have to say that particular water was some of the purest and nourishing water I have ever tasted. In daytime the structure proved itself as a shared kitchen amongst the women in town. They baked bread together, and brewed the beer, and boiled water for the miles of laundry.

As the work in the fields would end the men would come here as the women went to finish their homes in readying their families for the onslaught of another day. The men gathered to drink and talk. To play games and find relief and commiseration from the heat and toil of the day. The women could listen but few understood the stresses as another man bent to the same task and similar sufferings. So it was that wives desired very little to be amongst them during this part of the day where self pity seemed to be the strongest scent.

The establishment got its odd name when one of the founders wive’s hips were described by the sway of a walking goose (The geese that once used to stop here on its seasonal circuit but it had been a generation since any had flown by. Most never gave it a thought but others remembered fondly the fall harvest eating their mothers could render.) The thought struck a chord with the men as this pleasant thought was a mirthful celebration of something they all saw. And soon it lived on in the sway of all hips that swayed. Of which, presently, in the Goose at night, there were none: for propriety's sake. The brotherhood of men made an indwelling and at night that seemed to be that women were not generally allowed.

Mal and Avery came to The Goose and went in the swinging vest shaped doors and then down the heavy rough timber staircase the handrails and posts worn smooth from the passing of many thousands of hands. The cool rush of stale subterranean air greeted them and the sweat began to escape off their backs. The familiar voices of cousins, fathers and uncles and brothers echoed off the limestone cavern walls in open invitation.

Cousin Eneas played a dusty and worn guitar in one corner while the youngest of them pallidly sang a song he loved. The boy could not have understood the words. As it was a love song, and a very sad one at that. But the words were so sonorus that he had clearly fallen in love with the sounds themselves. He sang well for a shaky little boy that was trying hard to be a young man. But he could not have been more childish for the trying. And in this failing he could not have been more beautiful to hear sing. It was a joy he could not have comprehended its saddness. But when the chorus came the room would join in. And the noise so strong that neither was anyone there not their brother nor also a single word intelligible.

The song would end and another inspired heart would call out the name of another tune and he would stand up and join the musician to perform.

Avery and Mal found the busiest table and drew up their chairs slightly behind to not disturb a tense game of hearts.

“Pedro! What are your rascals up to. Eh?” Uncle Castor spied the dust on their shoulders they had not thought to brush off.

The dark-skinned face of Pedro turned and looked them over without batting an eye and then looked lazily at Uncle Castor.

“They sure are late in getting here. Don’t you wonder what held them up?” Castor re-enforced his issue.

Pedro’s beard seemed to smile but he made no grimace of any emotion at this observation.

“Working, my boys are always working.”

“Not the way my cornfields are looking. You promised to walk ‘em last week. How come it ain’t done yet?”

Pedro knew they had been off all afternoon causing whatever trouble they wished. But that was of no real concern to Pedro. And if it had caused Castor any perturbation he would have considered it all the better. His boys were his very heart and he was proud of their friendship and neverminded the petty trouble they managed to cause. And anytime he could, even at the expense of negligence or obligation, he would assist them in any way. They were his boys by any reckoning about the town. Malcolm by his wife Josie; and Avery was taken in as family having never known his own father. Which, for some reason, no close family member had ever attempted or even thought about Avery.

The boys gathered behind Pedro and watched the game of cards unfold. Pedro never seemed to catch the jist of the game. His preternatural knack was, sadly, a magnetic pole of misfortune. He would, time and time again, lay out a card triumphantly. Only to be outdone by someone else’s improbably good cards. The loss was that it was always gambling; which meant Pedro would play by any means. If money he had he gambled it away; if for the next round of beer: he bought it. Sometimes it was for the few valuable things he had on his farm, and he would lose it. Sometimes, when there was nothing else, he would bet a day’s labor.

So it was that Pedro knew every man’s family, every man’s farm, every man’s needs and wants and preference and worked continuously to provide just enough for himself and for general wealth and welfare of the entire town, not as any sort of mayor, but rather as each and every man’s temporary slave.

“Shuffle again Pedro!” they’d say if his luck ever seemed to swing. And sure enough, Pedro would smile his shy nervous smile and shuffle and any winnings thereafter were rarely retained by the game. And if so the good was rarely given, and never demanded.

In the first few tricks at Hearts it became apparent very early that he was again trying to shoot the moon. This they laughed and foiled and then the stories would start.

“Pedro, you remember when you was first here… and you did this thing…” They would imitate his nervous tick of tugging on his ear which leaned his head to one side. And there was this mild stuttering speech that would leave them laughing and gasping for air; the heaving of their bellies threatened at least half the buttons on their shirts.

Pedro would only shrug. Sometimes he would smile if the jest was cleverly done.

“It’s like he didn’t know it was normal…” They would chortle among themselves at his ignorance of their custom and society. If they were wearing dinner jackets you might have thought those dirty small towners were of some elite civilization. But these beggars looked every bit worse off than Pedro. Particularly when Pedro still had most of his teeth and a good many of them had nothing left but slivers and nubs. They had, of course, no intention of ever letting him, or anyone, ever forget his place among them. But Pedro played along. So well in fact, that some could not help but feel it was not needed to point it out as Pedro would laugh with them. It infuriated some that he could never seem to be degraded to his face. Because anyone dumb enough to insult him directly both looked stupid and out of temper and also risked finding out what the ‘outsider’ was actually capable of. Of which, by the merit of his work, they respected his deeds well enough. But also by which they feared his rise to equal compliance of his self worth and his work ethic. Simply by laughing it seemed he never truly accepted the ridicule. So the few people who had little love for Senor Delrio could only get their justice in by ragging him amongst others who also felt as they did.

After stories had settled and the cool had absolved the scorch from their bodies but the beer had awakened their inner need to continue a mirth that would escape them should they simply go to bed. But also the need for more beer because the need for mirth was itself there to cover the question that was nagging them somewhere between their fear and their purpose. So liquor was opened and poker played. This was the set stage - in exemplar ad infinitum - that the boys had found their elders at their regular vices.

“Now -” started old Tom, who was more like the town mute, but when enough was had to float his eyeballs, which indeed, this particular evening, of the moon did they shine; so also did he find his tongue. Though he stuttered worse than Pedro ever did. But no one seemed to mock him. Rather they seemed scared of what the man might say; though belching and pausing all the way- Listen! The man speaks:

“There was that one time.” his voice broke out. The Goose went silent and every soul turned to listen. Tom raised his finger in the air with verification. “That -”

“Oh shut it Tom.” said his brother Dom sullenly, “Not that story again.”
Dom lit a fresh cigar eyeing the other over the brightening cherry. Tom moon-eyed and near drowning in his own wits seemed to not hear.

“When Josie runned off… tuh- to-” old Tom paused again lost and grasping. But Dom didn’t stop him, “t-to whare...she ran t-to. Pedro. He found her out.” Tom smiled wide his head nodding in earnest looking kindly at Pedro “He brought her home.”

The Goose stayed quiet. But Tom found no other words.

“Then he married her!” shouted Dom raising a glass and a cheer broke out. And the short stuttering story ended. But its short intent was more poignant than even old Tom would ever know.

“Had a kid mighty quick too.” Castor grinned. Pedro shrugged again with his smile. It was not uncommon for young married folk to have children nine months after a quick ceremony. And not every pregnancy goes that long either.

“You don’t feel no shame do ya.” grunted Dom over the top of his glass of beer, a half smile on his face.

“I am as proud of Malcolm as everyone here is. I couldn’t not love the boy.” Pedro said in perfect assurance. Maybe it was the liquor’s work but its effect seemed rehearsed. But no one caught that nuance but the author.

Avery had heard the story before, many times, and so had Malcolm. But neither had seen a story so full of mystery that neither could form a question or quite how or what there was to ask about. Malcolm had just opened his mouth to ask, when a form appeared on the stair. It was the thin form of the dark haired girl descending silently on bare feet. Her blue eyes open wide in the lantern light peering through the gloom of rough men searching for who she came for. Malcolm immediately saw the orange flag of her slightly ragging dress that expressed a tribute to her bare and tan shoulders.

All at once her eyes found his eyes. Hers widened in beckoning. Mal stood in obedience and made for her and the stairs. It only took a second for someone to catch on as to what was happening. The men began to shout in protest that unified into:
“Goose! Goose! GOOSE!”
But when the boy did not turn in shame or embarrassment but rather bodily disappeared up the stair: they stopped. Hearing the ring in the walls of their own voices.
Dom looked at Pedro.
And Pedro looked back at Dom.
And the game went on.

© Jesse Selin