The Awakening A warm summer wind swept down from the green hills surrounding the town of Pale Veil. It passed over the stout stone dwellings of the small villages outer homes, blowing lazily past smoke stacks of ovens and catching wisps of the tasty smelling plumes up in its wake. Over the quaint town square it danced, causing leaves upon the cobble stone streets to whirl. It continued on until it left the dwellings behind altogether; moving then over the golden grasslands beyond. Before long the gentle breeze approached a homely little cabin surrounded by a low stone wall; its twin stories stacked artfully below a baked brick roof of red clay. With eyes that boasted no true form the wind witnessed the dwelling and its small plot of land; the fruit trees rising out of the back yard, the small garden nestled below the outstretching eves, and the swinging twin-seated bench hanging from the ceiling of the porch. Recollection passed through that gentle breeze, for it carried the unbound spirit of Pete Watson, and this cute little world was once his own. It is said that the spirit lives on after the loss of the physical form, and moves on to other places when it can no longer interact with the waking world of the living. At least, this was the belief that Pete himself had been raised with his entire life. Yet here he was; some time after his untimely death, still visiting his former life and widowed wife, aimless but for his need to remember and see. Just where he went when he was not lingering around this small piece of land, he could not readily remember, but in his visits memories of past “returns” to the property did linger. He left the gentle breeze behind and moved into the dwelling with little more effort than a thought, and found himself in his old kitchen. The familiarity of the oaken cabinets he had crafted welcomed him not with their musky varnished sent, but with a knowing of each milled piece of wood; each stroke of his lathe, and every scrape of his chisel. He knew every inch of the familiar room, for he had presided over its construction from start to finish, and within the realm of his own knowing he moved as much through memory as he did through the physical world. It was always like this for Pete, though he did not perceive the difference in his detached state. Items hung about the walls that his widow had put up after his passing did not reveal themselves to his spiritual eyes, neither did any new additions of furniture or crockery. But there was one thing that he could see which always came in real time and not through memory. Bella, his loving wife, sat before a newly stoked hearth, rocking gently in her favorite chair as she busied herself stitching some garment of clothing. She hummed a familiar tune that made its way through the veil of spaces to ears that Pete no longer possessed. Compelled by need, he did not move across the distance to her, but simply found himself beside her, gazing into her hazel eyes. “I am here, my love,” he called softly to her, but as was always the case when he spoke, she did not perceive him. In stead, she continued to hum that familiar tune, and stitch, and rock back and forth. It was a quiet evening out there in the country side. Soon the night winds would bring a chill in from the near by mountains and Pete hoped that the modest fire in the hearth would suffice to keep his beloved Bella warm. After a time, as if sensing his worry, she set aside her sewing implements and began closing the shutters around the small dwelling. All of this, Pete watched as he silently glided along side her, patient as only one unbound by the rigors of time and space could be. It was near the end of this ritual that Pete became aware of a figure standing outside of the house. Bella had just pulled tight a window shutter when he glimpsed the slim form of a young woman gazing into the the dimly lit home from beyond the garden. When their eyes met, she waved at Pete emphatically, then beckoned him to leave the dwelling with another graceful wave. Surprised to have been seen, Pete willed himself beside the child, but could think of no question off hand. He merely stared down at her, trying to remember if he had ever seen her like before this evening. “Come away from there,” she seemed to scold him, but a slight smile played upon her lips, betraying her mischievous intent. Had he a face, Pete would surely have warn a scowl as he stared at this little sprite. “Excuse me,” he began in a voice from no body, “have we met?” “So many times before, Petey,” she said, then could not help but giggle a little at some private joke. The ghost of Mr. Wilson examined the girl for a moment. “Im sorry, child, but I think you may have me confused with someone else.” He studied her from head to toe once more, and just for good measure, added, “And dont call me by that name. Mr. Wilson will do just fine for the likes of you.” Again the girl giggled a little, and when she did, Pete found something a bit familiar about it. As if from a dream he had long ago, but could not immediately recall off hand. Perhaps the child was right. Had they met before? Abruptly, he found that they were now standing back in the kitchen. Out the window, the sun had long faded and true night had taken the land into its dark embrace. All of the lanterns and candles in the house had been extinguished, and he assumed that Bella now lay at rest in their bedroom. Upon the kitchen table, the girl child sat comfortably; her thin legs dangling over its edge and her feet pumping away with the limitless energy that children often had. Still, upon her smiling face, a calm was evident by the way she watched him intently. “Not even going to wait to be invited in, eh? Just take a seat on the kitchen table and steal the time I have with Bella?” he stated more than asked. “Why, when I was your age a young lady wouldnt even think of imposing herself so.” She giggled and shook her finger at him accusingly. “It was you who brought us in, Petey, dont put the blame off on me.” It was hard to buy into the scolding, because that playful smile never left her bright face. The ghost of Mr. Wilson had just about had enough of the whole situation, and he growled as he looked about the kitchen, “And you made me miss the best part.” “But it is the same every time,” the girl said knowingly. “You have watched her make that same dish a thousand times.” As he rounded on her to say that he had had enough of the games, she hopped down to the floor and the room shifted around them. They now stood in the darkened master bedroom upstairs. Pete moved to hover over the sleeping form of Bella, but as he neared he could see that the bed was empty and unused. In fact, he cold see that quite a change had come over his old bedroom. Dust and cobwebs lingered over the furniture, and a few of the window panes were missing; as if having been lost long ago. The paint upon the walls was cracked and chipping, and a large patch of moss made its way up one wall and a little onto the ceiling. “What trickery is this, child?” he demanded. “Have you nothing better to do with your time but bring pain to the heart of one who has already lost everything?” Bitter, he looked on in disgust at the wreck that his lovely home had become. Not bothered by his foul turn in mood, the girl child moved to look out of a window to the front of the house. “Come here, Petey. Dont be angry. Look what has become of Pale Veil while you have been away.” Her small hand beckoned him to her, and as before, he soon stood looking down into her smiling face. When he looked out of the window, the sight which he found there would have taken his breath away; had he lungs to hold air. Where once golden fields stretched down a gentle slope toward town, he now found many, many homes. The light of each dwelling blazed unlike anything that he had even before seen; as if each window boasted a lantern of uncanny brilliance. Even tall lamp posts lining the streets were lit brightly, making the large town before him sparkle like some fairytale dream. “But I dont understand,” the ghost of Mr Wilson began. Yet in stead of finishing what he was going to say, he simply looked on in fascination. “Much time has passed since you have been away, dear Pete. But you are too stubborn to see it. Pale Veil is no longer just a village, but has grown into quite the city.” Silently, the ghost of Mr. Wilson looked on at the expanse of lights. It was a long time before he asked, “But how can this be? I have not been dead for this long... have I?” The girl child giggled at his ongoing stubbornness. “What is long and what is short here?” she asked, and as the last word left her mouth, the scene before him changed back into waving fields under the now rising moon. In the distance, the little village of Pale Veil could barely be seen; so small were its dwellings and their primitive light. As the sudden implications of what she was trying to relay to him sank in, a profound terror gripped at his soul. “But this means...” he began. “That Bella has not been here for quite a long time, Petey.” she finished for him. In a fuss he was quick to add, “Do not call me by that name, child,” and would have lectured her more, but for the fact that his mind was reeling. As he thought of all of the time that must have passed, and of all that had been made in that time, he asked, “Has she too moved on from this world?” “From this world?” the girl child asked. “No. But what will such stubborn eyes see?” she countered, cryptically. “So then she is old,” the ghost of Pete Wilson reasoned. “She has married another. Moved on to some place that I may not see... that I may not go?” With a sigh the child replied, “Life tends to move on when we are absent, Petey. It has always been the way of things.” A great despair had begun to take hold of Pete just then; as if the walls of his comfortable world were tumbling in around him, crushing him, strangling him. For as far back as he could recall, he had come to Bella to watch over her. To be sure that she had been alright after his passing. He had come thousands of times; watched her cook, knit, and sew, thousands of times, but he had lost track of her somehow. He had missed her moving on, and found himself in a loop. And so now she was truly lost to him. “Bella,” he called out feebly, but the name held no strength, no hope. He could feel the dread and heartache like a great weight, smothering him beneath an overbearing tumult of grief. It sapped him of his attentions, his will, and his substance. Slowly, the spirit body of Pete Wilson began to fade, much as his attentions could no longer focus, and soon he was gone. Alone in the abandoned house at the end of the street, the girl smiled to herself as she became aware of other entities within the room. John and Betty Wilson; Petes parents, and his sister Cara, moved to be with the ghost child. “He saw it that time, Bella,” Cara exclaimed in delight. “I bet the next time we can get him out.” To the spiritual eyes of the others in the room, the girl child looked to be both a young woman to Petes parents, and an old woman to Cara. “I still think it would have gone much better if he would stop seeing Bella as a child,” Petes mother said forlornly. “I wonder if he will ever be able to see that it is you at all, my dear.” “It is the way of some,” John Wilson replied patiently. “We see what we have always seen in those we love and care for. But he has finally acknowledged the city and the change. He has finally seen the state of this house. These are big steps, I think. He will come round eventually.” “And I will be here when he does,” replied Bella. “At least his memory of you is not that of an old woman,” Cara Wilson joked. After Petes accident, she and Bella had become the best of friends well into their old age; had both raised families of their own, and had died within months of each other at a home for the elderly in that bright and distant city. Mr and Mrs Wilson had known Bella when she had married Pete, but as both passed on from the world of the living shortly there after, they saw her as the beautiful woman their son had fallen in love with. It was not long before the presence of a gentle wind become known to the gathering of spirits. “Here he comes again,” exclaimed Cara, excited to know that her dear brother would awaken from the dream soon. “Come, ladies,” said John. “We must leave Bella to her work if we are to save Petey from himself.” Soon Bella was alone again, and just in time too. As the spirit of Pete Wilson drew nearer to the warn down old house, new paint began to replace cracked and old paint. Mildew, dust and corrosion fell away into nothingness to be replaced by polished, fresh and new surfaces. In the overgrown yard, long dead fruit trees burst with new life, filling with leaves and more fruit than they had ever held in reality. The small plot of land which was reflected in the spirit world began to mirror the expectations of Pete Wilsons approaching ghost, and no matter how many times she saw it, Bella loved this carefully rendered recreation of her onetime home. “Oh, Petey,” Bella said to her self through a knowing smile. “You always did see the best in people and places.” Indeed, she missed his way of seeing things; his way of finding the magic within everyday events. Perhaps that ability was the very thing keeping Pete Wilson from letting go of his life. “Its time to come home to us, my love. I will not leave you until you are awake.” This time she moved down to the rocker before the hearth and took up a position in her old rocking chair. Perhaps this time he would see who she really was. Perhaps this time he would finally awaken.
Posted on: Sun, 09 Mar 2014 17:22:44 +0000
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