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Where did that come from?
“It doesn't seem likely. Why bribe a whole village, when you can just isolate yourself a little farther away?”
“The manor?”
“I don't think so. It would be too risky to bring it back precisely where anyone would instinctively go looking for it.”
I dig out of my pocket a small tourist map of the surrounding area I had picked up earlier at the town hall and examine the buildings depicted. Some picturesque, rainy villages, castles I lose count of, and a few entertaining ruins.
“And this?” He points, brushing against my hand. “What's this?”
Just as I scan the map and imagine yet another fortress, I realize it is, in fact, an abbey. It's not next door, but on closer inspection, it's totally isolated by the surrounding mountains. In fact, it's situated on a hilltop, which I imagine would help defend the place in the event of an attack; a strategic position that could be just what we're looking for. Who would go snooping among monks who have taken a vow of silence?
“Shall we go?” asks my disembodied sidekick, once again driven by the urgency that has characterized him since we met.
“Now?”
“If we have to get there on foot, we'll need several days. We mustn't dawdle!”
If I have to trudge through the lowlands to get to this perched edifice, it's going to take me a while! And now that the alert has been given by the forces of law and order, hitchhiking and taking the main roads seems risky. We'll have to take the back roads and walk, which will considerably lengthen our journey. Well, I'll have to walk, as my ghost doesn't seem to mind having to levitate.
I gather my things, shrug my rucksack over my shoulders, clip the strap that holds it to my spine, and put my hand on the door handle.
I turn around and stare at the room one last time. There's nothing exceptional about this room, and I have no particular memories of it, yet I have the intuition that as soon as I leave it, my life will be turned upside down with no hope of turning back. I was a respectable Sin Eater; now I'm a fugitive from justice.
In short, everyone's out to get me.
I lock the door and deposit the key in the translucent compartment provided. This system has at least the merit of sparing me the need to justify my hasty departure.
“I'm going to scout around,” says the ghost in a low tone. “I'll be back to give you directions. To begin with, leave the village by the road around the river and head out into the countryside.”
“And you're giving me orders because...?”
He oscillates between embarrassment and anxiety. He's so expressive that I can read his emotions on his perfect features, as if reading a household appliance manual: clear and unadorned.
“Because I've got to get my body back,” he begins in a determined tone that fades as the words leave his mouth.
“Certainly.”
“And because I care about you...”
Did he really just say that? We hardly know each other, and in all practicality, I doubt he'll linger by my side once he has untangled the mess of his life and has the opportunity to regain the heavens.
We gaze at each other for a moment, he no doubt more flabbergasted than me at having uttered those few meaningful words so spontaneously. Unless he later turns out to be a Royal Shakespeare Company actor, a contemporary of the author of Romeo and Juliet—who knows?—his gaze isn’t hiding anything.
When was the last time a man like that—or any other human being, for that matter—said those unsettling words to me? I'm deliberately hiding my son. It's totally different, and even if it isn't, the memory of his childhood words telling me how much he loved me will eventually fade, no matter how hard I try not to let my memories of him evaporate.
I mentally snort, chastising myself, almost managing to convince myself that these words don't mean much, even though they make me feel so good.
So I don't lift a finger—though my cheeks heat up in spite of myself—and comply. The route he has chosen is precisely the one I had selected. I would rather save time than argue about an itinerary that's not up for discussion.
My ghost evaporates, not without contemplating me in silence for the umpteenth time, as I make my way down the alley. His absence at least allows me to move forward, my thoughts a little clearer. It seems clear to me that his presence by my side, even though I had rejected him completely beforehand and even suffered him to the limit, is becoming normalized, like an extension of myself. I, who know only cold and loneliness, am suddenly embarrassed by an individual I no longer reject with such ardor, accepting him as part of my existence. But living with a ghost is, to say the least, a contradiction in terms.
Before my head gets too full and an unwelcome migraine assails me, I set myself a goal: to finish this day by discovering as much as possible about our destiny.
It's late afternoon, and it won't be long before night grips the village, driving its inhabitants back into their homes. The darkness may be comforting, but it also brings out the fears in me. It was on a night like this that my son disappeared.
One by one, the streetlamps come on. Remnants of those that once held spindly candles, they’re now equipped with low-energy bulbs whose glow increases as night spreads between the stone walls.
