Whose Ghost There?
Christopher Stasheff
England
Anno Domini 1807 —1815
Perhaps there is something about having the Talent that attracts situations where it is needed. Today we would call that coincidence. In an earlier age: fate or the Hand of God. Whatever the reason, it makes life for most Crafters quite exciting, and can have other benefits as well.
Anthea was ten years old when she met the ghost.
He was really a very nice ghost, everything considered—but Anthea wasn’t in the mood to consider very much. She had just fled into the library to have a good cry, for Nanny had told her, rather sharply, that Mama had no time to listen to Anthea’s whining just then. Poor Anthea positively dissolved, but Nanny scolded her sharply. “Away with you, aggravating child! When I’ve such a headache! You mustn’t make such a noise!” So Anthea had run out and down the long, creaking stairs to the first room that had a door to it, which was of course the library, crying as though her heart would burst. She threw herself in among the cushions on the window seat, though they reeked of damp, and wept and wept and wept. With all her heart, she wished that her real Nanny hadn’t died, and left her to the mercy of this ... this stranger, this rude country girl who knew nothing of the proper behavior of a nanny, and cared nothing for Anthea’s feelings. She wept on and on as the gloaming faded into a gloomy dusk, not caring that there wasn’t a single candle lighted.
“Such a fuss,” rumbled a hollow voice. “Why, it’s enough to wake the dead.”
Anthea gasped and sat bolt upright, instantly furious that anyone should intrude on her grief, blinking her tears away, or trying to—then gasping again as she saw the glimmering old suit of armor where surely there had been none before. And it lacked a helmet! Nothing there but its bare shoulders.
“Who are you?” she cried, looking about. “Why have you brought this pile of tin here?”
“This pile of tin, little mademoiselle, is myself,” said the hollow voice—and so help her, the suit of armor stepped away from the wall and clanked over to the tall wing chair, where it sat!
Well, actually, it didn’t clank, really. In fact, it didn’t make a sound. It only seemed that it should have.
“Well, that’s better,” the hollow voice said. “I’ve little use for a watering pot. Tears increase the damp so, and my armor’s apt enough to rust as it is.”
“Why, how rude!” Anthea cried, anger drowning fear. “And how cruel of you, sir, to play such a trick upon a poor girl in her misery! Take yourself out of that suit of armor on the instant!”
“That I fear I cannot do, little mademoiselle,” said the armor. “I died in it, so I’m stuck in it, if you follow my meaning at least, until I find my head.”
“Your head?” Anthea could only stare. Well, actually, no, she could have screamed, too—but at the moment, she was far too confused for that. “Why have you lost your head? Over what?”
“Over a battle, actually—though I could say, over a young lady.”
“I knew it!” Anthea clapped her hands. “Whenever a proper gentleman has lost his head, there’s romance in it! Poor fellow, did she not requite you?” Then she came to her senses, and indignation rose. “Why, this is quite unkind! Who are you, sir, and how dare you play such a prank upon a grieving maiden?” She was rather proud of that “grieving maiden” she had thought it up herself, without any help from Mrs. Radcliffe or her books. “Come out of that suit of armor, and be done with this deception!”
“I fear it is no prank,” said the hollow voice, “and as to who I am, why, I am Sir Roderick le Gos, Knight Bachelor, sworn to the service of the Duke of Kent.”
“Le Gos?” Anthea frowned; the name tugged at her memory. Hadn’t Father mentioned ...
“Yes, little mademoiselle, le Gos is the old form of your own name, Gosling. It has transformed itself down through the centuries, but you and I are Gosses still.”
“Centuries?” For the first time, a thrill of fear touched Anthea’s heart. She quelled it sternly—after all, the chap seemed nice enough. “You can’t mean ... you aren’t ...”
“The family ghost? Yes, I am, actually. Not all that many can see me, though—your mama can’t at all, of course, but she’s not a Gos by blood. Even you will probably find that you can’t see me in ten years or so. But for the moment, we can chat quite companionably—if you don’t find my aspect too horrifying.”
“Not a bit, for I can’t find your aspect at all.” Anthea frowned. “Where is it?”
“I carelessly misplaced it some centuries ago, a hundred miles or so to the north and west. It was during a battle against some border raiders, you see—Scots who had the audacity to object to being ruled by King Edward, don’t you know, and thought to make his subjects suffer in his stead. It wasn’t generally known, but a band of them had managed to catfoot it down from the North Country, bravely resisting temptation all along the way, so they could set up a broil entirely too close to London. They raided and retreated into the forest, where they seem to have made common cause with a band of outlaws, and came surging back out at the oddest moments to wreak havoc and plunder.”
“And you had to go chastise them?” Anthea asked, her eyes round.
“Not ‘had to,’ I suppose—but Lady Dulcie wouldn’t think of having me offer for her, if I hadn’t some bit of land and rank to my name. I suppose it’s my own fault, in a way—I ignored a feud of long standing, between her family and mine. But the lady was beautiful, and our estates did border one another, and ancestral grievances seemed far less important to me than the luster of her eyes. Still, there must have been in her some trace of the old malice that bred the ancestral quarrel, for she challenged me to prove my love by joining the expedition against these raiders. I went in the train of my lord the Duke. The Scots fell on us at dawn, and we fought briskly, I assure you.”
“Who won?” Anthea asked, her eyes widening again.
“I can’t say, actually—I was killed in the thick of the fighting. A scoundrel tripped my horse with the butt of his pike. I fell quite hard, but their blows were only heavy enough to dent and mar my armor. I lugged out my sword and forced my way up to my feet, but just then a great rawboned chap in a kilt swung a huge claymore at me, and the blasted sword rang on my helmet as though on a bell. The straps burst, and off it came. I cut back at him, of course, but he only stepped back till my blade had passed, then leaped in and swung again—and, well, there went my head. I don’t really remember much of the rest of the battle, you’ll understand—only a dazed sort of feeling that I wasn’t all there, quite. There was a confused business of winding through the countryside on a cart, and of some doleful chanting in Latin. Then, finally, my mind cleared, and I found myself looking down at my own tombstone—out there, in the churchyard.” Sir Roderick gestured toward the window.
“Why, how horrible!” Anthea exclaimed.
“No, not really—except for those few horrible seconds of blinding pain, but that was over soon enough. And I haven’t been troubled with a sore throat since.”
“I should think not,” Anthea said.
“It is deucedly boring,” Sir Roderick confessed, “and one can’t really see too well, without a head.”
“Can’t you get it back?” Anthea asked.
“I suppose I can, though I haven’t had much luck thus far. You see, they brought my body back for burial in the family plot, but my head was lost amidst the carnage on the field of battle. I’m still searching for it, of course, but I can’t leave the house unless I’m haunting a member of the family—bound by ties of blood and land, you see, and none of my kinfolk have ever gone far enough north for me to come near the scene of that battle.”