It was the birds that first brought me here, nearly six years ago. I was alone again, after six years of marriage, my wife having left me suddenly and with little explanation. More correctly, it was I who had left, electing to move away from our home in the West country and make the break a swift and clean one. The sadness and rejection were enough to suffer, without the drag of a legal wrangle. Bird-watching had always taken up a lot of my spare time, and having so much time on my hands, Id spent a lot of it driving around the local countryside on the lookout for the best spots. I discovered the pond quite by chance, out exploring one day. The water was ringed by a wide strip of grass, which was enclosed in a dense copse of pine. Perfect isolation. Sitting on my bench, there was no noise at all, other than the wind drifting through the leaves, and of course, my birds. I fell in love with the place at once, and eventually found that I could not tear myself away.
Until he arrived. The day began for me as any typical Sunday. Having risen at four-thirty and packed my lunch, flask and binoculars, I left the house shortly after 5 A.M. The sky was beginning to lighten, and the roads out of town were still almost empty. I climbed the hills, reached the heath-land, and arrived at the gravelled car park in what seemed like no time at all. After locking the car, I set off down the sloping path toward the pond, about three-hundred yards ahead. I found my bench and opened my rucksack. I had never found the need for a hide there. Dressing sensibly in greens and browns, keeping relatively still, I easily blended into the background of trees that clustered around the cross-roads. In fact, for a while, the birds could not see me at all. Having set my sandwiches and flask of coffee beside me, I took my binoculars from their case and hung them around my neck. My pride and joy they were, those binoculars, and at well over one-hundred pounds, they were the best that I could afford. Wide-angle field of view, zoom lever, everything. It was such a shame that I had to lose them like that. I settled back, waiting to see whatever I would see, hoping for an improvement on recent weeks. I had been praying for the return of last years bittern—a bittern! what a find!—but so far, no luck. In fact, there were very few birds about that morning. I was beginning to wonder if something had scared them away. Me, perhaps, when I had arrived. Perhaps I had been too noisy. I remembered the flapping coot, and I was sure that I had been completely still when it had flown. I glanced to my right, and saw a single magpie perched among the branches of a large pine . . .
I felt that I must have slept for some time, as when I awoke, the sun had almost risen above the treetops. Also, my neck ached badly due to the angle that I had been leaning back over the bench. I went to check the time, but found that I must have left my watch at home. Unusual for me, that, as I had always felt lost without it. I yawned again, then the strangest sensation came over me, a rush of cold and nausea. Some would have called it a sixth sense, or a premonition, or some such nonsense, but I would always put that sort of thing down to subconsciously hearing a noise, or glimpsing a movement from the corner of an eye. Anyway, it passed as quickly as it had arrived, but it left me with the feeling, in fact the positive assurance, that I was definitely not alone. It was true. I looked to my right, and at the end of my bench stood . . . Corvus Corax! Now, reared in captivity, they can be tamed and even kept as pets, but in the wild, the raven is a most cautious, nervous bird. This one, though, as it bent to scrape its beak on the edge of the seat, seemed oblivious to my presence. It hopped down onto the grass and looked out over the water. I leant forward, down, and extended a hand. Hello, I said quietly, but of course, it did not seem to have a good grasp of English. It ignored me, walking away to the waters edge, idly pecking at the grass. I sighed. Its moments like that, so close to a wild animal in its own environment, that make the early mornings sitting in the cold and rain so rewarding. I smiled to myself and settled back into the bench, and that was when I first saw him. Something, someone, had appeared behind me. Slowly, I turned my head. A few paces away, I thought, stood an impossibly tall man. I blinked, trying to discern detail, but the image had disappeared almost as soon as I had seen it. I was sure that there had been somebody there, watching me, but now I was alone again. Even the raven had gone. Perhaps I had imagined him, and considering how tired I must have been, it wouldnt have surprised me. I thought about pouring myself a strong cup of coffee, but then looked down at my flask where it lay smashed on the grass.
I tried to picture the man that I thought I had seen, but the glimpse had been so fleeting that it had barely registered. He had been there though. Definitely. Although it was still relatively early—mid morning, perhaps—I began to feel that I ought to leave. I wasnt feeling too well and there were very few birds about . . . apart from that raven, of course. However, I had to stay.
I saw him more clearly that time, in a little more detail. His smile was some ten feet above the ground, and with his erect posture, with his arms held stiffly by his sides, he could have been a military man. He began to disappear again, gradually this time, but I was determined to keep his ghost alive on my retina. Ghost is not a term that I used lightly. For me, ghosts had only ever existed in the fears of children and the points of writers pencils. This man, or apparition, was different, though. Real, you might say. So I concentrated hard, straining my memory, whilst staring into thin air. I felt a bit foolish, looking for something that could not possibly be there. I remember thinking; there are no ghosts! Returning tortured spirits? Wandering wayward souls? Rubbish! If we had souls, theyd surely have the sense to head for a better place than this when they left us! Also, the living cannot see the dead . . . That was how I reassured myself as I continued to stare hard at nothing. The staring worked, though, eventually. I did bring his image back, and began to see more. Initially, all that I could see was the thin black border of his shape, like an outline etched on a sheet of glass. But I strained harder, and he came more and more into focus. His eyes appeared first, then a Cheshire-cat grin, then the rest of him condensed. He was tall, but nearer to six feet tall than ten. It seemed the reason that he had looked such a giant was that he was suspended some four feet above the ground! His clothes were of a style that I did not recognize, and a curious mixture of the shabby, nondescript, and the quite ostentatious. His trousers were loose, tatty, and of a material I couldnt quite pin down. His shirt looked as though it had once been fine; a blouson which could have been of a sheer cotton, or possibly silk, but which was now torn and ingrained with dirt and other splashed stains. He was wearing a fine pair of boots, though; black leather, laced high above the ankle, and he wore the strangest collection of—were they tassles?—around his knees. Oddly, his boots were pointed down toward the grass as though he was standing on tip-toe. He was looking in my direction, perhaps even at me, but he was quite still, frozen like a still from a film. I think that it was because he appeared to be nothing more than a transparency, rather than a living being, that I was not too frightened. In fact, I was more perplexed at why I was seeing him at all. Then the trees behind began to break through his image, his outline dispersed, and then he was no longer there. It was not until the next morning that he first moved. He spoke, too.
When the man appeared, hanging in the air as before, he seemed completely solid, three dimensional. I screwed my eyes half closed, concentrated hard, and finally brought him to life . . .
Aahhh... he said slowly. Welcome! Im so pleased that youre here! There was a long silence before he spoke again. You can hear me, cant you? I can hear you. There was something . . . something amiss about his voice. It was quite clear, but it didnt seem to exactly match the movements of his mouth. Something like a poorly dubbed film character. Who are you? Who are you, Sir? The broad smile was still there. It was unnerving, and it took me off balance when I realized that the voice was very like my own. Exactly like my own, in fact, just like I hear it in my own head. Hanbury . . . Jimmy Hanbury . . . Well, James Thomas Hanbury, whoever you are, I say again, welcome! Its many a long year since Ive spoken to anyone. You took your time getting here though . . . How did you know? Know what, Sir? You knew my name! My full name! And whats wrong with your voice? And who on Earth are you, anyway? Calm yourself, Sir, if you will. I realize that I may have startled you a little, and for that, I apologize. But one question at a time, if you please. My name . . . is Yates. Just Yates, before you ask. And also before you ask, I will come to just who I am in good time. He adjusted a purple cravat around his neck, pulling it more into view from beneath his dirty shirt. There is nothing wrong with my voice. If I actually had one, you would not be able to hear it. You cannot hear me, nor can I hear you. Our voices exist only in each others heads. I speak, in my own way, and you sense what I say in the fashion with which you are most familiar. Anyway, I suspect that the tongue of my age would trouble your ears. And as to your name, do I still need to explain? I must have looked as confused as I felt, as he continued before I could say a word. All right, he sighed. You hear my voice directly in your mind, from my mind, and it works both ways. Understand now? Youre a mind reader? I asked, but he only smiled sarcastically. You asked who on Earth I am. Well, Sir —he nodded toward the gap between his feet and the ground—as you can see, I am not on Earth. We could say that, strictly speaking, I am not of this Earth. Or ofthis Earth. Not of this time, anyway. He stared at me with a sneer. Worked it all out yet, have we . . . ? Youre not real, are you! I didnt really know what to say. Youre some sort of ghost! Youre not real! Im real enough to you, though, he snapped, arent I, Sir! He paused as if to draw breath. I went to try to answer him, but unexpectedly he launched into a screaming rage. TWO HUNDRED AND SIXTY YEARS, I have been here. How do I know so precisely? Because I have counted every SPRING, every SUMMER, every AUTUMN and every WINTER! I have watched any number of trees shoot, root, fruit, and die! Do you know what thats like? How could you? Seeing people, whole generations, strolling past for a time and then disappearing . . . ? And me invisible to them . . . ? You couldnt, not yet. You know nothing, yet you can say that I am not real . . . ? There was a pause as I watched his raven grubbing in the grass for insects, and he clenched his jaw as though trying to calm his temper. Finally: Forgive me, Sir. Time weighs heavily upon my shoulders. He waited. At least, he said with a flourish, my prayers have at last been answered! I have a companion now, a friend who can see me! Tell me then, about yourself, and of todays world outside of this filthy wasteland. I like it here, I said. And dont you think that you should tell me about yourself first? After all, it was you that interrupted my privacy, wasnt it? He just shrugged and frowned. I continued. Why are you here? Or why are you still here? He seemed to be trying to look uneasy. I . . . I find it difficult to talk about. It was a long time ago. He shook his head. So, to todays world, friend . . . ? By now, I had overcome my fear of this man, and I did not much like his tone. I was not about to be manipulated. Please yourself, I said. If you dont want to talk, then thats fine. No, no, no! As you wish. He shook his head slightly. He paused for quite some time, biting his lip. I was killed. I was murdered, right here, by a gang of ruffians. They called me a murderer, brought me to this spot, then strung me from this very tree. Theres no tree right here, I interrupted. He floated—or hung—at least forty yards away from the nearest one. Havent I told you, man? Trees come and trees go. Do you ever listen? It was only a birch. They dont last long. And why do you think Im still suspended at this ridiculous height? Ill tell you, its not for the view! I havent got time for this, I said, trying to call his bluff. Youre scaring away my birds. So if you dont mind . . . Come now, Sir. You must know by now that I will not scare your precious birds. You know, this takes a lot of effort for both of us. To speak, I mean. You may have taken longer than you should have to learn the skill, but it should be obvious, even to you, that we are wasting our energies arguing! So just talk to me, will you? He was infuriating, and just for a moment, I let the concentration that was holding him slip . . . and he was gone. After a while, I turned my attention back to the geese.
Well, hello, James Thomas Hanbury. How are we today? No better for seeing you, I muttered. Well, Sir, he said as insincerely as ever, I am shocked! If we are to get on together, I think that we should at least try to be civil! Who says we must get on together, Yates? I didnt invite you . . . He frowned, but I continued. You were right in saying that we had to make an effort to see each other. I have to strain to see you. What if I was just to . . . forget about you? Fear flashed over his face, and he spoke desperately. No, no, no, no! Come now, Sir, you cant mean that! We have many things to discuss! You have no plans to leave, have you? You did tell me how you so liked it here, after all. He chuckled to himself, but I refused to answer. So how about word of the town, Sir, and of London, perhaps? How have things changed? Who rules the land? Even I can reckon that Mad George must have left the throne by now! So, what of it . . . ? Questions, questions, I said, my tone as sarcastic as his had been. Some questions for you, Yates, I think, before we go any further. If youve really been around for so long, then why dont you know whats been going on in the World? You have told me how you supposedly died, but you havent told me just why you are here. Are you the only ghost in the World? The clouds were thickening steadily, and raindrops had started to emerge from the surface of Yates jacket as they penetrated his image. He grimaced, and slowly shook his head. Why wont you talk to me, Sir? he asked miserably. You arrive here, the only person to speak to me in almost three centuries, and you will only play word games. Taunting me for my sins, no doubt . . . I think I would rather be by myself, I said. WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE, James Thomas Hanbury? Who are you to interfere? I had no idea why he was shouting, but I felt I had to find out. Im just James Thomas Hanbury, I suppose . . . I waited a moment. Tell me about these sins then, Yates. He smiled and spoke quietly. So at last, its the end of all this. Time for confession and absolution, eh? He bowed. I knew you would come, Sir, eventually . . . He looked at me quizzically, but there was nothing I could say. They called me a murderer, Sir! Well . . . perhaps I should admit to that. So I killed someone . . . so what? But someone fat and greedy, with too much in their purse . . . With his head, he motioned back up to the cross-roads. Up there. Thats where I did it. I aimed my pistol at the coachmans heart and demanded all their money and gold. Why not? I didnt have any . . . I didnt say a word, but I think he could sense my anger. He looked away for a moment, then shrugged. Anyway, he said, I didnt get it. So that gave you the right to take the mans life? You are a murderer, Yates. Just a filthy highwayman, a parasite, the lowest form of— CALL me what you WILL, my friend. But you really dont follow, do you? I left the coachman in the best of health, though years of hindsight have told me that I made a grave error. Why? Because he recognized me, and gave them my name, back at the town. No, I didnt take the mans life. He sniggered. It was the fat bitch riding in the carriage that I shot. Kicking up such a fuss, she was! Shrieking and screaming . . . I had only the one flintlock, and no horse of my own, of course, so the driver took his chance to speed her and her precious jewels away. He kept them, too, Im sure, for they accused me of taking them. Still, no matter. Good luck to him. You might as well hang for two crimes as for one. After a pause for reflection, he forced another smile. So they came and took me and put their rope around my neck. And so . . . here I am. He glanced at his raven and then fixed me with a stare. He seemed to be waiting for some comment or opinion from me, sympathy perhaps. I didnt oblige, and after a while he continued uncomfortably. Too much punishment, Sir, dont you think? For a poor man just trying to make a living? They killed me, Sir! Just for that! They condemned me to this eternity alone here, at the site of my so-called crime. He bit his lower lip, thinking. The vermin wouldnt have known that they were doing that, though, I have to admit. Did you know that there were punishments like this, Sir? Afterward? No, not exactly, I said, but Ive always believed in a Hell, and Id say that perhaps youre in it! I think that you got just what you deserved. Dont you? I could almost feel him squirming. It felt good. You, he growled. I know who you are now. Youve not come to forgive me. Youve been sent to torment me! All right, this may well be Hell—my Hell—I can easily believe that. But were in it together, Sir. Youre stranded here, too, arent you! I was annoyed by his ranting, but still confused. Well! he exclaimed. Welcome to my Hell! What on Earth are you talking about, man? In case it escaped your attention, I chose to come here. I drove here, I walked here, and as I said, I like it here. Stranded? If I was stranded here— You wont fool me, Sir, whoever you might be. Not stranded here? Then tell me, where else have you visited in the past months? Your home? Your family, perhaps? Well I havent missed you once! The sensation of sickness that I had felt on the first morning returned with a vengeance. Again, my head swam, and for a moment I felt I would actually vomit. He was right: I couldnt remember being anywhere else for days. But months? Although I now recognized that I could be losing my mind, with the amnesia, and the imagining of ghosts, Yates image was still as real as ever. It was frightening that he seemed to be able to sense my rising panic. Could he read my thoughts at will, rather than just read the words I spoke? Nothing to say, Sir? Confusing, isnt it. He tutted. Poor Mr. Hanbury . . . The only ghost in the world, I said to myself, and its a dirty highwayman. Then aloud: Thank God there are no more left like you today. HA HAAA! He roared with genuine laughter. Oh Hanbury, you do tickle me, Sir! What an amusing companion I have been sent! But forgive me if I tell you that you do seem a bit slow. I am not the only ghost in the world, of course not. There are surely many more bad lads such as myself scattered around and about. But this state, alas, as you have said, appears to be our punishment. The pious and the good? Well, they have gone somewhere else. Somewhere . . . free, I think. He may have glanced skyward, but I could not be sure. You may make me laugh, Sir, and you may have broken my isolation, but I would ask you not to be insulting. I beg your pardon? Calling me a filthy highwayman. He could read my thoughts. What way is that for friends to speak to one another? A filthy highwayman is just what you are, I said. I had him on the hook again. Or should I say were? You are a murderer, you told me so yourself! You are a thing of the past, and rightly condemned, I believe. A highwayman? Well, I suppose I have been called worse things, and by worse people. Perhaps I should be flattered. He flicked absently at the tassles on his knees. Do you like my ribbons, Sir? My little tribute to Dandy Jack Rann, they are. My role-model, you might say, Sir. One of the tracks true gentlemen, he was, and famous, too. Sixteen String, they called him, for these ribbons he always wore. He paused, snorted, then sneered. Seventeen String, I call him now, after the last one they put around his neck when they caught him. Aah, I wonder where he is these days . . . Then suddenly, and as rapidly as ever, his mood changed. This time it was to rage. LET ME tell you something, James Thomas Hanbury. Two things, in fact, that just might make you dismount that high horse of yours. You, Sir, are the hypocrite! If you are good enough to judge me, then tell me, why are you still here with me? Youve said your piece, youve had your fun, so now go . . . if you can. I didnt want to try. I didnt want to know. You think I am a coward, he continued. You think my . . . occupation . . . is a thing of the past. At least I always gave my travellers the option to part with their riches . . . voluntarily. Well, usually. Sorry, Im not with you, Yates, I put in. Oh, but you are, Sir, I can assure you! He sighed. Must I draw pictures for you? Very well: This time, your time, still has its brigands, and most of them a lot less honourable than my good self. You, especially, should be aware of that. Whatever he was saying, it was the truth. I was absolutely sure of that, although I did not know how. My mouth went dry, I couldnt swallow, and I held up a hand that asked him to stop. He did for a moment, but then carried on, gloating. You cant deny it, can you? Take the two that saw you off. They had a blade in your back and one across your throat before you even knew they were there! And all for your eyeglasses, and a few brass coins. They made a good job of you, Sir, if I may say. Though perhaps I shouldnt say . . . I slumped forward and held my face in my hands. As he was speaking, I had been looking around, and seen that everything had changed. My broken binoculars, my flask, sandwiches, and rucksack had all gone. The grass had grown at least twice as high as it had been when I had arrived, and then gone to seed. Summer had arrived, then passed, and I had not noticed it at all. You did know, didnt you, Sir? Dont tell me that in all this time you didnt realize . . . ? That hateful voice. Well, well, well! But I must admit that it took me a . . . well, a little while, to work it out for myself. I kept my head down. Come now, Sir, at least you wont be alone . . . Then he was quiet again, watching and enjoying my tears.
There was a long, long silence, until it was broken by a whirr of wings. Another bird settled on the bench. I stayed hunched until its persistent hooting persuaded me to look up. Streptopelia! I thought immediately. And such a rare specimen, too! It was a beautiful bird, this dove. Almost completely feathered in brilliant white, but not an albino, as there were flecks of black and grey on its head and across its breast. It stopped its cooing and looked at me. Right at me, that is, and not through me. It was beautiful, and I smiled. I had completely forgotten Yates ranting. The bird walked to within a foot of me and flexed beautiful, wide wings, before settling down and gazing upward. It wasnt at all afraid. I reached out a hand and gently touched it. I actually touched it; it was as real as me. I began to stroke it with the back of my fingers. Shoo that foul thing away, Yates barked. Quickly! This bird bothers you, doesnt it, Yates? He shook his head, several times. You havent told me about London yet, Sir. And I have answered your questions, havent I? I waited for an age. Then I spoke. I think my little bird bothers you. Still I stroked it. I wonder why . . . ? But by then I knew. Dont be so stupid, man! Hasty, I mean, Sir. At last, he was panicking. Youll regret it, you know. You dont know what youre doing yet. Youll be alone! ILL BE ALONE! Like you said, Yates, who am I to interfere? And with that I cut him off. His raven cawed as I just relaxed my mind and let him go, as best I could, anyway. It almost worked. I could still see him, faintly. He was cursing, clenching and unclenching his fists, but at last he was perfectly silent. I turned toward my bird. Still, it waited for me. Come on then, I said. It stood, then walked toward me. Then, in a sense—in ways Ill never be able to define—intome . . . For brief moments, I / we stared dreamily out across the water, and then we launched. Behind us, an echo of Yates, screaming.
The feeling was exhilarating, amazing, as we swooped out and circled the water. I looked for the last time at my bench, and at the pond. Then, alone together, we soared upward into the quiet sky. |