was in here for weeks. What a dastardly joke they are. Their assignment is to become what you resist, don't you know?"
"No, I didn't. So if I resisted mating altogether...?"
"The implications are beyond me. Are you ready for the next room?"
Gannon smiled.
"Yes, I am."
"No more regrets?"
"No more regrets."
They went back to the front desk. Other ghosts were tapping their feet or trundling about.
Gannon smiled again. Regretful about something that had saved him a lot of trouble. Typical. He had a lot to learn.
The clerk stamped his form and said, "PASS."
Gannon went through the gate.
“NEXT.”
Behind him he heard the gate keeper addressing the next applicant.
"Any regrets?"
"Well...yes, I think so."
Behind him he heard the gatekeeper sigh.
The Banquet
He passed the gate like a swimmer nearing the far shore.
Dreamland.
Nestor paused, probed his feelings, found they were mixed, remembered to probe his death, found it stern, and moved forward.
His head was nodding. He had to find a place quickly or it would be too late.
It wouldn't do just to lie down anywhere - or would it?
No, it wouldn't.
He spied an old Victorian ahead and made for it. With his last tired steps he trudged across the threshold of the wrought iron gate. A sign said HAUNTED MANSION.
He was too tired to question. He threw himself on the grass by the bushes and slept.
He vaguely felt fingers touching him and arms lifting him up. Dimly sensed voices talked to each other and he knew he was being carried off around the bend - but to where he wouldn't have wagered.
He awoke.
Or so he thought. Later he would have contested that.
There was a big banquet going on and he was one of the invited guests. He found himself in a tall chair a bit off from the main table and had only a bit of red wine in a thin stemmed glass by his arm. Most of the others were gorging on food and drink at the table. Some few were similarly placed as he was, observing daintily from the sides of the room.
These were ghosts, obviously, for they weren't able to ingest a bit of food for all their antics. Only no one seemed to notice. It was lively interchange, full of great merriment, despite the fact the motions of lifting glass or fork were never rewarded with liquid or meat. Hands would just pass through the delicious looking portions - in fact, whole bodies would pass through tables if the ghosts weren't paying rigid attention to the way they were sitting. It was a major activity of the party to chide in unison those ghosts who carelessly put their hand or body through something they shouldn't have. Offenders were made to walk around the table seven times and repeat: "I will not break the spell with clumsiness. I will not break the spell with clumsiness. I will not break the spell with clumsiness." Still, it was inevitable that a few violations occurred, given the rousing high spirits they were all in. It was also inevitable that not too many of the violations were noticed for the same reason. It was infrequent that an offender completed the full seven circles of his sentence as the vigilance of his peers usually relaxed after the first round or two.
What a grand chaos.
It was easy to tell they were clinging, but their joy kept pushing them outward to giddy heights. Once in a while one of them would ascend with a squeal into the air, sometimes stopping at the ceiling, sometimes not, leaving a trail of luminescence behind him; then ever so slowly floating back down like a piece of paper on the wind. Upon touching the ground again, he would open his eyes and light up with delight at the sight of the banquet table. "Oh, food!" he would squeal delightedly and pounce upon the victuals he could never eat.
Nestor chuckled at the sight and passed his finger unconsciously back and forth through the stem of his wine glass.
It was obvious that the ghosts could not hold to the form and traditions of the living without the utmost seriousness of intention and exact conformity to the rules, and these louts were getting too giddy with the effort. Amateurs. No one would be fooled by them. They might as well give up the ghost - or banquet, as it were.
He let the appearance of the table fade away and started seeing the real terror underneath. The game had a purpose. They were in desperate fear of being dead, refusing to acknowledge themselves for what they were.
Nestor shrugged and wondered what else there was to do. It seemed a tedious preoccupation, imitating the living, and rather backwards: spirit imitating matter? He sighed and looked around. Normally he'd have spotted a pretty one at the table and been content to watch her for the duration of the dream, but that kind of amusement seemed to have lost its relevance and there were no pretty ones anyway, just idiots in their discomfort.
A wind was calling to him to let go and scatter. He closed his eyes and obeyed. After all, he had no reason to think of himself as being in that chair.
The butler roused him.
"It's time, Sir."
Nestor was upstairs.
It was just as well. There was no staircase.
The butler led him by a few paces.
"This way, Sir."
They were walking along a balcony overlooking the banquet. A shivery tune played on a pipe organ, providing accompaniment to their contortions. He gave the scene one last glance and then turned the corner and went down a dimly lit hall. The noise faded behind.
It was a relief.
He followed the form ahead until it stopped at the end of the hall.
"Through here, Sir."
The butler faded into the wall, and Nestor, barely puzzled, followed. The echo of a doubt hindered him and he felt a tugging as he passed through the wood fibers, but his curiosity prevailed: he loosened up and passed on through. The butler was already several steps down the path.
They were outdoors, under a sliver of a moon, and the path wove its way down toward the river. The butler was waiting at the oars when he arrived.
"Can't we just walk?" asked Nestor.
"Excellent suggestion, Sir," replied the butler. He quit the oars and stepped over the edge of the boat. Nestor followed without hesitation.
They were making for a large boat out in the middle of the river. It was a showboat. They walked up to the paddle wheel, grabbed a flap, and rode it up like an elevator.
Nestor liked this butler's sense of style. The butler caught him noticing and carefully renewed his front of indifference. His guest was getting stronger by the second.
He was brought to a door.
"Enter here, Sir. The lady's waiting for you."
"Lady?"
"She told me not to breathe a word," said the butler, then added confidentially, "But if you don't mind me saying, you'd best forget her as soon as you meet her. Carried away with her part, she is. A real milker."
"I see. I'll take special care."
"Thank you, Sir. You'll only spoil her by indulging. She's new, you understand. Hasn't really sunk in that the spotlights don't hit the floor here."
"Very good, Robards. Now beat it."
"Thank you, Sir."
The impeccable butler stepped through the railing and floated gently down to water.
Nestor pushed through the door.
He winced from the bright light and brash noise that first greeted him. At first it was a frontier saloon, with honky tonk piano and fistfights, subsiding to a more elegant Mississippi Riverboat as the impression eased up. It almost went too far the other way, to an old ladies' home, but he brought it back until it was most vivid and in tune for him.
Casino on wheels. Paddlewheels, that is. He gave it a name: “Blazing Paddles.”
Games of chance were everywhere around him. One table in particular caught his eye. At this one the dealer offered beautiful ladies as stakes agai
nst money and religious trinkets. There were two players. The first was playing with his life's savings, stored in a Swiss bank account.
"I don't have anything to bet with," he had said. I left it all behind me when I died."
Uncannily, a cashier in black tuxedo produced a small blue book.
"Is this the nothing you are referring to, Sir?"
The man was amazed. He checked the deposit and withdrawal page, and examined the account number closely.
Yes, that is it," he said, amazedly, then wavered between playing the game or clinging to his life's savings. He looked searchingly at the line of ladies.
"Is there a particular lady you have in mind who is not here?" asked the tuxedoed gentleman.
The old man swallowed. He swam briefly in memory, and a dry, parched voice spoke out a name.
"Linda," he said, his eyes closed and the weight of many years sadness upon him. The man in the tuxedo smiled.
"Linda from Michigan?" he asked, as if he knew the memory intimately.
"Yes, her. How did you know?" he answered, opening his eyes in amazement.
"You forget where we are," the cashier answered discreetly, and gestured to the line of white gowned ladies.
"That Linda?" he asked.
A dark haired woman who had somehow escaped attention before now stood behind the table on the right hand side of the dealer.
The old man handed over his bank book.
"All of it," he said simply.
"You may lose," said the dealer, with an eyebrow raised.
"I know."
A hawker tried to grab Nestor's attention. Nestor nudged him aside and moved closer to the table.
The wheel was spun and the cards were dealt. The gambler ceased breathing.
You had to get a queen and a green number at the same time. He