Ghostly Echoes (Jackaby, #3)

by William Ritter

“Questions are good,” Jackaby said. “Questions are to the clever mind as coal is to the stoker. I will worry more when we run out of them.”

It looked like precisely the sort of place where a living body might go if it wanted to become a dead one.

It is the ugliest aspect of human nature that we fear what is most different from ourselves with such violent contempt.”

“you will remember that monsters pick on the weak and the harmless because it is the monsters who are afraid.”

“There is something humbling about knowing that an entity capable of moving mountains and reshaping continents still takes the time to tend to the smallest patch of dirt. Little things matter. Footsteps matter.”

“People often feel more alone than ever when they first arrive in a new place,” Jackaby continued, “but we are never alone. We bring with us the spirits of our ancestors. We are haunted by their demons and protected by their deities.”

This city is alive. It has a soul, and that soul is a glorious mess of beliefs and cultures all swirling together into something precious and strange and new.”

I prefer to walk because I like to be right up close to the beautiful madness.”

I felt ready for a second encounter with a paranormal predator like Pavel, but I had to admit that to an ordinary bear or wolf, we were mostly just well-seasoned.

“Aren’t you worried someone might notice you carrying a body through town in the middle of the night?” I called. “Not generally,” Jackaby replied. “Surprisingly, it’s never been a problem in the past.”

I have a talent that allows me to see certain truths, and the truth is that you are concealing something. I can see willful obfuscation spread over you like marmalade on toast. I do not care for marmalade, madam, and I care less for secrets.”

My brick. My house. My whole wide world.”

“Not a chance. Hell hath no fury and all that, but the most your ghost girl can do is kill me. I’ve been through that. I can handle death. They would do far worse. They’re downright visionary in that way.”

“But everything is science. Life is science. Magic is science.

“Brilliant! I told Edison it was possible! I told him communication with the other side could only be a matter of calibration and sensitivity. He scoffed at my designs for a spirit phone — of course he didn’t let me keep them, either.

Edison will never let you keep your ideas. He be taking them All

“Oh. It was just the right thing to do, I suppose.” “How do you know if you’re doing the right thing?” she asked. “I keep trying, but sometimes I feel as though I’ve done nothing but the wrong thing all my life.” “I’m sure that isn’t true,” I said. “You keep trying — and in the end I think maybe that’s the only right thing anybody can do.”

“She has an Adam’s apple.” “You’re awfully judgmental for someone who’s been keeping company with dead rodents,” I said. “Look, I don’t know that I fully understand her, either, but that doesn’t matter. I don’t need to understand someone to respect them. I think she’s very brave.” “How is she brave?” “How?” I considered. “There are lots of people out there who are terribly hateful. She could avoid a whole lot of trouble and dress and act as they want her to, but she chooses to be herself. That’s brave. Also — the last time we met she stopped Jackaby from hurting the men who hurt her. They might have killed her. Kindness is an act of bravery, I think, just as hatred is an act of fear. I’m sure you can appreciate that not all strength is muscle, Mr. Finstern. She has a strong spirit, and I believe she is very brave about the way she chooses to use it.”

“How does it work?” “Magic. Or science, or whatever they’re calling it now. The smiths of Nidavellir constructed it. It was a gift from an old king. They used to call him the Father of the Slain. He was very popular. Do you still do Wednesdays up there?” “Wednesdays?” I said. He had climbed into the fore of the boat, and I slid onto a wooden seat at the aft. The boat smelled of salt and firewood. “Erm. Yes, we still do Wednesdays.” Charon nodded. “That one’s his. There is a channel in these roots that leads to his hall.” Charon plunged his pole into the water and pushed off, punting the boat into the mist. “His men used to make a sport of skipping past me. There were days when this river was thick with their longships. They brought their own boats with them when they died.” “That all sounds like the Vikings,” I said.

“I thought you were Greek.” “I don’t bother much with politics. I am the ferryman.” “But you’re real,” I said. “And this place is real.” “Yes.” “So who had it right, then?” “I do not understand the question.” “The afterlife. There are lots of different versions, and they can’t all be true. Heaven, Hell, the Happy Hunting Ground — which is it? You’re here, so does that mean there’s a Hades with an Elysium and a Tartarus and everything?” “Why would there not be?” “Well, because a moment ago you were talking about Valhalla.” Charon pressed forward. The mist split around the masthead, curling into eddies that spun ghostly pirouettes over the surface of the river, the whole dance reflected below in the wine-dark waters. “Do you know the fable of the blind men and the elephant?” “I’m afraid I haven’t heard that one,” I said. “A woman from the Hunan Province told it to me,” said Charon. “Once upon a time a stranger came to a remote village with an elephant. Everyone got excited, including three blind men who didn’t know what an elephant was. They decided to find out for themselves. “The first man approached the elephant near its head. He reached his hand out and felt the leathery ear. The second man approached from behind and brushed the elephant’s bristly tail. The third came at it from the side and stroked its wide midsection. “ ‘What a strange creature an elephant is,’ the first man said. ‘So flat and thin, like wash hung from the line.’ “ ‘What are you talking about?’ said th...

“We miss you, you know.” “Don’t!” she chirped. “Just make it down here on your own terms eventually, and be sure you’ve built up a few amazing stories to tell me in the meantime.”

“I asked him,” said Charon. “You asked him?” I said. “Asked him what?” “About the waters,” said Charon. “I do not think that English has all the right words to explain it, but I will try, if you like. He calls it the Terminus. The End Soul.” “That thing is a soul?” “Yes. All souls have power, you see. Every person has a unique soul — a spirit — and so too does every place. Human spirits and the spirits of the places they inhabit can become bonded, and their bond makes both souls stronger. Your friend, Jennifer Cavanaugh, has such a bond — and it is powerful enough to allow her to remain above. The underworld also has a soul. It has the End Soul.” “So,” I said, “if we had fallen in, we would have become bonded to this Terminus thing the way Jenny is bonded to Augur Lane?” “Not exactly. In a way, you already are. All souls are bonded to the End Soul. What they can become is lost in the End Soul. They can become a part of the single energy that powers all eternity, but at the cost of everything that makes them unique. For some, those who are ready, it is a great reward. For others — those who would prefer to remain distinct — it is less pleasant. Does that make sense to you?”

Each investigation I pursued with Jackaby seemed to leave me with larger and more visible injuries. At this rate, I would be escalating to decapitation by our sixth or seventh case if I wasn’t careful.

“I do. I know that there are monsters grown men only dare whisper about, and those monsters only dare whisper about the Dire Fae. They are chaos incarnate. The Dire Council is worse — they are insidiously clever chaos. Organized chaos. Redcaps and dragons and vampires are nothing compared to what will come if the Dire Council achieves their goal.”

“The thing about idealists,” he said, knocking on the door, “is that they have a habit of being hopeless romantics, as well.”

— everything that washes away has to wash up somewhere.

“My brick. My house. My whole wide world.”

“You only exist because of me, ghost! You’re nothing but a ripple in my wake, you worthless trash. I made you!” “You didn’t make me,” Jenny said gently. “I made myself, and I will continue to make myself forever after. What you did to me? That made you. It made you a murderer and it made you a monster. They buried the girl you killed, Morwen. I’m the spirit you couldn’t kill. You have no power over me.”

“Why ever should a child be secret?” asked Jackaby. “Children make terrible secrets. They are much too conspicuous. Loud, stinking, prone to fits.”

“I’m afraid.” “Of course you are,” said Jackaby flatly. “You’re intelligent and you’re aware. Why shouldn’t you be afraid?” “That’s very reassuring, sir. Thank you,” I said. “Are you afraid?” “Constantly,” he said. “It’s the reason I’m still alive. Fear keeps us sharp. Listen to your fear.”

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