~ Tales Of Someplace Else ~

by

W. J. Calabrese

A Gift Of Seeing

The noise of the party reached yet another crescendo. Someone had suggested a game of charades, which seemed to feature obscene phrases, titles of porno films, well-known dirty jokes, and such things. The boy and girl team that was “it” energetically acted out the assigned phrase with gestures and movements that were more than suggestive. The other teams loudly shouted their guesses. Even the blond, dewy-eyed ingénue now gleefully called out the coarsest of obscenities. She and the rest of the guests were enjoying themselves.

They were all afloat in a sea of cocktails and self-appreciation, with perhaps a bit of a cocaine undercurrent. No group of people in the world, Susan reflected, can be quite as silly as movie people when they were intent on having a good time.

For neither the first time nor the twentieth, Susan regretted having come along on this “weekend jaunt to the quaint English countryside,” as the handsome young actor who had invited her had referred to it. His beauty had turned out to be barely skin deep, and during the time he had spent with her, he had talked of almost nothing but himself and his own career. He had shown no interest in Susan’s career or her plans for the future. Susan had quickly grown tired of him, and he of her. They had quarreled briefly and without much passion, and had gone their separate ways. She expected that he was off in one of the many rooms of this huge manor house, enjoying some recreational sex with one of the script girls.

Susan had no real reason for remaining any longer. She had no meaningful attachment to anyone in the party, nor did anyone in the party appear to feel any real attachment to her. She was just one of the scriptwriters, and a junior one at that. She was sure that she wouldn’t have been invited at all if it weren’t for the young actor’s sudden whim. But, even though her “date” was otherwise occupied, she couldn’t just disappear, not this early. It would be noticed, and she would be marked down for it. Perhaps someone would decide that she wasn’t a “team player” and her services were “redundant.”

That would be unfortunate. She didn’t like the job, but it paid very well indeed, and she needed the money very much indeed. The London filming session, the last session for the film, was just about to begin and she must remain in reasonably good standing until it ended. It was another peculiarity of film people that, although those with the power showed precious little loyalty to anyone, they demanded it from those who worked for them. In about four weeks, they would be wrapping up and going their own ways. In Susan’s case, that meant home to Connecticut and to the half-completed novel that waited there for her. She doubted very much that she would ever take another scriptwriting job. Scriptwriting did not much resemble real writing, anyway. There was very little opportunity to be creative and no satisfaction in it at all. One did not enjoy scriptwriting, one just, with luck, survived it.

Susan began to work her way around the room, looking to find a place where she could remain out of the main flow of the party, while not appearing to flee from it. Then, after a reasonable time, she could drift off to her room, unnoticed. She was sure that, after about two more hours, nobody in the party would be noticing anything.

Her plan seemed reasonable, more so because at least one other person seemed to be executing a similar one. She had glimpsed the young man in the blue sweater several times, once standing near the fireplace with a drink in his hand, another time strolling through the thick of the hilarity, a bemused look on his face. He seemed to be not quite in the party and not quite out of it, just on the fringes, observing. He was tall and slender, and good-looking enough, and there was something in the look on his face that suggested a sense of humor. Susan didn’t take him to be a movie person. She had never seen him around the set. Perhaps he was connected somehow with the household. It might be amusing to talk to him for a while, just to pass a little time. He was, she must admit, kind of cute. Susan started moving in his direction.

Her approach did not go unnoticed. When she got closer, he raised his glass to her. “Another observer,” he said. “Welcome to Abnormal Sociology 101.” His accent was Midlands British.

She had been right about the sense of humor. “Is that what you are, an observer? I didn’t figure you for one of the movie people.”

He shook his head. “No, thank God, I’m not part of that lot. I’m just a rather unenthusiastic groupie. And you?”

“Just one of the writers,” she said. “That’s one full notch below groupie, enthusiastic or otherwise.”

The word game was getting louder.

“They do seem to be having fun,” Susan said, feeling a combination of contempt and pity for the participants.

“Wait until they get to the X-rated living statues.” He consulted his watch. “The way they are getting on, I have that predicted for sometime between ten and ten-fifteen. My name is Charles Rainey, by the way. What’s yours?”

“Susan Dunfree. Do you live around here, Charles?”

“I used to, but not anymore,” he said. “I just show up every year to do my observations. It has gotten so that nobody pays the least bit of attention to me.”

“Then why do you keep on coming?”

“Force of habit, I guess. Perhaps I shall write a book some day, a novel, with all the proper disclaimers, but not disguising the characters so much that the reader can’t guess at what celebrities they are meant to represent. It shall be a best-seller, I am sure.”

“I loathe that sort of book!”

“As do I,” Charles said. “I wouldn’t be caught dead reading one, let alone authoring one. No, seriously, the real reason I come back is that this house and this part of the country are ideal for the pursuit of my hobby.”

“And what is this hobby of yours?” Susan asked.

“Oh, no,” he said, waving his free hand at her, “you don’t get to discover my secret that easily. I shall make you work a bit before I give it up. Are you going on the pub crawling expedition tomorrow?”

“What pub crawling expedition?”

“They plan, all of them, to cram their hung-over heads and ravished bodies into their motor cars tomorrow, and to go off to visit, in serial killer fashion, every pub within twenty kilometers of here.”

“The locals should really appreciate that,” Susan said. “No, I don’t intend to go on any such expedition. It sounds like it will be perfectly appalling. The government should have a Bureau of Cultural Desecration to deal with such things. No, I will just hang out, as we Yanks say, around the pool, perhaps take a walk later.”

“Why don’t you just come along with me--on my hobby pursuit?”

She was a bit startled by the invitation. “But you refuse even to tell me what your hobby is!”

“You will soon find out what it is, if you come along. It is the only way you will find out, as a matter-of-fact. I will meet you on the terrace at the rear of the house at six in the morning. We will have a quick continental breakfast and then leave.”

“For where?”

“Ah.” He smiled. “For parts unknown.”

“Not even a clue?”

“It would spoil the surprise,” he said.

“Why so early?”

“Two things: one, the hobby requires it; and two, none of our hung-over friends will be about at that hour.”

“Well,” she said, “I will think about it.”

~ * ~

And think about it she did. Several times, she decided that she wouldn’t go, and several times she thought that she might. Her curiosity won out in the end. After all, she was a writer, and a woman writer, at that. Maybe she could at least get a story idea out of it. Whatever her new friend’s hobby was, it was probably an interesting one. Charles Rainey didn’t seem like the sort that took up dull hobbies.

So, at five minutes to six the next morning, she was on her way downstairs, telling herself that she could still change her mind. There didn’t seem to be anyone about downstairs, except for a small, older woman, in a shapeless brown dress, who sat in one corner of the dining room, no doubt waiting to serve breakfast.

“Good morning,” Susan called to her.

The woman did not even look up. Ah, well, not everybody is a morning person.

A minute later, Susan waited on the rear terrace, which, except for her presence, seemed totally deserted. Two minutes later, Charles was standing beside her.

“You’ll give me the fright of my life appearing like that!” Susan said.

“So sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you.”

“How did you do that?”

“Do what?”

“One moment you weren’t there and the next moment, you were.”

Charles laughed. “I work at it. I have managed to bring sneakiness to an entirely new level.”

“I believe you have,” she said. “You will have to teach me. I would like to use the trick on some of my friends.”

He stepped back a step and looked at her. “That doesn’t look like pool attire to me. I expect that you have decided to come along with me.”

“Yes,” she said. “I can’t resist a mystery. But first, you promised me coffee and continental breakfast.”

“It’s in that little basket on the chair over there. We will have it on the way, picnic style. I shall lead the way, and you shall carry the basket.”

She spotted the basket. Funny, she hadn’t seen it before.

“You want me to carry the basket? What ever happened to chivalry?”

“Quite dead, I’m afraid. It expired about the time King Arthur did. Well, tally-ho and off we go!”

With Charles in the lead, they set off at a brisk pace, down the steps into the garden and along a maze of garden paths. In less than ten minutes, they were at the edge of the property; and moments after that they were through a little gate and out into the surrounding countryside. They crossed a wide meadow, climbing a rise until they came to a place where the land fell to a valley.

Susan decided that the trip so far had been worth it, if for nothing more than the view now before her. It was glorious! The meadow, greener than anything had a right to be, swept down into a hollow, where copses of trees rose like illusions out of the lingering morning mist. A stream, glittering in the slant of early morning sunlight, made its serpentine way across the valley floor, here disappearing into the mist, there emerging again.

“This is the first place I wanted to bring you to,” Charles said.

“And I certainly thank you for bringing me. It is magnificent! Can we have our coffee now?”

“In just a moment,” Charles said. “I want to show you something first. We must watch very carefully, or we shall miss them.”

Them?

A moment later, he said, “Ah, there they are.”

Susan followed his pointing finger to where perhaps a dozen men had emerged from a stand of trees in the valley below. They all were dressed the same: plumed helmets; a short, skirt-like garment below burnished breastplates that shot splinters of reflected light into the air. They held broad shields in their left hands and swords or short spears in their right.

“Reenacters,” Susan said. “I heard there was a Roman camp site in the neighborhood, but I didn’t know they did reenactments.”

“No, they are not reenacters. Watch--and listen.”

There was nothing to listen to. The group of men made no sound as the marched across the meadow to another mist-shrouded clump of trees. There they vanished. Just vanished! Susan blinked her eyes.

She looked up and found that Charles was watching her intently.

“Tell me what you saw,” he said.

“You saw it, too.”

“Yes, but I want you to tell me what you saw--and heard.”

“All right, then. I saw a group of men dressed as Roman Legionaries march across a field and enter a patch of woods on the other side.”

“You actually saw them enter the woods? As spread out as they were, it would have taken them several seconds to do so.”

“I can’t say I saw them enter, exactly. There was a lot of mist and they were far off.”

“About fifty yards, actually. Did you hear anything?”

“No.”

Charles looked at her even more intently than before. “Does that suggest anything to you?”

“No,” she said.

Charles didn’t say anything for several moments, just looked at her--studied her.

“What you just saw, Susan, were the ghosts of a group of Roman soldiers that haunt the camp down there.”

She laughed and shook her head. “You can’t be serious!”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because there is no such thing as ghosts!” she said.

“You know that to be a fact, do you?”

“Well I certainly have never seen one!”

Charles smiled. “It seems to me that you saw several of them just a moment ago.” He waved his hand. “But that aside, can you really say with certainty that you have never seen a ghost?”

“Of course I can! If I had seen one, I would surely remember it!”

“Tell me, have you ever seen a odd-looking person standing alone in a place, perhaps an unexpected place, like the middle of a bridge, the top of a hill, and perhaps wearing clothes that seemed a bit... out of context?”

Susan returned her own smile. “Did I tell you that I am from New York City? I see that sort of thing almost every day.”

“How do you know that some of them--just some, mind you--might not be ghosts? Have you ever asked those around you if they saw the person, too?”

“Of course not!”

“Why not?”

“Because...” She searched for a reason.

“Because perhaps you were a bit afraid that they might say something like ‘What person?’.”

“Of course not!”

“Is that your hobby then, ghost hunting?”

“Ghost watching, not hunting. I do not disturb them in any way. It is sort of like bird watching.”

“Do you often bring other people with you to see your ghosts?”

“Very seldom, but sometimes I share the gift of seeing, yes.”

“The gift of seeing?”

“That is what I call it.”

“Well, I still don’t believe that those men were the spirits of Roman soldiers, and I certainly can’t entertain the thought that every bag lady I see from now on is a ghost!”

“That is, of course, your choice. How about some coffee?”

“I thought you would never ask.”