A Ghost Speaks

     I speak to you from a foggy place, gray and cool with mist. It is nothin’ like what me beloved husband, the Reverend Gavin McGonigal, would be makin’ reference to as Paradise when he preached God’s Holy Scriptures from the box stand in the wee white clapboard church as shepherd to his flock. Nay! Me Gavin described a place of beauty and flower; a peaceful place of light and the glory of God blended with the fragrant perfume of prayer. Me Gavin spoke of streams of waters that reflected the blue of Heaven’s skye that praised the Almighty after a fashion as they danced across rocks in peaceful valleys. Aye! He spoke of this place for those who loved the Lord and would seek to do his biddin’, but I was among the sheep who went astray, so perhaps I shall never find this place of rest. Perhaps it was not decreed for me, and I am cursed to wander for an eternity alone in this void that lacks color and song. The disparity in this place weighs heavy like the chains of the slave who must work the oars of the ship at sea; in darkness he makes his way, paying his due, knowing not where he goes, but simply that he must continue on without knowledge of destiny. Aye, the cup I quench me thirst from is tainted with regrets that cloud the sweet waters of the memories that play like a haunting refrain, again and again within me spirit, reminding me with tauntin’ remorse that I transgressed against me Lord, me husband and me own body before I met me untimely death. It was not the way I would have chosen, but it was a secret path off the road of righteousness that beckoned out to me in a weakened moment of self-pity and vanity. Once I trod upon it, I found meself curious for more, but it wasn’t always so. Nay! Perhaps if the Good Lord had taken me sooner I might be beside me husband now, his faithful and lovin’ wife, in the presence of God’s mercy on that far shore called Paradise. Aye! Regrets! Listen with a keen ear t’ what it is I have t’ say at this moment in eternity when the veil between me existence and yours permits me to speak and be heard, for the time is almost nigh when I must move on, and I have a tale to tell.

     Firstly, let me make me name known t’ you. I was born Mandy Rose O’Hanlon. Me father was a strong man of good character as well as master at the Covenant Seminary in Hanover, Connecticutt. ‘Twas on the broad lawns of the Covenant School in the fall of 18 and 42 that I first gazed upon me husband to be, Gavin McGonigal. I was standin’ by the grand oak with me mother when he passed by and smiled me way. He had a most sincere look about him, and I could sense in me spirit in a peculiar way that defies explainin’ that the best was yet to be between us. ‘Twas at the table of bounty celebration in November of that same year that we first engaged in conversation, me being the initiator. Our courtship was a proper one, me Gavin being a gentleman of Godly character. He was a man of lovely words, and used them well on me behalf. On summer walks me Gavin would pick a blossom from the seminary garden, put it to his lips and kiss it, and place it carefully in me long flowin’ hair behind me ear. After a season, me Gavin received his ordination, and we were wed in the stone chapel of the Covenant School. Me own father presented the vows of the sacrament to us, lookin’ proper and proud in his lovely black robes despite the tear from the corner of his mistin’ eyes that trickled it’s way into the thick of his beard. ‘Twas then, for the first time before man and God, that me Gavin kissed me sweetly on the lips as he had the rose. After that, his kisses only were for me, and we were quick to please one another as a husband and a wife should be. For a season we occupied a wee cottage on the grounds of the seminary. It was but one room, but ample accommodations for our needs, consistin’ of a cook-stove, feather bed, a chest of drawers, a sideboard and washstand. Me Gavin kept long hours researchin’ God’s word and comprising sermons, written in his own elegant hand, in the grand room of the library under the watchful eye of an angel’s gaze from the stained glass window. These epistles were carefully sewn together into fine leathered volumes servin’ as reference for the newly arrivin’ students of the Covenant School. With the passin’ of time and letters of good report being issued on me Gavin’s behalf, finally came the day in the year of our Lord, 18 and 46, that an assignment was commissioned t’ me husband, now a fully ordained minister of the cloth. The good Lord had made the way for me Gavin to pastor a wee church in Old Stonybrook. It was a sad day for me, indeed, leavin’ the familiar place of me growin’ years, but me Gavin was filled with a spirit of anticipation that had a contagious element of joy about it that spread quickly into me own heart as it did his. Upon hearin’ the good news, me own dear father and mother had a lovely white frock cut and sewn on my behalf, with a gay underskirt of Irish lace as a goin’ away present. Gavin himself drove me to town in our carriage to the local milliner and had a fine broad brimmed bonnet done up with a trailin’ pink ribbon and wee silk flowers. Me father also commissioned a tailor to make up a fine suit of dark cloth for me husband, which his own lovely figure complimented well. Me eyes are brimmin’ with tears rememberin’ the pleasure of gazing his way in that fine suit as he shared his first message as shepherd to his flock in Old Stonybrook. He was well received. 

     I felt in me own spirit from the start that the women of the church were begrudgin’ in acceptin’ me. When I approached me husband on this matter after a fortnight of melancholy concerning me feelin’s, he held me close under the warmth of our beddin’ and whispered they were covetous of me rosy cheeks and lovely form, especially. After kissin’ me tenderly about me neck and shoulders, me Gavin lay on his back with his hands folded under his head on the down of his pillow with a most pensive look in his eye. With great contemplation he spoke softly, “They are lukewarm in their joy, Mandy Rose. They have neither lilt in their laughter nor twinkle in their eye for the beauty in the world that God has placed before them. They view your vigor for life as peculiar to their own. They wear the joy of the Lord as funeral garments instead of the coat of many colors He would have it be. There is much work to do here. Much work.” 

     Days turned into months and ‘twas as me Gavin had surmised; there was much work and many hurtin’ souls to be tended to. Me Gavin was a good shepherd to his flock and made it part of his obligation t’ see t’ their assistance in hard times. He helped Widow Farnham convert her carriage house into a one room schoolhouse, commissioning me t’ pound nails and paint wee tables and chairs at his side. Me Gavin comforted the mourning and blessed the marriages of the young and dedicated their babes. In the Spring of 18 and 51 an event was t’ take place that was to come as a snag in the fabric of our marriage that began t’manifest itself as a wee tear in the unravlin’ of events. Me husband, as a caring shepherd, had obliged himself and his carpentry skills t’ aid one of his flock, Icabod Walsh by name, in the construction of a room to be added to his cottage. In the course of the day’s events, Icabod’s wife, Rebekka Walsh, who was great with child, was carrying a pitcher of cold apple cinnamon cyder t’ the porch when she tripped over a tabby cat that crossed her path. In her fallin’ she began t’ have the paigns of labor that put the fear o’ God int’ Icaobod, as well as me own sweet husband, concernin’ the predicament at hand. Rebekka began t’ wail out for God’s mercy as me Gavin and Icabod lifted her gently from the wood o’ the floor and placed her on the feather down of her bed. I was out gatherin’ green apples for pies for Sunday’s supper picnic at church when I heard me Gavin’s voice callin’ out me name quick ‘n hard. I ran to the house and saw the situation, and summonin’ up all me courage, commanded Icabod to fetch some wet towels and a basin o’ water, and summoned me Gavin t’ be givin’ me the lacin’ from his boot and after that, holdin’ Rebekka’s arms still t’ keep her from flailin’ about. Washin’ me hands with the lyesoap Icabod fetched with the basin o’ water, I assisted Rebekka with the birth of her fine son. After the child settled into his mother’s arms, ‘twas when I saw the gaze me Gavin put upon him; a gaze of sadness and longing. After a season, a wife grows to know her husband’s mind and heart fer what it is, and me Gavin’s was a tender and merciful heart that held an empty place waitin’ to be filled with the presence of his own child. I sensed this disappointment each month when me woman’s time came and went with the regularity of the moon’s cycle. I’d questioned God concerning me barren state in me prayers. The women of the church whispered among themselves concerning this matter, and it came back to me they considered me cold to me husband’s desires or selfish in keeping with me own to be free of the obligations in nurturing and raising a child. Neither whispered transgression, of course, was true. When I spoke of this idle gossip among the flock with me husband he said not t’ take note of it, and in God’s good time His will would manifest itself in our lives, and the wee empty cradle in the attic of our parsonage would be filled with a creation of our love for one another. I’d countered, “Husband, what if it is not God’s will it should be,” and me Gavin replied that me faith was surely sufferin’ for want and, at that, went off t’ be alone with himself with a lantern in hand in the chill of evenin’. 

     Me Gavin increased his commitment to his duties. He encouraged me t’ take up with the women’s quiltin’ circle that pieced quilts for missionary barrels sent out of Mystic t’ far off shores. I obliged him, but found little consolation in the idle chatter of me sisters in Christ. I longed for the comfort of me husband’s arms, which was, indeed, becomin’ a rare pleasure. ‘Twas this longin’, unfulfilled, that led me off the path of righteousness, unsuspectingly so.

     It was the summer of 18 and 52. Me Gavin was hard at work painting the exterior of the church that fateful day. With great pleasure, I prepared a supper basket for him, consistin’ of a thick slice of ham, warm potato bread, a bottle of cold sarsaparilla, and a wedge from a fresh cherry pie I baked in me husband’s honor, in an effort to win his favor. Smilin’ to meself with anticipation t’ please me husband, I put a quilt in the carriage along with the supper basket, and drove the short distance to the church. Me Gavin was in a weary state upon me arrival and called out not a hello or welcome, but a comment on behalf of the horse, Dorcus, that there was somethin’ ailin’ her in the manner of her stride. Approachin’ the carriage, me husband took ‘hold of the beast’s leg, liftin’ it, and stated she’d thrown her shoe in the midst of our journey. ‘Twas then me husband looked up at me with distress and concern in his eye. I endeavored to appease his frettin’ by offerin’ the lovely meal, but he was unable to partake of it, saying he’d drink the sarsaparilla only and be off to Shyley McTavish, the local farrier, to have the beast shod. ‘Twas upon hearing these words that I offered t’ go in his stead and see to Dorcus. “Surely I have enough of me wits about me t’ carry on business with a farrier on behalf of a horse,” I’d stated. Me Gavin shook his head and was firm in his word that it wouldn’t be the proper thing to do, then added, “I do need to be about the business of painting God’s house, Mandy Rose. Perhaps I’ll tend to Dorcus on the morrow. Please be takin’ her home, as well as this lovely supper you’ve prepared. Perhaps later I will be more inclined to take sustenance.”

     The red of me hair began to deepen in color with disappointment concerning me husband and his mind-set. Gazing at the supperbasket beside me, the disappointment that gnawed at me spirit made the transition to anger. As I sat in the carriage makin’ me way home with the beast, I took it upon meself to change the course of me journey, and shakin’ the reigns, directed old Dorcus toward town. 

     Approachin’ the livery stable I saw Shyley McTavish, the local farrier, takin’ his ease, sittin’ on the coarse wood o’ the old porch in front of the crude structure where he carried out his business. Shyley’s long legs were restin’ across the steps straight out liken t’ boards themselves, his heavy boots a weighin’ down. Takin’ sight of me, he grinned my way, pushin’ back the black locks o’ curly hair that covered the blue of his eyes with his strong broad hands, smudged with soot. “Why Mrs. Reverend, Shyley called out, “Fancy seein’ you here. What can I be helpin’ ye with on this fine dey. Is everthin’ well with ye husband?”

     ‘Twas then I pointed me finger toward Dorcas’s ailin’ hoof an’ told him me husband was busy paintin’ the church momentarily and the horse be needin’ a new shoe. Shyley walked over and elevated the forehoof of the beast and nodded his head and grinned. “Lucky fer ye she didn’t founder. I kin fixer ip fer ye. Let me fetch me tools.” Shyley whispered somethin’ in old Dorcas’s ear, then took a long-legged stride through the squeakin’ door o’ the make-shift structure, steppin’ inside. He came out carryin’ a leather bag full o’ nails, a hammer and a horseshoe. Before he began, he walked over t’ the carriage and eyed the supperbasket. Takin’ in a whiff o’ the air and closin’ his eyes, he queried, “Now tell me woman. What might ye be havin’ that smells so good whaftin’ my way from that basket?” I no sooner spilled out the words o’ the contents o’ the basket, than Shyley queried, “Would ye be considerin’ tradin’ me labor here fer that fine supper? Been a spell since I had sech a fine meal, especially one cooked by sich a pretty lady as yeself.” 

     Shyley’s words made me face turn red with color. I thought t’ take him up on the barter o’ goods, feelin’ good to hear his flatterin’ words, and knowin’ he truly fancied a good meal. After Dorcas was shod, I handed over the supperbasket I’d prepared for me husband. Shyley grabbed it up an’ sat on the porch once more. Savorin’ every morsel, he winked my way and said to me, “Mrs. Revern, mebe I’m a heathen, but God must be asmilin’ me way to bring sech a fine meal to me door fer the want o’ a horseshoe. When he finished he said, “That cherry pie was better n me dear mother’s, may she rest in peace,” then he got up from the porch an’ walked over t’ the carriage, handin’ me back the basket. ‘Twas then he took note of a fray in the rope about the horse. “Ye want to be heedin’ this soon fer the safety o’ your beast an’ yourself,” Shyley said with concern. Then he added, “I be havin’ some extra rope wher I board the beasts. Why don’t ye step inside an’ tell me whet ye be prefferin’ n we’ll be puttin’ yer husband’s mind at ease concernin’ yer well-being as well as the animal’s. 

     Lookin’ at the rope, I had a feelin’ in me gut Shyley was stretchin’ the urgency of the situation a bit. Havin’ a great curiosity about seein’ more o’ Shyley’s world, bein’ so dissimilar from me own, I threw caution aside and stepped inside the dark interior, with it’s smell of horse ‘n’ hay. Once inside, Shyley walked over t’ some rope hangin’ from a large wooden spool. He cut a piece off with a knife from his leather apron, placin’ it in me hand. As I eyed the hemp, Shyley took the advantage t’ put his hands on me shoulders and pulled me close to his own body. ‘Twas then the devil first got his laugh on me behalf, fer me feelin’s were t’ go with his touch, ‘n’ ‘twas a strange feelin’, indeed, that took me up like a gust o’ wind and settled me down, afterwards t’ me good and Godly senses at the feel o’ Shyley’s lips on me own and his hands touchin’ me in a way a man should only be touchin’ his wife. As I pushed meself away from Shyley, he laughed and slapped me on me backside as I left with great haste. 

     Arivin’ home, I took me dress off ‘n’ was boilin’ it on the cookstove t’ get the soot and stain from me sinful ways from it’s fabric, when me husband came walkin’ into his own kitchen from a day’s labor wantin’ his supper. I began t’ cry, convicted o’ me transgressions, then offended God once more by lyin’ to me husband, saying I ate his supper meself, when it was Shyley who ate every morsel. Me husband gazed upon me with a bit o’ wonderment at me words, and laughed besides, makin’ me feel all the more remorseful. That night when me husband held me close to himself under the blanket of the bed we shared, I never loved him the more, and the fear o’ God overcame me heart to think of ever losin’ him. At the same space in time as I listened to the beat of me precious husband’s heart as my head rest on his chest, the devil was being about his work, ‘n’ Shyley was havin’ a good laugh on me behalf at the local saloon, ‘n’ stretchin’ the ugliness of the truth t’ the shame of meself and me unsuspectin’ husband, Gavin McGonigal, a man of God.

     At times in my wanderin’s in this foggy place of despair, I think I hear the laughter of Shyley McTavish come floatin’ across the mist, the sounds could simply be me haunted memories reflectin’ themselves upon me. Aye! Reflectin’ back, ‘twas nary a week before me Gavin heard the much embellished tale of me wicked ways with Shyley. He said not a word to me, nor did he give me the occasion to speak counter on me own behalf concernin’ what Shyley portrayed. Me Gavin simply went away, never knowin’ the truth. Perhaps he boarded one of the ships outa Mystic Harbor for foreign shores, and did his good work as a missionary. When he left, part of me own soul did so too, fer we were truly as one. ‘Twas after that me friends and neighbors turned their back to me, and I could find no work to be doin’. Mary Colridge, a good widow and sister in Christ from the quiltin’ circle, took me into her home fer a spell. It was shortly t’ come t’ pass that her children were being the subject of ridicule fer the company their own mother kept in havin’ me in the house, so I had to move on. 

     In the devil’s own time, I came to a state of destitution, starvin’ and bedraggled in spirit, mind and body. I begged enough money to purchase a ticket so that I might travel to a faraway town from the one where I had resided as the wife of God’s shepherd. In a sad state, I found meself workin’ in a house of ill repute, first doin’ cleanin’ and washin’ fer the scarlet women who sold their body for pleasures. Then finally, me own conscience becomin’ seared, as the good book describes it, I resorted t’ sellin’ me own body t’ the wants of strange men fer a price. We were a sorry lot, and some of the men who crossed the threshold o’ the house were, indeed, mean spirited. Charity Wagoner, whose husband had been shot while breakin’ the commandments with another man’s wife, taught me how t’ drink hard liquor so I might be about me work of pleasin’ the men who paid fer the pleasure of me body. Some of me customers were other women’s husbands, while others be drunk and crude, and occasionally brutal with their hand. 

     I felt a loathin’ and sincere dislike fer meself through and through near the end, and reminisced momentarily before I took me first drink of hard liquor in the mornin’, on me Gavin and how he kissed the rose on me behalf in the purity of our youth and the love we had between us. 

     ‘Twas one hot afternoon in July that it came about; me departure from the earthly plain. The rosiness of me cheeks me sweet husband had spoken of in me youth was replaced with the purple blotches from drinkin’ hard liquor. I be weary of life and weary in spirit, body and soul; drunk with the whiskey Davey McClure had bought me in the wee hours of the mornin’. Me head felt as though Shyley McTavish was poundin’ his farrier’s nails into it, and the walls about me were spinnin’ as I woke to the noonday’s light. While I be staggerin’ outa the saloon and into the dirt o’ the road, two horses pullin’ a stagecoach came thunderin’ through like the horses of death me Gavin spoke of in his sermons on the book of Revelations. As I fell in their path, the beasts trod over me with their iron shoes. Aye. How strange be me fate and ironic; ’twas a horseshoe that left it’s imprint on me broken heart and a horseshoe that left it’s marks on me broken body. How fitting a death. Tis a tale of remorse and regret.

     Aye. But what is it me eye is beholdin’ that is uncommon to the eternal dispairity o’ surroundings? Could it be a wee bit of light breakin’ through the thick o’ the fog? And I be hearin’ a noise, not unlike me own heartbeat but louder and the feel of warm water caressin’ me body with a new sense of life and hope growin’ within me spirit. 

     Could it be I hear me Gavin’s words playin’ upon me ears as well, speakin’ softly; “We shall know each other with our hearts when we meet again, Mandy Rose. Forgive me as I forgive you.”

     Aye. Perhaps ‘tis not such a sorry tale after all, but just a sad beginnin’, fer I hear the cryin’ of a wee babe off in the distance o’ the light approachin’ and callin’ me into it with it’s magic. A clean slate is a wonderful thing to create a story upon. Perhaps, as it was before, once again, the best is yet t’ be.

     Aye! And to meself and me own sweet Gavin, when I behold him again, I shall forever be true.

                                                                                Jennifer Grant

                                                                                 July 30, 2001