power. He swallowed, wiped his brow again, and stood. “Excuse me,” he said to Leonard Wu. “I’m feeling faint.”
Walter Trent dropped into his chair again. Leonard Wu was looking increasingly concerned.
“Now,” said the ghost of Explorer Trent, “tell this nice archaeologist gent that you’ve changed your mind. Tell him he can have his head. Give the chief curator a call. Then you can go lie down.”
Walter Trent’s large eyes stared ahead of him. Slowly, he turned to Leonard Wu. “Do you know,” he said, licking dry lips, “I may have been hasty. I believe it might be all right for me to return that head. If you’re sure you want it?”
Leonard Wu’s face lit up. “I certainly do!”
“All right.” The young man blinked. “We’ll draw up a formal agreement this afternoon, but for now, I’ll just give the chief curator a call. That’ll be enough to get him busy preparing the head for transport.”
Leonard Wu began enthusiastically to thank Walter Trent; Walter Trent, weakly, insisted he had done nothing and was glad to help. I hovered, surprised and thrilled, beside the beaming ghost of the elder Trent. I was searching for words with which to express my gratitude when suddenly his head lifted.
“Uh-oh,” he said. “Trouble at the loading dock. Another great-grandson in charge down there, as much of an idiot as this one. Got to go help out. You stay here, Moe, make sure this ninny gets it right.” He spun and vanished.
“I . . .” But he was gone. So I did as instructed: I turned back to Leonard Wu and Walter Trent. Leonard Wu was smiling broadly, describing the beauty of the paintings and carvings in the monastery caves, inviting Walter Trent to come see them for himself. The young Trent, for his part, looked weak, but better than previously. Color was starting to return to his countenance, and he no longer sweated.
“I appreciate the invitation,” he said, his voice still faint. “But a trip to China . . . I don’t know . . . Here, let’s get this process started.” He pressed a button on a box on his desk. “Jerry? The big Buddha head up here in the drawing room—we’re sending it back to China.” A startled objection began to issue from the box, but Walter Trent cut it short. “Yes, I know, but that’s what’s happening. It’s my responsibility and I can do this if I want to. Dr. Wu’s coming down to give you the logistical details. Thank you.” He took his finger off the button and said to Leonard Wu, “Why don’t you go ahead? I’ll be right down. I just need a minute.”
“Yes, of course.” Leonard Wu rose. “I can’t tell you how much we all appreciate this.”
As Leonard Wu walked through the door, though, I did not follow. An uncomfortable knowledge was beginning to take hold in my mind. I would soon be going on to another life, taking my next step along the path. But the ghost of Trent, who had helped me reach this longed-for day, would not. He was bound to remain in this realm, unable to advance spiritually, until the Lord of the Underworld ceased sending him fools to oversee the collection to which he was so tied. Which would not happen until his ties to his collection loosened.
I could see only one possible solution.
I hovered in my spot near the door, watching Leonard Wu trot happily down the stairs. I turned to my friend, the Buddha head. I said nothing, but he, as though he knew my mind, said, “You know it is right.”
“It might fail.
“Is that a reason not to try?”
No, I thought, terror is a reason not to try. But what must be done, must be done. My spectral heart pounding, I drifted across the room, nearing the young Trent. When I reached him, I found myself frozen, unable to move. And certainly, unable to speak.
“Continue,” the head said calmly.
I leaned forward, as Trent’s ghost had. I opened my mouth, but could produce nothing but a few croaking sounds. Walter Trent frowned and looked about.
“Continue,” the Buddha head said once more.
I swallowed—how can a spirit’s throat become so dry?—and, in a whisper so faint I was sure it would not be heard, said, “Walter Trent.”
It was heard, however. The young man raised his head sharply, looking directly at me. I jumped. I glanced wildly at my friend the head, but he sat placidly silent.
I screwed up every ounce of courage I possessed. “Walter Trent,” I whispered again, surprised to hear my words slightly stronger than before. “You must send the bronzes to the Fogg.”
Walter Trent opened and closed his mouth.
“You must become a strong guardian of your great-grandfather’s collection.” I heard my own spectral voice but was incredulous at the idea that I was the one using it, even as I went on. “You must lend some items, and return others whence they came. You must allow scholars to come study pieces here in your rooms, and to remove them for further study.”
The young Trent was shaking his head, over and over. Sweat had once again blossomed on his brow.
“I recognize your lack of confidence in your own judgment,” I told him. “That is your lot in this life. You must do what I have instructed you nevertheless. Your action in the face of insecurity and fear will open new pathways for you. And also, for your great-grandfather, who needs to move on from this place.” Walter Trent sat motionless, as pale as he had been previously. Then, haltingly, he began to stand.
Like a stone, he dropped into his chair.
I, meanwhile, hurried to flit back to his desk from across the room, where the force of my bellow had blown me. “You will shoulder your responsibilities!” I ordered him, in a voice only slightly shaking. “Do as I say!”
A still moment; then the young man minutely straightened. He ran a finger under his collar. With a deep breath, he pressed the button on his desk again. “Jerry? Dr. Wu down there? Good. And while you’re getting things set with him, get this going, too: we’re lending the Fogg those bronzes they asked for. Yes, Jerry,” he answered the squawks from the box. “I’m coming right down.”
Walter Trent stood, wiped the cloth along his brow, folded it carefully, and left the room.
Unable to move, I stared after him, until I heard my name calmly pronounced: “Ghost of Tuo Mo.”
I darted to the back wall and spoke to the head. No; I hardly spoke, just stammered. “I . . . I . . .”
“Yes,” the head replied serenely. “I think he will make an admirable guardian. As you have, my friend.”
I found my voice and answered, “Thank you.”
“I only speak the truth. What will you do now?”
I thought. “I will return to the caves. Leonard Wu does not need my company on his trip; he will have you. I believe I will be summoned by the Lord of the Underworld not long after you reach the caves and have been reinstalled. I would like an opportunity to bid farewell to the Spirit of the South Mountain.”
“You will encounter him again on your journey,” said the Buddha head. “More than once.”
“I hope I do,” I said. “As I hope I encounter you, also. But I will not remember. So in some sense, this is our leave-taking. Good-bye, my friend.”
“Good-bye, Ghost of Tuo Mo. And,” the head added, “thank you.”
My spectral being infused with warmth from the Buddha head’s parting words, I drifted down the staircase. I looked in on Leonard Wu and Walter Trent, deep in conference with three scholarly young people. The ghost of Explorer Trent was with them, also, looking astounded and pleased. I did not disturb them, but floated through the large wooden doors and out into the streets of New York City, America. I gazed on the towering glass cliffs, the multitudinous spirits, and the innumerable people, wondering if my path would lead me here again. Then I sped away, appearing instantaneously at the foot of South Mountain, to find my friend smiling and bathed in a glorious sunrise.
