The Ivory and the Horn

This bit with the rusalki being psychopomps— leading human souls into the afterworld— makes them reminiscent of angels or Valkyries. Certain birds and animals could also act as 'good shepherd' spirits. All of which might make the rusalki seem less scary, except I saw a representation of one in a book, and it gave me a serious case of the willies. The picture showed a tall, scowling woman dressed in a tattered green dress, with claw-like hands and burning eyes. In another book I ran across a painting of a Scottish waterwraith that could have been the rusalka's twin sister.

It's funny how the same inspirational source can make for opposite beliefs. Fertility goddess from one point of view, harbinger of death from another. Benevolent spirit or collector of souls. Weird.

Anyway, through all my reading, I never did discover anything interesting about the wishing well at the motel. It wasn't erected on some sacred site; it wasn't the central crossroad of a bunch of ley lines or the home of some Kickaha corn goddess. It was just a gimmick to get people to stop at the motel. But that makes for another funny thing— funny strange, still, not ha-ha. Jilly once told me that if you get enough people to agree that something is a certain way, then it becomes that way.

It almost makes sense. For one thing, it would explain how Elvis or JFK can be as much a spiritual avatar for some people as Jesus is for others. Or how a gimmicky wishing well could really grant wishes— just saying it did. Doesn't do much to explain the voices, though.

Or the ghosts.

Here's something I've never told anybody before: One day, about a month or so ago when I'm at the well, I get this weird compulsion to close my eyes and try to imagine the faces that once went with those long-lost voices I now hear.

All I want is for Timmy to look at me the way he looks at Jennifer.

That girl— was she pretty, or fat like me?

Please make Daddy stop shouting at Mommy the way he does.

That child— I can't tell, is it a boy or a girl?

We'll love each other forever.

Did they? They sound so young, that couple. Don't they know that nothing ever lasts? Nothing is forever. Except maybe loneliness. Or does being lonely just feel as though it lasts forever?

The air is thick with the scent of rose blossoms, the hum of bees. I look down at my legs and see them crisscrossed with the shadows of rose thorns and tiny jagged leaves. The faces rise easily in my imagination, but later I realize that maybe it wasn't such a good idea, calling them up the way I did.

Lying in bed that night, it's as though I've actually summoned their ghosts to me by imagining them. I dream about them, about their lives, about wishes that were granted and ones that weren't. About how the wishes some received weren't what they really wanted, how others are happy they never got theirs...

It all seems so real.

I learn to put them aside in the morning, but lately it's gotten harder. These last few days I can feel my life tangling with theirs. They're not dead people, I think, but then I realize some of them might be. The Wishing Well closed its doors twenty years ago. A lot can happen to a person in twenty years. I really could be living with their ghosts— if there really were such things.

Jilly believes in ghosts. As Wendy says, Jilly believes in all kinds of things that nobody else would. Not exactly tabloid fodder, but close. Everything's got a ghost, she says. A spirit. And if you look closely enough, if you pay attention and really learn to see, you'll be able to recognize it.

While Jilly can be persuasive, I don't think I can quite believe in ghosts. But I do believe in memories.

Jilly's friend Christy Riddell— the writer— made the connection between ghosts and memories for me. He told me it's not just people that have memories; places have them, too.

'If you think of ghosts as a kind of recording,' he says, 'a memory that's attached itself to a certain place or an object, then they don't become quite so farfetched after all.'

'So why don't we see them everywhere?' I ask. 'Why doesn't everyone see them?'

'People's minds are like radio receivers,' he explains. 'They're not all capable of tuning into every station.'

I still don't believe in ghosts and I tell him so.

'Look at the stars,' he says.

This is happening in the middle of a party at Wendy's house. Christy and I are having a smoke in the backyard, thrown together because we're the only ones with the habit in Wendy's circle of friends.

'What about them?' I ask, my gaze roving from star to star in the darkness overhead.

'Did you ever think about how many of them are ghosts?'

'I don't get it.'

'We're not seeing the stars as they are right now,' he says. 'We're seeing them as they were thousands of years ago, maybe millions of years ago— however long it took their light to reach us. Some of them don't exist anymore. What we see when we look at them right now aren't the stars themselves, but the light that they gave off— images of themselves, of what they once were.'

'So...?'

'So maybe that's what ghosts are.'

I hate to admit it, but I can almost buy this.

'Then how come ghosts are so scary?' I ask.

'They're not always,' he says. 'But memories can be like wounds. They're not easily forgotten because they leave a scar as a constant reminder. It's the moments of strongest emotions that we remember the most: a love lost or won; anger, betrayal, vengeance. I think it's the same for ghosts, the strength of their emotions at the time of their death is what allows them to linger, or go on.'

If strong emotions can linger on, I think, then so might desperate wishes.

8

'So I met this woman at the Carlisle,' Scotty said as he and Jim were having lunch on Monday, 'and she's stunning. She's so hot I can't believe she's interested in me.'

'Really?' Jim asked, looking up from his soup with curiosity.

'Oh, yeah. Tight red leather miniskirt, legs like you wouldn't believe, and she snuggles right up next to me at the bar, rubbing her calf against my leg. And let me tell you, the place is not crowded. I'm thinking, if we don't get out of this place soon, she's going to jump me right here on the bar stool.'

'So what happened?'

A sheepish look came over Scotty's features. 'Turns out she's a hooker.'

Jim laughed.

'Hey, it's not funny. I could've caught a disease or something, you know?'

'So you didn't take her up on her... offer.'

'Get real. What about you?'

'No hookers for me, thanks all the same.'

'No, I mean with what's-her-name, Brenda. Did you see her?'

Jim nodded. 'She was different this time,' he said. 'A little cooler, I guess.'

'What? Now she's playing hard to get?'

'I don't think that's it. She just wasn't all that up. I asked her if something was bothering her, but she just changed the subject. After the movie she perked up, though. We stopped for a drink at the Rusty Lion and she had me in stitches, talking about some of the weird people she met back when she was a reporter, but then when I took her home she was all withdrawn again.' Jim toyed with his spoon for a moment, slowly stirring his soup. 'I'm not really sure what makes her tick. But I want to find out.'

'Well, good luck,' Scotty said. 'But just before you get in too deep, I want you to think of two words: manic depressive.'

'Thanks a lot, pal.'

'Don't tell me the thought hasn't crossed your mind.'

Jim shrugged. 'The only down side I see is that she smokes,' he said, and then returned to his soup.

9

Jim calls me on Tuesday night and he's really sweet. Tells me he's been thinking about me a lot and he wants to see me again. We talk for a while and I feel good— mostly because he can't see me, I guess. After I get