Autumn 1872 – Fording the River That Has No Shores

 

I could smell the drink when I enter the house. Beneath the reek of alcohol was the stench of sweat and long unwashed clothing. Father sat upon the bed, a flask of Spanish rum in his left hand. His beard was patchy and ragged, as if he had been it pulling out in fistfuls. He turned his red eyes to me and recognition dawned in them

“I can do it, Rose. I can get her back. I know the way.” It took me a moment to understand his words, not simply for clarity, for he slurred more than enunciated them, but for their content.

“You told me that only ghosts could walk the Paths of the Dead, Father.”