Review, Revision, Edit and Update
Such an interesting story to write. How does a ghost tell it's story? It challenged me. In the movies or on TV, ghosts speak directly to people or terrify them. Or they might actually have conversations - pleasant or not.
My revisions were to improve sentence structure, tinker with wording and to add (with Sarah's permission) to Sarah's story. Not much, but even a centuries old thirteen year old girl would still talk a bit more - I think.
The Girl on the Swing
Digby was troubled. He wanted to tell Sarah’s story. Sarah was the resident ghost at the Beaufort Estate. What he knew about her was what his father had told him, and his father before him. Why Sarah’s ghost remained and no other of the family did? Only rumours drifted through the years. Samuel told him that his father had told him that she didn’t want to leave her ghostly swing that hung from the ancient tree in front of the manor. Still another story was that it was the house she didn’t want to leave.
Digby spoke aloud to the air. “I just do not know what or how I can write about Sarah.” He put down his pen and pushed his chair back from his desk. He had come to the Estate house from the cottage he and Martha shared to get a stronger sense of Sarah's presence. Taking his jacket from the hook on his office door, picking up his umbrella, he left his office. “Elizabeth, I’m taking a walk to clear my head. I’ll be back shortly if anyone is looking for me.”
“All right, James, I’ll tell Martha when she gets here. And I’ll put the kettle on for tea. You’ll be cold when you get in. Martha should get here by then. The three of us can have a good chin-wag before you get back to your writing.” Elizabeth knew he was trying to write about their little ghost girl, Sarah. As the back door closed behind James, Elizabeth spoke aloud “Sarah. If you are listening, and I know you are, help James out. He doesn’t want you to be left out of the stories this old place has to tell. You’ve been here the longest. And I’ll be baking cookies this afternoon.” Sarah loved watching Cook and longed to be able to taste a cookie again. The best she could do was watch.
~~~~~
Now it was Sarah’s turn to be troubled. She was over four hundred years old and didn’t feel a day over thirteen. How could she help James? She had barely learned her letters before she died. It would be impossible for her to write anything. I know. I’ll just whisper in his ear and Digby will write it down for me.
James came in from his walk, dropped his wet umbrella onto the mudroom floor, and walked right past Elizabeth to his office. “You’re not stopping for tea?” Not getting a reply, Elizabeth shook her head and just poured two cups of tea instead of three. Martha was just coming up the walk from the newlywed's cottage.
~~~~~
Without taking his jacket off, James went straight to his desk. Absently, he picked up his pen and smoothed the page in front of him. He felt a draft. "I'm still a bit chilly." He shrugged and began to write.
I am thirteen years old but I’m over four hundred years old. Mother and Father brought our family to this island in a covered wagon. To get that wagon off of the main land and onto dry land was big chore, but my mother and father worked so hard. I was much younger then. I didn’t know where I would sleep because there were only trees and rocks here. When I asked where we would sleep, my mother said “We have to stay in the wagon, dear, while your father builds our house.” She and Father set up camp as we always did and that's where we stayed until our house was built. They were both so patient and good to me. I helped my mother plant our garden and our apple trees. My parents saved seeds and brought apple tree saplings with us. Mother wanted me to weed the garden all the time, but I would get tired doing that. It did get quite boring. Father made me a beautiful swing on a giant tree in what was to be the front yard. “There you are, young lady. Now you can watch us build the house. But don’t forget to do your chores before you get on that swing.” Father was very kind, but he could be very strict.
For my thirteenth birthday, I was given this blue statin ribbon for my hair. I loved my hair. Long, blond curls that I brushed every morning one hundred times. That same year, I got very ill. We had been to town for supplies and stopped at the livery stable and the post office. While Mother and I were in the general store, Father went to the barbershop. There was a woman in the store that was sneezing and coughing. She told the grocer that she was going to see the doctor. When we got home, I helped put all our supplies and groceries away and went out to my swing. The next day I fell ill with a fever and something the doctor called delirium. I remember watching my parents at my bedside. They were so sad. But I felt fine, sitting up in the corner of the ceiling. I watched as I was taken away and then buried. But I couldn’t bear to leave my parents. They were so sad all the time, even though they smiled and laughed and lived out their lives. I thought they would stay with me. I don’t know where they are. I still like watching from my swing, all the comings and goings of this house. Sometimes I go out to the orchard and sit just to be with my mother where we planted the apple trees. Any other woman that cooks in our kitchen can expect to feel my presence because I like to watch them get food ready. Some people get frightened so I go away, but this ‘Cook’ is just comfortable and talks to me. The man, Digby, is like my father and is very kind. He’s writing this story for me.
~~~~~
James dropped his pen, shook his head and rubbed his eyes. He didn’t recall coming in from his walk, but seemed to remember Elizabeth saying something about tea. There was a knock on his door. “James, dear? Are you all right? Elizabeth told me you came in here without saying anything, not stopping for tea. What is it dear?”
“Martha. I’m so glad you came in. I feel like I just woke up. Look at this.” James handed her the paper he found in front of him. I don’t even recognize the hand, but I was holding my pen when I woke up.”
Martha quickly read the words. She folded the paper carefully. “Put this in an envelope, James. It’s for the Storyteller. You’ve just been secretary for our little ghost girl Sarah.”
“When we illuminate the road back to our ancestors, they have a way
of reaching out, of manifesting themselves…..sometimes even physically.”
~ Raquel Cepeda, Bird of Paradise: How I Became Latina
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