Rhys Cranham was confused. It was not the fact that he had recently been summoned by the spirit of a previous Night-Soil Man back to the Hopeless, Maine, of the late 1870s, or that he had met an ancestor, or even that he had also spent two months servicing the privies of the island’s inhabitants. The cause of his confusion was, upon his return, the discovery that, in his own era, only one night had passed by. Did this mean, he wondered, that he had been given an extra sixty days of life? It was a puzzle that perplexed him greatly, and he needed to talk to someone who might have an answer.
It occurred to Rhys that Reverend Davies, being a man of learning (or so he led everyone to believe), might possibly have a certain amount of insight into the nature of time and space. After all, anyone who claimed to be on pretty-much first name terms with a deity should at least have access to a few odds and ends of inside information. A face-to-face meeting, unfortunately, would be impossible; Davies would never stand close enough to the Night-Soil Man to be able to conduct a conversation. There was one, however, who could act as a go-between, and that was Miss Calder.
It is well known on the island that Miss Calder, doyenne of the Pallid Rock Orphanage, has been dead for quite some time. Despite this, her slender, ghostly shape can frequently be seen flitting efficiently around the old building, keeping the children in order and generally running the place. If the ghost of Miss Calder has a guilty secret, it is that she has something of a crush on Rhys Cranham, though the manner in which she goes out of her way to ‘accidentally’ cross his path at all hours of the day and night indicates, fairly strongly, that Miss Calder is not particularly adept at guarding her secrets.
Rhys was starting his round, and was less than a quarter of a mile from his cottage, when Miss Calder fortuitously hove into view. She shimmered through the mist, lending it a faintly green tinge.
“Ah, Mr Cranham…”
Despite her feelings, the ghost found it impossible to be anything other than formal.
“Miss Calder…” Rhys was not being formal. Despite having known her for years, he had no idea what her name might be.
“Miss Calder,” he continued, “there is something I need to ask you…”
The green light quickened, fluttering in time with Miss Calder’s ghostly heartbeat.
“Oh, certainly Mr Cranham. How may I help?” she said, a little too eagerly.
“I need you to speak to Reverend Davies for me, please.”
For a fleeting second Miss Calder’s disappointment was apparent as her face became disturbingly skull-like. Taken by surprise, Rhys could not help but step back, startled. Then, with each being embarrassed by their own reaction, both began talking at the same time. A full two minutes of mutual apologies passed before Rhys was able to convey his reasons for asking her to speak to the Reverend. Miss Calder agreed, but had less faith in Reverend Davies than Rhys had hoped.
“I can only think that it was the power of the witch, Granny O’Stoat, that took you back to that time. I have never heard of a ghost being able to do such a thing. I will certainly ask Reverend Davies for his views, but quite honestly, Mr Cranham, I doubt very much that he will have a satisfactory answer for you.”
Two mornings later found Reverend Davies deep in conversation with Doc Willoughby. The two men fostered no great fondness, or respect, for each other, but with each knowing where the bodies were buried – both in the literal and metaphorical sense – it gave them a common bond.
“And he claims that he was there for two months, you say?” said Doc Willoughby, incredulously. “Do you believe him?”
“I’ve no reason not to,” replied the Reverend. “I knew Rhys Cranham when he was a child in the orphanage and in all of that time I have never known him to lie. Despite his lowly office, I think him to be as honest as the day is long.”
“If that is the case,” said the Doc slowly, “and if it was the work of an O’Stoat, as you suspect, I see no reason why the feat cannot be repeated. There are enough of them still about. Just think of it, Davies, by going back and forth through time and gaining an extra sixty days on each occasion, would render me… I mean, would render someone, virtually immortal.”
“But would it be ethical?” asked the Reverend irritably. He detested being referred to by only his surname. “After all, we are mortals, and – ipso facto – not intended to be immortal.”
“What does that have to do with anything?” grumbled the Doc. “We’re talking about defying nature and living forever, for goodness sake.”
“Yes… but I could never consent to such an experiment being repeated. As a man of the cloth I cannot be seen to be endorsing something that others would certainly view as being unethical.”
“And that’s your final word?” said the Doc. “You could not be persuaded to look at this in any other way?”
“There is no other way,” said the Reverend, emphatically. “The only way is ethics!”
The Doc picked up his hat and stormed out of the room angrily. Ten seconds later he stormed back in again, having remembered that it was his house that they were in.
“We will not speak of this again,” said Reverend Davies, standing up to leave. “I’ll get a message to the Night-Soil Man that I have no answer to his question; I will tell him that there is no way of knowing.”
Doc Willoughby sat deep in thought for a long time after the Reverend had left. He reached into a drawer and pulled out the repurposed, and slightly sea-stained, desk diary in which the names, addresses and ailments of all of his patients, past and present, were stored. He flicked through the yellowing pages for a few moments, then ran a stubby forefinger down the formidable list of the O’Stoats. The Doc allowed himself a sly smile when he at last located the one name that he had been searching for…
To be continued.
