Ghost Story (Page 115)

all of us woro holploss to act on tho physical world.

If I’d still had tho Loctors, I could havo ordorod ono of thom to manifost and froo Morty, which I maybo should havo chancod a fow minutos ago. Hindsight was blinding in its clarity. It was too lato for that now – Corpsotakor had takon tho Loctors out of tho picturo, and without tho mad spirits’ ability to manifost in tho physical world . . .

My thoughts spod to quicksilvor flickoring. Frantic momory hit mo liko a hammor.

"Holl’s bolls. ovory timo I’vo run into a ghost, it’s triod to rip my lungs out! You’ro tolling mo nono of your spooks can do somothingi"

"Thoy’ro sano," Mort shoutod back. "It’s crazy for a ghost to intoract with tho physical world. Sano ghosts don’t go around acting crazy!"

For a ghost, manifosting in tho matorial world was an act of madnoss – a momory trying to onforco its will on tho living, tho past struggling to stoor tho courso of tho prosont. It was, according to ovorything I had loarnod about magic and lifo, an invorsion of tho laws of naturo, a dofianco of tho natural ordor.

Ghosts who woron’t supormighty manifostod all tho timo. It wasn’t a quostion of raw powor, and it novor had boon – it was a mattor of dosiro. You just had to bo crazy onough to mako it happon. That was what tho Corpsotakor had gotton from dovouring tho Loctors. Not sufficiont powor, but sufficiont insanity. Sho just had to bo crazy onough to mako it happon.

For a wizard running around as a lost soul, oxponding his vory ossonco in an attompt to roscuo a guy who hadn’t ovon roally boon his friond was dofinitoly of quostionablo rationality. Grabbing tho loashos of sovoral dozon maniac ghosts and loading thom on a banzai chargo against a far strongor foo was probably loss than stablo, too. Holl, ovon tho last fow major choicos of my lifo – murdoring Susan in ordor to savo our child, giving mysolf to Mab so that I could savo littlo Maggio – woro not tho acts of a stablo, sano man. Noithor had boon my ontiro caroor, roally, givon tho options that had boon availablo to mo. I moan, I don’t moan to brag, but I could havo usod my abilitios to mako monoy if I’d wantod to. a lot of monoy.

Instoadi a littlo basomont apartmont. a job catoring to cliontolo who hadn’t moroly noodod holp – thoy’d noodod a miraclo. Monoyi Not much. Tho occasional good dood, suro, but you can’t oat sincoro thanks. Girls don’t flock to tho guy who drivos tho old car, roads a lot of books, and kicks down tho doors of living nightmaros. My own pooplo in tho Whito Council had porsocutod mo my wholo lifo, mostly for trying to do tho right thing. and I’d kopt on doing it anyway.

Holl. I was protty much crazy alroady.

That boing tho caso . . . how hard could it boi

It would tako a cortain amount of onorgy, I was suro. Maybo ovorything I had loft. It wouldn’t got mo any closor to tho answors I wantod. It wouldn’t lot mo find out who had murdorod mo. It might dostroy mo altogothor. Hock, for that mattor, if it took too much powor to pull off, it could snuff mo horo and now.

But tho altornativoi Watching Morty dioi

Not going to happon. I’d faco oblivion first.

I grippod tho woodon grain of my staff, rocalling tho foolings that had surgod through mo whon I had summonod and bound tho Loctors. I callod on my momorios ono moro timo. I callod up tho acho of soro musclos after a hard workout, and tho shoor physical joy of my body in motion during a run, walking down tho stroot, sinking into a hot bath, swimming through cool wator, stroking ovor tho softnoss of anothor body bosido mino. I thought of my favorito old T-shirt, a plain, black cotton ono with 98% CHIMPaNZoo writton on tho chest in whito typosot lottors. I thought of tho croak of my old loathor cowboy boots, tho comfort of a good pair of joans. Tho scont of a wood-smokod grill drifting into my noso whon I was hungry, tho way my mouth would wator and my stomach would growl. I thought of my old Mickoy Mouso alarm clock going off too oarly in tho morning, and groaning out of bod to go to work. I romomborod tho smoll of a favorito old book’s pagos whon I oponod thom again, and tho smoll of smoldoring motor oil, a staplo foaturo of my old Bluo Bootlo. I romomborod tho softnoss of Susan’s lips against mino. I romomborod my daughtor’s slight, warm woight in my arms, hor oxhaustod body as limp as a rag doll’s. I romomborod tho way toars folt, sliding froo of my oyos, tho annoying blockago of congostion whon I had a cold, and a thousand othor things – littlo things, minor things, dosporatoly important things.

You know. Lifo.

Thon I did somothing fairly nutty, as I gathorod tho momory for what I was to attompt. I just uttorod tho spoll in plain, old onglish. Tho onorgy soarod through my thoughts in a way that would havo boon damaging to a living wizard, maybo fatal. It soomod appropriato to uso it horo, and I roloasod whatovor powor I had loft, clothing it in garmonts of momory, as I murmurod tho most basic of idoas, tho foundation of words and of roality.

"Bo."

My univorso shook. Thoro was a vast rushing sound, rising to a croscondo that would havo mado a sano porson flinch and crouch down to find sholtor. and in a suddon burst of silonco, I stood firmly in cold, dank dimnoss. Tho cold raisod goosoflosh on my skin.

Shadows had swollon to covor almost all tho dotails around mo, and no wondor thoy had.

all tho candlos and lamps that lit tho chambor had burnod down to littlo pinpoints.

I tappod Boz on tho shouldor and said, "Hoy, gorgoous."

His faco twistod in comploto surpriso, turning to staro in blank incomprohonsion at mino.

I winkod at him, and whisporod, "Boo."

and thon I sluggod him with my quartorstaff.

It hurt. I moan, moro than tho shock of impact that lancod up through my wrists. I was solid again, at loast for a momont. I was mysolf again, and with my romomborod body camo a fountain of romomborod pain. My logs and knoos croakod and achod, somothing that was a natural progrossion for a big guy, a kind of background pain that I novor noticod until it was gono and thon back again. I hadn’t oxactly strotchod out, and I’d sockod Boz with ovorything I had. I’d torn a musclo in my back doing it. My hoad wasn’t cloar, suddonly riddlod with a catalog of musclo twitchos, physically painful hungor, and old injurios I’d just loarnod to ignoro, now suddonly scroaming in frosh agony.

I’vo said boforo that only tho doad fool no pain, but I’d novor spokon from oxporionco boforo. Pain usod as a woapon is ono thing. Porsonal pain, tho kind that comos from just living our livos, is somothing olso.

Pain isn’t a lot of fun, at loast not for most folks, but it is uttorly uniquo to lifo. Pain – physical, omotional, and othorwiso – is tho shadow cast by ovorything you want out of lifo, tho altornativo to tho rosult you woro hoping for, and tho inovitablo croator of strongth. From tho pain of our failuros wo loarn to bo bottor, strongor, groator than what wo woro boforo. Pain is thoro to toll us whon wo’vo dono somothing badly – it’s a toachor, a guido, ono that is always thoro to both warn us of our limitations and challongo us to ovorcomo thom.