Capeworld Comics

It was the paintings in the meeting room, of all things concerning the office, that Matthew and Joseph most strongly disagreed with each other on. It wasn’t money or manesological methods that they argued over like others in the profession–it was paintings.

 

Matthew had a list of paintings prepared when they moved into the office. He had a theme- displays of death, which he believed would subconsciously assist clients in coping with the most emotionally charged feature of manesology–endings. Manesology was filled with endings, not just the end of a physical life. There was the end of memories, the end of identity, the end of ownership, and the end of a name, and the hardest to deal with–the end of dreams.

 

Matthew figured a little image of death could do a lot of good. He ordered copies of Poussin’s Arcadia Shepherds, Watts’ Love and Death, and Bocklin’s Isle of Death.

 

But Joseph wanted pictures of flowers.

 

Back in the wilderness, the ground was lifeless and muddy. You had to go out beyond the tree line to find grass let alone flowers. Joseph took to growing a few wildflowers transplanted from the forests into some cracked pots he found on the ground. He said he wanted to see a little color in their earth-caked habitat. Those pots were now on windowsill by his desk, their original occupants long dead and replaced by seeds purchased at market.

 

Matthew tried to make a compromise with a vanitas still life by Maria Van Oosterwijck–but it didn’t work out. He could still remember their argument.

 

“They’re growing out of a man’s skull!” Joseph stabbed his finger at the painting. “Look at it! What’s the message there? People should use skulls as flowerpots?”

 

“But it’s a subtle skull. You have to look to see it.”

 

“Subtle for who? The blind?”

 

A friend of his that worked at the Gilbert Library once remarked that their conference room looked like a pretentious–but sophisticated–funeral parlor. Matthew supposed that was fair. The business of manesology wasn’t dissimilar to that of a funeral director. Funeral directors dealt with the impact a dead man made on those around him, manesologists dealt with the impact a dead man made on his remnant self.

 

It was into this pretentious yet sophisticated funeral parlor that the man came.

 

Matthew had been trying to guess the history of the man by his appearance since the moment he sat down. Appearance always said something about a man and it said even more for a manes. There was a soul component called a sah, a word taken from ancient Egyptian like many manesolological words, which copied the appearance and mannerisms of the host body. Most soul components copied from the mind, but the sah copied from the body, for the body was information, and all physical information was reflected upon the local Astral. The fist level of the cosmos beyond physical reality was a mirror. That’s why they were so introspective, according to Martin, they were copying the natural order within themselves.

 

There were, of course, pretenders who disguised their appearance. With some concentration, even a frail manes could alter his or her appearance substantially. Some pretended out of desperation. They couldn’t remember a thing about themselves, but could remember bits of folklore and history. Who was to say they weren’t Napoleon or Washington? Who was to say they weren’t the Grim Reaper, St. Michael, or a fairy spirit of the woods? If you knew nothing about your past but remembered a few things about this or that character, why wouldn’t you cling to the character? They were invisible, you were invisible, they could fly, you could fly…

 

Others pretended out of profitable opportunity. In 1860, just being a manes was enough to attract universal attention. The earliest interviews on record were with the manes of Horace Lighter, a bricklayer, and Minnie Stairs, a maid. They were so popular in their time that to this day ghosts were sometimes called Horaces and Minnies. But now, in 1865, being a manes was only mildly interesting like how being a stage magician or town mayor was only mildly interesting. But celebrity held a power in death as it did in life, and the ghost of Cleopatra brought notice–even when there were several ghosts of Cleopatra.

 

They were always sad, silly affairs. Matthew thought the only reason so many lasted as long as they did was because people wanted to be fooled, wanted to believe they were meeting someone historical. They never got the language or costume right. An eye with historical training would always defeat them.

 

And Matthew’s eye told him that the man was no pretender.

 

It was hard at first just to see enough of the man so as to be able to study his clothing. Matthew had to stare long and hard and then, just as he had to blink, he would see something–but the image never changed so blink by blink he was able to put the man together in his mind.

 

He wore a green tricorn on his black hair which was tied in a queue with a small red bow. If his host body had been older, or perhaps wealthier, he likely would have had a powdered wig. He had a large green coat with a tail that went down to his black socks that rose nearly to his knees. His shoes were angular and had bright brass buckles. He was 18th century, easy. He could have fought in the colonies.

 

He sat at the conference table, or rather, tried to mimic the act of sitting. He floated, off the ground, legs bent, and his figure overlapped the chair so that at a certain angle he appeared to be sitting in it. He placed his hands evenly spaced above the table, and now and then they would rise and fall into and out of the table like waves on a brown sea.

 

Matthew saw that the man put an awful lot of work into how he looked. He was just barely visible, totally invisible if a person didn’t know to squint and stare directly at him, but he was determined to look the way he looked. The poor man. Matthew wondered–if there was a loud noise, would his image collapse into a ball of light or a smear of color like so many manes?

 

“Firstly, thank you for letting me come in.” the man said, his voice quiet and steady.

 

“No problem.” Joseph said, “A man has a problem, he sees a doctor, a ghost has a problem, he sees a manesologist. What’s your problem?”

 

“It’s less of a problem and more so a request for a consultation concerning a sensitive matter.”

 

“Call it what you want, if we can help, we will help. What’s your name?”

 

. My name is…” the man suddenly paused.

 

This new problem was easy to guess. It was a common one

 

“You can use the name of your memories.” Matthew said. “It’s alright.”

 

The man shook his head. “No. I’ve read books on manesology. I know what I am. I apologize, it was a slip of the tongue. I am the manes of James Evans. That was his name.”

 

“No one here has any problem with calling you James, or Mr. Evans, if that’s what you wish.” Joseph said. Matthew looked the ghost in his foggy eyes and gave an affirming nod to back his partner’s statement.

 

“Thank you. That is very thoughtful of you, but I am not James Evans. I’ve read enough and understood enough to know that.”

 

“And I’m not my father Theodore Morton, but I still carry his name.” Joseph said. “A man takes the name of the man who created him. It’s natural. There’s nothing wrong with that.” and again, Matthew nodded in support.

 

“Be that as it may, I honestly, truly prefer to be called the manes of James Evans. I’ve read about problems that arise from manes that cling too fervently to their memories–not that I would have many problems if I pretended to be James Evans. I am older than this world of gaslight and electricity. All possible debts, ties, and obligations followed the man and name of James Evans to the grave.”

 

“It’s not pretend to take the name of your memories.” Matthew said, “Legalities aside, your memories are just as valid as his.”

 

The Great Fire forced a lot of hands in Westminster, which had been sitting on the issue of manes since 1860, to act. While Matthew and Joseph slept in tents, they drafted and ratified the Manes Charter, which defined Manes as a “special classification,” not humans but beholden to some human rights. They were, legally speaking, not the mind that birthed them nor the body that housed them. A manes did not carry the debts or crimes of his or her host. The manes of a man sentenced to 500 years in prison was under no obligation to serve a day. But by the same token, a manes had no right to the property, certifications, or reputation of his or her host body. “Blank slate” was a term commonly thrown around when people talked of the Manes Charter, and for that reason they were sometimes called the Tabula Rasa Laws.

 

“Perhaps my memories are just as valid.” the manes of James Evans said, “If not more. In some ways I think I remember more than he ever did.”

 

“That’s not uncommon.” Joseph said. “A strong ba component–you’ve heard about the ba, right? The ogdoad quad and all the funny Egyptian names?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“A strong ba component mirrors a man’s memories in total. Things flesh and blood forget are remembered by the ba.”

 

“Ah, yes. Like in the Boston report with the manes of Joe Wheeler.”

 

“You really are quite well-read to know about him. What all have you read?”

 

“Every book I could acquire.”

 

“Which ones?”

 

“Well, Dr. Edward James’ Multiple Intelligences in the Human Body, but everyone’s read that one, it was the first one, the Opticks of manesology. The original and revised versions of the Astral Atlas, though it isn’t strictly a book on manesology. Herbert’s Manesology in the Field, which I found particularly informative.” he turned to Matthew, neck rotating as far as it could so that he didn’t have to reposition his body. Matthew scooted his seat over to make it easier for the man to see. “And your 1863 treatise, On The Analysis of Manes, Dr. Ernst. That is the reason I’ve sought you out over all the other manesologists. You were the one who first determined that the soul was not unitary.”

 

“I’m flattered that you would give me such praise, Manes of James Evans.” Matthew said. “I was the first to articulate the position in academic writing, but I merely gave voice to what many others already suspected.”

 

“Still, you did it before others. It’s quite an accomplishment. You’ll be remembered forever for that. And so will your manes.”

 

“Read anything not about manesology?” Joseph asked.

 

“Frankly, no. I have found myself in a very, very strange situation for an 18th century man…for a man with the memories of an 18th century man. I recall a time when ghosts were things Washington Irving wrote about, and even in his story the hauntings were fake. I want nothing more than to get on top of my situation, to know all I can about what I am and how others like me behave.”

 

“It seems to me you’ve given yourself a very comprehensive manesological education.” Joseph said, “You should be proud.”

 

“At the risk of sounding conceited, I am proud.”

 

“You should be.” Matthew said, “When do you start reading?”

 

“As soon as I awoke. I awoke on…” and here the manes of James Evans hesitated. “…on a shore. And after a brief moment of confusion, I oriented myself by watching and listening to others around me. It’s hard to tell exactly when that was. I understand that being confused about the passage of time shortly after awakening isn’t uncommon?”

 

“It’s not.”

 

“It was probably only a little more than a year. I remember hearing about the Great Fire not too long after waking. As you can see, when I do not exert myself I appear as this misty and nondescript form. It was easy for me to make my way to a library…though I will admit, early in my awakening I simply took things to read off street stands. My desire for information outweighed the patience manners called for. I’m still ashamed of it.”

 

“Oh that’s nothing.” Joseph said. “People nick the bookstands all the time and they don’t suddenly find themselves a century past where their memories say they should be. You got nothing to be ashamed of. You were scared and alone and wanted to get abreast of your situation.”

 

“I wasn’t scared at all.

 

“Really?”

 

“Really.

 

Joseph smiled. “You don’t have to pretend, you know.”

 

“Truly Dr. Morton, I was not afraid. I was confused, disoriented, I felt as if I was in half a dream, but I did not panic–though that means I’m more responsible for what I stole than someone who did panic, which adds to my shame. Fortunately, as I read, my understanding of my surroundings increased, and eventually that understanding led me out of my fog. But then…” the manes of James Evans looked up to the ceiling and sighed. “…Then I took to something a little more embarassing than stealing books. I…well, there’s really no other word for it, is there? I took to haunting a library.”

 

Joseph chuckled. “Oh, now he’s ashamed of haunting! Come now, there’s no shame in a ghost taking a haunt. A man suddenly finds himself out in the worst storm imaginable, instinct is going to tell him to seek shelter anywhere he can be it under a rock or in a palace. A manes awakens to his whole world tossed about. Places, people, customs, all upended and tossed here and there. It makes sense he would seek out shelter when time’s passage put the storms of the sea to shame. That’s all a haunt is.”

 

“Oh, certainly sometimes, Dr. Morton, but there are times when a haunt is less shelter-seeking, more invasion–like in the case of Archibald North, yes? That was quite a night for you both, wasn’t it?”

 

Matthew and Joseph exchanged glances.

 

That was indeed quite a night.

 

“I’m honestly surprised to hear you talk about haunts in such a way, Dr. Morton. Not all haunts are equal. Some are the mad creations of mad manes.”

 

Archibald North was a bad case. Like many manes, he awoke to find his world washed away. His family was dead and  his manor converted into an inn. He found all the familiar things in the rooms of his home taken down and replaced, he found strangers in all the beds. The typical reaction from a manes was anger and confusion. They tore down and threw out everything that isn’t familiar. People and objects would be tossed out the door-or sometimes the window. If a manes lacked the power to physical expel invaders, he would scream night and day and appear in forms that offended the eye until out of fear or pity humans would leave the premises.

 

But Archibald North wasn’t the typical manes and he did not have a typical reaction.

 

He imprisoned the inn guests within his home. He covered the building in ectoplasm, crusting it over with the shapes and forms of his memories. Everything was like it was–to his eyes, at least. To the guests, they were stuck in a glowing, eerie representation of the past where everything from the floor to the furniture had a waxy texture. Archibald declared the guests his aunts and uncles, nieces and nephews, and if he heard any of their protests, he did not acknowledge it. He would have entire conversations with the guests, smiling and laughing in response to words only he heard while they screamed in his face.

 

He gave them food in the shape of ectoplasm. It was the only food he would give them.

 

When the guests were finally rescued, they had to be treated for starvation. Never would Martin, Joseph, and Matthew forget how they looked. Never had they seen humans so close to death, so on the very precipice. An elderly woman, a Mrs. Glover, died a few weeks back. She could not fully recover from the physical toll of the ordeal.

 

“Whether or not a haunting is violent doesn’t mean that shelter-seeking isn’t still the motivating factor, the common factor among all hauntings.” Joseph said.

 

“Shelter-seeking was the motivating factor in the Archibald North case?”

 

“Yes. He took refuge in his mind, deep in his mind. The problem came when his mind expanded to his surroundings and to other people. All manes haunt for sanctuary. You did, certainly?”

 

“I didn’t seek shelter at the library, I didn’t need shelter. I sought knowledge. It could have been any library. The library itself wasn’t important to me, only its books.”

 

“Then you didn’t haunt the library. Where did you haunt?”

 

The manes of James Evans made a thin smile. “Oh, if we’re going by that definition of a haunt, I suppose you could say I took sanctuary within my books. I haunted my books, like a ghostly bookworm.”

 

“And all those books you read on your own, correct?” Joseph asked.

 

The manes of James Evans stared. “I am not sure I understand the question.”

 

“Did you need any assistance in reading?” Matthew asked. “That’s what my partner meant.”

 

It took the manes of James Evans a few moments to answer.

 

“Assistance?” he asked in an offended tone, “Like someone reading to me? Is that how it is for other manes? They have to be read to, like children?”

 

“Yes. Some of them do have to be read to.” Joseph raised his voice slightly, “It is incredibly frustrating for them. Some of them remember being scholars, great men of learning. They are not read to as if they were children. They are read to as wise men who have forgotten their wisdom and hope to relearn it.”

 

“I need to relearn nothing!  Not how to read, not how to write. I read as well as any man!”

 

“Sometimes men need help to turn pages and read text too small for their eyes.” Matthew tried to steer the conversation away from any intellectual implications. “Why, no less than John Milton needed someone to read to him during his twilight years!”

 

“Oh. Oh, I understand now…” the manes of James Evans was embarrassed. “I…misinterpreted your remarks, Dr. Morton. My apologies.”

 

He looked at his hands, then he looked through his hands. “But of course. It would have to be that way for some of the weak ones, wouldn’t it? Not all of them can move things.”

 

He folded his hands together and looked at Joseph and Matthew. “I apologize for my outburst. It was very uncharacteristic of me, I assure you. But I indeed, read on my own. I had no trouble seeing the text, in fact, I don’t see out of these eyes anymore, I see things as if in a dream. Everything around me I simply perceive. You can test me if you like.”

 

“There’s no need for that.” Joseph said. “We trust your assessment of your own abilities. If you say you were able to move the pages without making a tiny tornado in the middle of the library, we believe you.”

 

“Oh, were you wondering if I ever frightened someone moving books? Is that what this was all about? Oh no. I moved a stack of books to the back of the library before the first librarian arrived and there I would turn pages without anyone watching me. It was that simple. I have never frightened a person. And I never will. I have too much control and self-awareness for that.”

 

“That doesn’t mean much.” Joseph said. “Sometimes a person seeks out a manes because they want to be scared, because they want a thrill.”

 

The manes of James Evans made a short, trilling chuckle. “Well, there’s not much one can do about those!”

 

‘No you can’t. You saw that mob outside? Half of them work for insurance companies and the rest want to see something uncanny walk through our door.”

 

“And so they inconvenience you and your work. How shameful.”

 

“That’s one way of putting it. Now, manes of James Evans, you didn’t quite answer my question.”

 

“I’m sorry. I thought I answered all your questions, Dr. Morton. I didn’t mean to overlook one.”

 

“You said you took to haunting books. Now you may spent a lot of time at the library but I don’t think you haunted it, or its books, not truly.”

 

“Well, like we established, there’s many ways a person can define a haunting. If you mean a place I most frequented, that probably indeed was the library.”

 

“You said you arrived at the library before the first librarian. So you went home at night from the library and came back in the morning. I’m not surprised you kept time like a man. You’re very diligent in your habits. But I will be very surprised if you tell me you didn’t have a place to go home to.”

 

The manes of James Evan’s eyes scanned the floor. “Well, I certainly spent a large amount of my time in the library. But that doesn’t mean I was incurious about the world. I remember I went to London to see the ruins, like everyone else, and I once went to the shore to see the HMS Warrior. One simply didn’t imagine ships like that a century ago. And I remember–”

 

“Where was your home?” Joseph asked suddenly. “Please. You called me Dr. Morton and showed me and my colleague respect now please keep to that respect. Don’t tell me you were itinerant. Don’t even imply it. Where was your home, and furthermore, where was this library? What was it called?”

 

He opened his mouth as if to say something, then closed it again.

 

His hands sank beneath the table.

 

“When I feel I am in need of rest, when I feel I need to look over my thoughts, there is an island on the Thames that I visit.”

 

“Does it have a name? Where exactly on the Thames is it?”

 

The manes of James Evans slowly inhaled, taking in no air at all to inflate his chest, then slowly exhaled. The act was soothing even if its biological function was nonexistent.

 

“I decline to elaborate further.”

 

“I see.”

 

“Manes of James Evans,” Matthew said, “A person as well-read on manesological literature knows that for whatever problem you wish for us to help you with, the more information you give us, the better we can assist you.”

 

“It is not a problem, it is a consultation.”

 

“Call it what you will, it is standard practice for manesologists to ask difficult questions about a manes’ past. You know this.”

 

“They would not be difficult questions. The memories of James Evans are a book written in blazing text within my mind.”

 

“Painful questions, then?”

 

“There’s no pain to my recollections.”

 

“Then why not open up?” Joseph asked.

 

“Because they would be useless questions. I am fully aware what is standard practice for standard manesologists with standard manes, however, I am not a standard manes, and you are not standard manesologists.” He looked directly at Matthew when he spoke. It was clear that Joseph wasn’t included in the “you.”

 

“You are a leader in your field, Dr. Ernst. I am confident we can reach a resolution without violating my privacy.”

 

“And the name of that library, what did you say it was again?” Joseph asked.

 

The manes of James Evans glared at him. “Don’t think I don’t know what you’re getting at, Dr. Morton.”

 

“Tell me, what am I getting at, in your opinion?”

 

Matthew sighed and braced for the outburst he knew was coming. Sometimes, he could swear that Joseph simply lived to argue.

 

“You don’t think I did it, do you? Or if you think I did it you think I had help. You think I had a teacher, you think I don’t know what I’m talking about!”

 

“Frankly, manes of James Evans, I don’t know what to think of you, because you’ve said very little about yourself.”

 

“I’ve told you a great deal about myself! I pulled myself up by my willpower and wisdom. I am not like other manes. I do not need to share with you my memories, they are not important to the matter at hand.”

 

“And what would be that matter?” Matthew asked, “What is this consultation?”

 

“I believe I am being pulled by either my ib or my shut.”

 

Matthew and Joseph understood. The heart and the shadow. The part of a manes left within other people and the part of a manes left within objects.

 

There were parts of a manes that did not belong to the manes. These parts pulled at them. Sometimes they gently tugged them back into a life of acceptance and fulfillment. Some manes were pulled by an ib that tied them to a relative who accepted them into their home or by a shut that tried them to an ancestral manor which while vacant, was theirs. Some manes were pulled by an ib that tied them to a lost love who believed them to be nothing more than a caricature of the one they once loved or a shut that tied them to a pot kept under guard in a museum.

 

“Specifically, what is pulling you?” Matthew asked.

 

“I do not know. But I feel it. The feeling is very similar to what I have read about. Something is calling to me from this city, from Blackwall, and I would like to hire you and your associates to investigate this pull on my behalf.”

 

“Manes of James Evans, does this pull interfere with your day-to-day activities?”

 

“No. But it is a persistent pressure. I have learned to live with it, but it is a pressure I wish to resolve. A man with a cold would like for it to go away.”

 

“Does the pressure come and go?”

 

“No. I feel it all the time. Even now as I sit here and speak with you. That should tell you how mild the sensation is.”

 

“And this sensation, does it comes with any visual stimulus? Do you see images? Do you hear sounds?”

 

“No. It is…like feeling one has an appointment somewhere they are late for, and yet knows not what precisely this appointment entails.”

 

“Why do you feel that this requires the intervention of manesologists?”

 

The manes of James Evans smiled. “Are you testing my knowledge of the science, Dr. Ernst?”

 

“No sir. I am simply asking a question.”

 

“It should be obvious. Many manes have had negative experiences following their ib and shut. I do not want to, for instance, encounter an ancestor with a fear and hatred of manes who wishes for me to be affixed, fearing that if I am not I will haunt him all the days of his life and then partner with his manes to haunt his children. I do not want to find some gaudy piece of trash from James’ life that some antiquarian wishes me to validate so as to increase its value. I have no idea how to handle myself in these sorts of situations.”

 

“Alright. Then the job is simple enough. You identify the general location of the pull and we’ll undercover the specific location.”

 

“Good. After my curiosity is satisfied, would you be able to separate the offending soul component? As I have stated, it does not impair me, but I dislike anything that would intrude upon my rational thoughts.”

 

“We don’t separate soul components unless they’re directly or indirectly disruptive.”

 

“Ah. You are a manesologist of the camp that believes in the natural perfection of the soul?”

 

“We’re of the camp that believes man can cause great harm by overcorrecting the imbalances of nature and thus must be very careful when disturbing natural systems.”

 

“Fair enough. As I’ve said, it is no great discomfort to me.”

 

“May I ask you a personal question, manes of James Evans?”

 

“Certainly, if it is within the bounds of appropriateness.”

 

“I do not wish to know where your library is. I do not wish to know where your island is. I do not wish to violate your privacy in any way. But why do you wish to keep your island a secret?”

 

“Why do you want to know?”

 

“Personally, I do not.” Matthew gave Joseph a look that communicated that he was about to say something for a different reason than it would seem. Joseph winked. He understood. “But it would relieve the anxiety of some people and make the work go smoother. Mysteries invite speculation on behalf of some minds and some of the speculation may be worrisome. But I promise you, anything you tell me will be kept confidential.”

 

“Very well.” The manes of James Evans smirked at Joseph and then turned back to Matthew as soon as he knew he saw the smirk. “If it will help things go smoother, I will explain–it is my pride.”

 

For a brief instant, Joseph smirked, though he hid it with his hands and played it off as if he was checking the time in his pocket watch.

 

“James Evans…was a simple man. He worked as scribner, a profession which is on its way out thanks to the electrograph. He hated his job and I hate remembering it. He hated the little apartment he kept in London and I hate remembering it. He greatly enjoyed the theater and fanciful literature because in these things he could hide from the world. He was drafted to fight in the colonies. He was wounded and died on the boat home. I am not proud to have his memories. They are so much dross within my mind. In just a short time, I have become something truly special. I have become a manes with reason and self-awareness. I have no doubt that there are manes as lucid as I am. But I also have no doubt that there are no manes more lucid than I. You yourself said it was something to be proud of.”

 

“It is.”

 

“And I am proud. I am very proud. But again and again, the memories of James Evans rise to embarrass me. The pulling I feel from Blackwall is one embarrassment. His island…my island, is another. James, you see, always liked Shakespeare’s Tempest. He used to daydream about finding an island in the Atlantic where he could be alone. And when become evidently impossible, he settled for an island on the Thames, a little sandbar with a few trees. He built a little cabin there and in the summers he would go to it and pretend it made him happy. It was a ridiculous joke compared to what he had envisioned, but that was James, a man who would compromise his dreams and then feel cheated by the world, as if anyone forced him to settle. If it was up to me, Dr. Ernst, and my reason, I would abandon the island. There is nothing there. There was never anything there. He never owned the island, he never purchased the land, but the owners simply saw no need to quibble over a sandbar. But…I am his manes. And the island has a calming effect on me against all reason. You can understand why I do not wish for anyone to know I am on that island. I could not bear being gawked at. I could not bear for people to come from far and wide to see the little ghost on his little ghost island. Do you understand, Dr. Ernst?”

 

“Completely, sir. Thank you, for sharing that with us. Now, before we make arrangements for our investigation, may we expose you to a gaeite candle so that we can take the measure of your soul components?”

 

“I’m surprised you had to ask. That’s standard procedure, isn’t it?”

 

“It is, but many manes don’t know standard procedure.” Matthew suddenly realized he had stumbled into a snare and quickly added–“You do, of course, but  I’ve become so used to asking manes about the procedure I do it as a matter of habit.”

 

“It’s a shame someone like you has to waste their time on wisps. A mind such as yours should be put to use analyzing manes capable of holding meaningful conversations. You should be interviewing the manes of great men from history.”

 

“I should be here.” Matthew said, “Which is why I am here. I became a manesologist to help manes, especially the ones that desperately need help.”

 

The manes of James Evans cut his eyes at Joseph. “It seems to me that could be left to…other manesologists.”

 

“I am flattered you hold me in such high regard, sir, but there is nothing I would change about my practice.”

 

“If that is how you feel. Now, I am so looking forward to seeing a gaeite candle with my own eyes! I have only seen pictures. Is the radiance truly as flawlessly white as they say?”

 

“White like angel wings.” Matthew said, “Its so white that its hypnotic.”

 

“Ah, wonderful!” the manes of James Evans clasped his hands together. A second later, there was a sound. He had to will there to be a sound. “Tell me, do any manes ever refuse the candle?”

 

“Some do.”

 

“Ah. That’s a sadness, though not unsurprising. Some people cringe at self-knowledge. Now, before you take the candles out, how much does the procedure add to my bill? Not that it matters to me in the slightest, whatever it is I will pay it.”

 

“I’m sorry sir, payment?”

 

“But of course. For services rendered.”

 

Matthew and Joseph looked at each other.

 

“We are financed by various thaumaturgical institutions.” Matthew said, “There is no bill.”

 

“I insist on paying my fair share.”

 

“Please don’t take this the wrong way sir, but how did you manage to come into physical possessions given the relatively short time you’ve been awake, time that you’ve mostly devoted to study?”

 

“Don’t tell us you got buried gold on that island of yours.” Joseph said.

 

The manes of James Evans glared at him. “No. I don’t have anything to my name. Even the little cabin on the island was washed away long ago. What I do have is manesological knowledge.”

 

“I’m afraid I’m not following.”

 

“I would like to work for you to pay off my debt.”

 

Joseph made a face that said he was about to laugh long and hard, so Matthew shot him a look that told him he better not.

 

“Thank you for the offer.” Matthew said, “But that won’t be necessary.”

 

“I insist. Surely I can be of some help. I know you employ manes.”

 

“We have arrangements. Legally speaking, you can’t employ a manes, as they’re recognized as a special category and not humans.”

 

“But you give them wages.”

 

“For those that wish to have money, yes, we pay them. We also give them housing. The office is their home. But that is not employment, it is an arrangement. There are no taxes. There is no contract. There is no debt. We don’t place manes in our debt. There will be nothing for you to work off.”

 

“Then let us have an arrangement.”

 

“These arrangements are built on trust and friendship. Not debt, not reciprocation, not compensation, trust and only trust. We have known you for only a few minutes and you have been very evasive with us, your reasons be what they are.”

 

“Please. For a month, let me work for you. I know you won’t regret it.”

 

“Well…perhaps there is something…”

 

Joseph stood up and produced a cigar case from his pocket. He opened the case and took out two cigars. “If we are going to be seeing each other in the future, manes of James Evans, it behooves the both of us to be on better terms. Cigar?”

 

The manes of James Evans looked at Joseph, then at Matthew, and then back at Joseph.

 

“Are you being serious?”

 

Joseph shrugged. “More for me then.”

 

“What on Earth would I need a cigar for?”

 

“Some manes like it. They can’t feel it, but they can remember it, and the object helps them remember.”

 

“It seems we still have much to understand about each other, then.”

 

“Nick?” Joseph called out, “Nick? I need a light, please.”

 

A small wad of white flame appeared next to Joseph’s hand.

 

“I’m here, Dr. Morton.” The voice was small and seemed to come from the space around the flame and not the flame itself. Nick didn’t like to raise his voice. When he spoke up, it made it easy for people to hear the crackling and snapping beneath his voice.

 

Nick was one of many who the thaumaturgists couldn’t rescue from the Great Fire. The white flames ate at his body, and now, they were his body.

 

He was one of the manes Matthew and Joseph helped during their time in the wilderness. He was aimless, restless, and wanted very badly to be important to someone, anyone, so Matthew and Joseph hired him to manage the fires around the office. His white flames lit the boiler, the lamps inside and out, the stove, and Joseph’s cigars. There wasn’t much else for fire to do. He never asked for wages. When the topic was raised, he asked only that the money be given to charities that kept people warm, charities that gave blankets and hot soup.

 

“It is a nice life, making things warm. I would like to give my money in support of those who live similarly.”

 

Joseph held out his cigar. A white flame appeared on its tip for a second, then snuffed itself out leaving not even a tail of smoke. “Thank you, Nick. Manes of James Evans, this is Nick. He’s one of the manes that work here. Nick, this is the Manes of James Evans.”

 

“Hello.” Nick said.

 

The manes of James Evans stared.

 

“Ah. Is that…all of you there?” he looked around the room. “Is there some face face I’m supposed to look at?”

 

“No. I’m sorry.”

 

“If you’re serious about working for us, you’re going to be working under Nick. He’ll show you the ropes around here.” Joseph said.

 

A laugh rose from out of the manes of James Evans, short and percussive like a cough.

 

“Oh, do forgive me, but is this a joke?”

 

“Do you see anyone laughing?” Joseph asked.

 

“No. But I’m sorry, it’s funny. It is funny. You…there’s something miscommunicated here.”

 

“There better be.” Joseph’s fingers curled around his knee.

 

“Dr. Morton, with all respect, how am I supposed to work under someone without hands?”

 

Joseph glared at the manes of James Evans. “Nick, you can go now.”

 

The white flame vanished without another word.

 

“Did I hurt his feelings? I’m sorry, I find it difficult to think like a manes sometimes. It’s my lucidity and intelligence. It was not my intention to offend him, but Dr. Morton, what would you have said if someone suggested you performed menial labor?” he looked to Matthew for approval, “You understand what I’m getting at, surely?”

 

“What exactly did you imagine we would have you do if we did have you work for us?” Matthew asked.

 

“Why, what you do. Work in the field.”

 

“Manes don’t do field work,”

 

“Manes haven’t done field work. I can be the first.”

 

“I’m sorry, but we don’t take manes into the field. It’s simply not done.”

 

“It’s because of the candles, isn’t it? Everyone’s afraid a manes will touch one and set off another Great Fire. But I won’t. I wouldn’t. I have the self-control.”

 

“It’s the candles, but its not for the reason you think.” Joseph said. “You know how the candles work, don’t you?”

 

“Of course I do! You run an electric current through a block of gaeite, the gaeite turns incandescent, it radiates a white light called olprt, and olprt responds to human thoughts. A manesologist uses the mental disciplines of the ancient Dyeus to work the olprt and force it to act upon manes, strengthening this soul component, weakening that soul component. I understand completely how it all works.”

“You understand how it works in books, because you’ve only read books. Things are different in the field. Say it’s me, Dr. Ernst, and Dr. Glass in the field together. We’re hunting down a very violent manes. Suddenly the manes grabs one of us. The other two turn on their candles and begin the Perkunos Operation to weaken the manes. That’s how it would usually go. Now assume the one the manes grabbed was another manes, and not a man. What do you think would happen?”

 

“I wouldn’t be taken unaware, but for the sake of argument, I would fight back, and given that violent manes tend to also be irrational manes, I would have the advantage.”

 

“You’re thinking about yourself, not the team, and that’s the problem. The two men with their candles, if a man is trapped by a manes, can just use the Perkunos Operation to rescue their fellow. But if their fellow is a manes, the Operation has the potential to effect him as well as the manes holding him. It would take great concentration to effect one and not the other.”

 

“Oh…I did not consider that.”

 

“You have to remember how it works in the field. The olprt radiance sweeps the area. There’s no way to focus the light. Maybe there will be in the future, we’re always learning new things about the Dyeus, but there isn’t today. Everything in the halo is effected.” he looked at Matthew, “It’s a great strain to make an Operation act on only one portion of the olprt and not the entirety, you would agree, Dr. Ernst?”

 

“Absolutely.”

“If we had a manes partner in the field, we would constantly, constantly, have to be careful not to effect him along with the target.”

 

“But what if I was taught the Operations so that I could perform them?”

 

Joseph smiled. He was quite well-read. But not well-read enough, apparently.

 

“You wouldn’t be able to learn the Operations.” Matthew saw the manes shoulders rise in anger. “No manes can learn the Operations.” he added, “While you were reading, did you come across anything that described the Operations as “the rituals of fire?””

 

“Yes.”

 

“Do you know why they called them the rituals of fire?”

 

“Well…I assumed it was an occult reference with regards to the incandescence of the gaeite candles…”

 

“It’s an alchemical reference. Earth is physical reality, air is the Astral, and fire represents earth acting upon air, or in other words, physical reality acting upon the Astral. Smoke rises from the ground into the sky, so the metaphor goes. Water is its reverse as water falls from rainclouds to the ground. When they call the Operations rituals of fire, they mean they’re rituals for physical, flesh and blood minds, to act upon beings of the Astral.”

 

“Has anyone tried to teach a manes the Operations? How do they know they can’t be learned? Have they ever tried to teach a manes as lucid as I?”

 

“Frankly sir, they’ve tried with manes more lucid, and vastly more powerful. The Operations simply do not work for manes. They’ve bathed the wisest, strongest manes known to man in olprt. Nothing.”

 

“Nothing? Nothing at all?”

 

“Nothing.

 

“But I have heard nothing of these experiments! Who ran these experiments? Who were the manes involved?”

 

“Results have not yet been published, because they want to be as thorough as possible, but they’ve been trying since 1863. Are you familiar with Robert Luman?”

 

“The great thaumaturgist Robert Luman? Yes, of course!”

 

Joseph rolled his eyes. “The great thaumaturgist.” Robert was an alright guy, but “great?” They wouldn’t be making statues of him anytime soon.  Scarecrows, maybe, but not statues. His figure was more Ichabod Crane than Alexander the Great.

 

“This is his opinion: that because the dreamwalkers that explore the mind of the buried being Abramelin have all been humans, the rituals they’ve managed to glean from Abramelin’s memories have all been for humans, either the rituals of earth, your telepathy and your telekinesis, or your rituals of fire. That doesn’t mean the Dyeus didn’t have rituals that manes could perform. We know that they did. They had rituals of water that allowed manes to influence physical reality beyond which even the mightiest manes on record can with their natural powers. They had rituals of air that allowed manes to influence other manes and themselves. In fact, Robert hopes that one day manes can use rituals of air to help themselves as we currently help them. Imagine a world where manes can will back memories from the corners of their minds. That’s the world that Robert believes is coming. I’m sorry. I can tell you had your heart set on field work. Maybe one day in the future manes will be suited for field work, but I’m afraid that day is not today.”

 

The manes seemed to shrink in his seat. “I did not consider these things…”

 

“If you really want to work your debt off or however you like to describe building up your ego, you’re going to have to work with Nick–correction, work under Nick.” Joseph said.

 

Every the peacemaker, Matthew suggested something he hoped would be more agreeable to the manes of James Evans. “There’s something you can help us with. You won’t be working with us or at the office, but there’s a library in Blackwall ran by a friend of ours named Mary Striker. She helps manes with their reading and uses the genealogy records the library managed to preserve from London to find which manes belong to which families. You’re very lucid, and very well-read, and what’s more you’re a manes and can relate to them in ways Mary cannot. I think you could be a big help to her. You enjoy libraries, so what do you say?”

 

The manes of James Evans raised a corner of his lip in a display of utter disdain.

 

“I think we should put the matter of my employment aside for the time being and move on to the candles.”

 

Matthew shrugged. It was worth a shot.

 

“Yes. That would probably be for the best.” Joseph rose out of his seat. “I’ll go get our candles, and our junior partner, Dr. Glass. We’ll need him for the ritual. We’ll be right back, manes of James Evans.”

 

Joseph walked into the halls, very glad to be momentarily quit of the manes of James Evans. “Nick?” he called out.

 

A tiny white flame appeared near his shoulder. Joseph felt the warmth on his cheek. “Yes, Mr. Morton?”

 

“I’m sorry about the behavior of our guest.”

 

“He was probably confused.”

 

“No, Nick, I don’t think he was. He bragged at length about his lucidity. He meant what he said.”

 

“Oh. Well it’s alright. It’s alright. I understand how he feels. Sometimes I think “Thank God I’m not one of those wisps that can’t talk.””

 

“But you have the heart not to raise yourself up by stepping on the back of another manes. Nick, I want you to know, you struggle with making the form of a man, but you’re twice the man of that creature back there.”

 

“Thank you, Mr. Morton.” there was a crackle to his voice. It may have a sudden surge of heat cracking the air. It may have been Nick’s version of a choked sigh. It was always hard to tell what Nick was feeling. Joseph could read the face of any man, but so many manes lacked faces.

 

Joseph would have hugged Nick, if it was possible to touch Nick at all.

 

“I got to go get our candles from the basement.” Joseph said. “Could you fix the coffee, Nick?”

 

“Again, Mr. Morton?”

 

“Yes, again. And maybe even a third time tonight. This is going to be one of those cases with one of those clients.”

 

“Then I’ll get it heated.”

 

Nick vanished, and Joseph proceeded down the stairs to the basement.

 

There was a wall safe behind Matthew’s desk, which was always unlocked and opened. Matthew asked the builders not to put it in, but they insisted, something about building codes and policy expectations. Matthew explained to them that they would be making their own security arrangements, but rules were rules, and so the safe was put in–and Matthew had to pay for it. He used it as an extra shelf for paper and pens and packets of seeds he intended to hide from Joseph and give to him during Christmas.

 

A safe wouldn’t have protected the candles. Back in the wilderness, people had lockboxes. They didn’t stop anyone from doing anything. People had a lot of time on their hands in the wilderness, and rocks, and a man with enough time and rock could smash through any lock. Joseph and Matthew protected their candles by entrusting them to a manes named Esmee Walker. She kept them in the clouds where she built the heaven that was denied her. Now, Esmee handled electrograms and and researched claims. She was the reason the business ran as smoothly as it did. Without her, they’d have to waste valuable time figuring out which hauntings were credible and which were from attention seekers. The candles were currently kept in the basement, guarded by the manes that lived there.

 

Joseph felt bad that most of the manes in the office were in the basement. He didn’t intend for them to end up there, but they needed their space, and they had plenty of space down in the basement, especially with the tunnel.

 

Piers, who Joseph always wrote as “Peers,” stood by the boiler and peered at nothing in particular. He appeared as a collection of rags and scrap and two skinny legs. A long nose protruded from out of the shadow of a wide brimmed hat, the only indication of where he peered. Occasionally, an airless breath would cause a flap of cloth to flutter. Occasionally, a cough would sound as quiet as a whisper. Frost like spider-webs crept on the folds of his rags, sometimes causing them to dip like petals after a hard rain. These would melt into drips that hit the floor and accumulated in a puddle by his boots that had to be mopped up every night before closing. The sound of a drips made a constant bip-bip-bip that Joseph could sometimes hear at his desk on very quiet days.

 

Piers was a beggar who died several winters ago, his shabby coat unable to help the blanket of snow that built up on his body or accumulation of fluid in his body. After death, he continued to beg, and he carried the cold with him even in Summer. The broadsheets and electrograms called him Jack Frost because he put frost on the ground. He went where there was warmth, drawn to it like like a moth of rags to flames. Men would be warming themselves by a fire when suddenly it would go out, and in its place would be a cold, large man, not understanding where the fire went.

 

When the Great Fire obliterated London, something in the blackened ruins called to Piers. It wasn’t a normal fire. It was likely that its ashes, though cold to man, still held embers for a manes that longed for heat.

 

Piers was a nuisance to the workers that labored to revive London. He kept freezing the steam engines that powered the mechanical beasts. Joseph, Matthew, and Martin were hired to remove him, and since very few places wanted a manes that made things cold with his presence, they stuck him in the basement next to the boiler. Piers would have frosted over a normal boiler, but Nick kept it hot enough to warm him and the entire office.

 

Piers was a simple creature. He wanted to be warm and he wanted to think. That was all. That was why he hadn’t moved since he was put against the boiler. Occasionally, Joseph would hear a muffled hello, but that would be Piers’ only indication that he saw the world outside his mind. There wasn’t a hello today, but there normally wasn’t.

 

John played with his toys on the floor, tin and lead figures of soldiers, explorers, scientists, things he would never get to be. He arranged them in two columns and made them march behind Joseph. The toys were eager to be led by General Grandpa Joseph.

 

Joseph turned around as he heard the ting ting of tin soldiers marching and the soft, muffled steps of trudging teddy bears. “Hello, Johnny. I’m sorry, I’m not here to play, I got work to do.”

 

The toys stomped and smashed themselves against the floor.

 

“I can’t play with you right now Johnny, I need to get out the box.”

 

A wave of anger swept the toys up off the floor like a tiny hurricane and dashed them against the wall.

 

Joseph sighed. John was young. He would always be young, probably. Joseph hoped that, when he, Martin, and Matthew were gone, John could find someone to be patient with him.

 

There were manesologists who were not patient with ghosts, who affixed them to a rock at the slightest provocation.

 

People said there were rumors where the rocks screamed over night, out in the countryside, in places animals avoided.

 

Joseph knew they were not rumors.

 

“Grandpa has to work Johnny.” he said with a little sternness. “We can play later. Now pick up your toys. Were you given them to just to throw them around like that?”

 

Slowly, with great reluctance, the toys picked themselves up.

 

“Good boy. Oh Johnny, the things you make me think about. I wish there was someone your age you could play with, and then I want to kick myself for wishing it so.”

 

Joseph knelt down and rapped three times on the floor as if he was knocking on a door. The bricks shuddered, then parted like water.

 

Joseph peered into the darkness. A large red eye stared back up at him. No one would think it belonged to a human.

 

“Hello, Ada dear. May I see the box, please?”

 

The eye blinked and vanished. There was the sound of things rustling in the dark. The box wasn’t the only thing they kept under the building. There was, of course, Ada, though she didn’t take up space unless she wanted to. Then there were her “cats,” really large rats, but she called them her cats. Then there was Oleander, an actual cat, or rather, the manes of an actual cat, adopted and named by Ada. She didn’t know what oleander was, but she liked how it sounded, and so she gave the name to her cat. Oleander was never a bother to Ada’s other “cats,” he would dart and them and bat at them but go right through them, and the rats wouldn’t even know he was there. Oleander wasn’t bothered by his seeming inability to kill mice. He was never hungry, and the mice were better toys than they ever were. They didn’t stop moving after he bit them. That made them the best toys.

 

The Knocker was sometimes underneath the building. He liked checking in on Ada. They were creatures of darkness and understood each other. The Knocker was Alan Adams, a miner who perished in 1838 when the Huskar Pit flooded. Alan was 16. Most of other victims were younger, far young. They had looked up to Alan as something of an adult down in the mines with them. He tried to keep their heads above water, down there in the dark, until there was no more room to breathe.

 

Alan awoke in the present, in 1865, 33 years old, but still 16, still looking for those he believed still needed to be saved. He found one of them, an eight year old child now a 25 year old mine foreman, and abducted him, taking him through the stones and dirt to a secret place he found beneath the earth, a secret place Robert Luman forced all involved to swear they would never reveal to manes or man.

 

Joseph, Matthew, and Martin helped Alan realize that his old friend was no longer the little boy he remembered, and Alan became a friend of the man, his miners, and miners throughout England. He took to acting like a knocker from folklore, like a fairy who would watch over miners and knock to warn them of danger.

 

The Knocker wasn’t here today, otherwise he would have done his namesake and made the floor shake with his raps. Joseph always looked forward to talking with Alan. He thought Alan was an incredible being, a spirit of untiring resilience. He was like an older brother to Ada and John.

 

After a short time, the box floated out of the hole and sat itself gently by Joseph’s feet.

 

“Thank you, Ada.”

 

The bricks flowed back together, sealing themselves as if they had never parted.

 

Joseph opened the box.

 

The candles were of course the most important things in the box, but they weren’t the only things. Funds were kept in the box, and Joseph often entertained the idea of telling the taxman to go into the basement and ask Ada for the payments. Various objects entrusted by manes to the office were also kept in the box. There was a cavalry sword that belonged to a captain of the recently dissolved Confederate States of America. He wanted his sword to be kept far away from him in a safe place out of fear that if he picked it up again, he would never put it down. There was a pocket watch that belonged to a painter, and when opened his memories spilled out and stained the environment. There was a doll that sat in a corner and dreamed of when a warm hand once held her.

 

There were all sorts of objects, and they kept adding new ones to the box. Pretty soon, they were going to need another box.

 

A toy soldier, standing atop another which stood atop another which stood atop another, peered into the box.

 

“Treasure chest!” a voice whispered in Joseph’s ear.

 

“No, Johnny, these are things for work, not play. You know that.” Joseph removed the candles one by one. There were three of them, though there was a fourth one. Robert Luman wanted them to add a fourth name to the sign on the door before too long, and until then, the fourth candle was kept in a very special place, an even more special place than the box.

 

Martin kept the fourth candle within a fold of space. He could reach his hand out, and pull it from out of nowhere. It was always at hand for emergencies.

The first gaeite candles of 1860 were very simple. They were sharply cut rectangles of gaeite stuck to, literally, steel candle bases and wired to an electric circuit. The sticks didn’t change, they were the same sharply cut amber rectangles they had always been. Their edges were so sharp a person could easily cut themselves if they carelessly touched them. Nothing natural could cut gaeite. The Dyeus pulled the substance from out of their dreams, and it was only in dreams that it could be cut. Joseph had never seen gaeite cut, but Robert described the process to him. A thaumaturgist slept in the Dyeus ruins beneath Luxor, found the gaeite in their dreams, and cut it. Silently, within that sprawling skeleton of a city, an amber block would fall into the waiting hands of an apprentice.

 

Five years had saw steady improvement to the base. Where once there was one wire and one battery in the shallow metal bowl, there was a thick canopy of wires and regulators and devices. The handle was flexible, and could fold down to clip to one’s belt. There was a knob that regulated the strength of the current and thus the size of the olprt aura. There was a safety device that cut the current completely if a hand left the handle, though it could be turned off if for whatever reason a manesologist had to put a lit candle down–and it had better be a good reason given how the Great Fire started.

 

Joseph didn’t think of the candles as anything more than tools, but Matthew was a sentimentalist at heart, and he insisted on individual customization. Matthew had his candle base painted white and engraved on its side:

 

MATTHEW ERNST

1864

BE THOU A SPIRIT OF HEALTH, OR GOBLIN DAMN’D
BRING WITH THEE AIRS FROM HEAVEN, OR BLASTS FROM HELL
BE THY INTENTS WICKED OR CHARITABLE
I WILL SPEAK TO THEE

 

Martin didn’t paint his base, but he did engrave upon it all sorts of strange, occult symbols. The metal was covered in them, Joseph could tell which candle was his just by touch. In one portion of the base he left enough room to engrave:

 

MARTIN GLASS

1865

AWAY FROM THE LIGHT STEALS HOME MY HEAVY SON
AND PRIVATE IN HIS CHAMBER PENS HIMSELF
SHUTS UP HIS WINDOWS, LOCKS FAR DAYLIGHT OUT
AND MAKES HIMSELF AN ARTIFICIAL NIGHT
BLACK AND PORTENTOUS MUST THIS HUMOUR PROVE
UNLESS GOOD COUNSEL MAY THE CAUSE REMOVE

 

Joseph, after some coaxing, made a simple engraving to mark “his” candle:

JOSEPH MORTON

1864

 

No quote.

 

Those were their candles, and Joseph sometimes wondered what generations of the future would think about the markings and engravings. Would they put them in a museum? Martin’s would probably go to an art gallery.

 

Joseph clipped all three candles to his belt and went to find Martin.