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The dirt beneath his fingernails is a comfort he never expected. Like every splinter he received in his palms, whether from wood for warmth or to shelter livestock, it is evidence of hard work, of proving his worth. He can offer something to this world of men and God’s creatures. Every root vegetable pulled is a strengthened bond between him and the man who now acts as benefactor to him. The Creature understands the necessary cycles of life; the bush full of berries and the deer, the deer and the wolf, the wolf and the hunter. One who was cared for can become the caregiver.
He accepts them as daily lessons, listening dutifully to the old man’s instructions as their time together in the mill garden carries on. Never before has his mind found itself so latched onto another’s words. Not a second of his attention can afford to be wasted on how the ground moves with the smallest insects. The Creature holds each generous armful of lucky, bountiful harvest as though a mere vegetable is crafted from the same glass like the bottle of brandy he shattered without meaning to.
“Well done, my friend.” The blind man remarks upon hearing another careful tumble into the wicker basket. His hand rests atop the Creature’s head who instinctively leans closer upon the connection. It is still early in their companionship, the fear he will do something wrong ever-present in his frayed conscience, thus instilling an aura of over-precociousness even during a pleasant morning in the garden. Yet he doesn’t want to deny himself these small moments of touch, just as he wasn’t hesitant to melt into the blind man’s first embrace.
“That should be enough for now. We are only cooking for two, after all.” He chuckles, always a balm to the Creature’s anxieties.
With one hand guiding his friend and the other gripping the weighted baskets, they return inside the mill. Out of pure intuition, the blind man makes his way to the meagre kitchen, requesting the vegetables be handed to him. The Creature remembers his own stature and lowers his head along with the rest of his shambling upper body. Each pulley hanging from the mill rafters provided another valuable lesson—a humorous if not physical one at that.
Despite this caution, he does not mourn the cold, dark confines of the gears. The Creature now feels comfort in his current surroundings so lacking from his past, even when he first crossed over the threshold. Before there was a chance to explore anything, he thought he would collapse from how new everything felt. From each sight and smell to how his eyes, always wide with the desire to experience more, adjusted themselves to the difference in light.
Until the blind man intervened and the Creature understood how much he could see without the ability of sight. He directed the hands of this stranger over books, blankets, furniture, and the mill walls in all their rugged strength and shelter. Touch became the Creature’s coveted form of acquiring knowledge. It is how he better knows himself, his friend, and the world around him.
His first instinct is to pluck another book from their little library, continue filling his head with stories of questionable good and complicated evil. Those lessons will have to wait as the blind man once again beckons for the Creature’s. His gaze wanders over the vast array of vegetables on the table, washed and handled with care. Two knives lay by this assortment which gives the Creature pause until his companion allows him to mirror his actions. The blade slides with ease into a thick carrot, followed by a potato, and so on.
“Once we are finished slicing the vegetables, we can start on the broth. Do not rush yourself with the knife, my friend. Remember, caution and steadiness in every movement.”
The secondary portion unfortunately becomes lost in the Creature’s rising anticipation for their imminent meal. While berries are sweet and cause a pleasant tingle within his mouth, stew warms his belly especially as the winds blow colder these days and ignites his senses with rich flavours. Snatching the other knife, his intense focus on trying to mimic the blind man’s actions rather than keeping a watchful eye on his own leads to disaster. A searing pain slices across the Creature’s palm as both blade and blood fall against the floor. His head tilts at the gruesome sight before he remembers to feel an important sensation.
“What happened?” The blind man hears the Creature’s subdued yet distressed hiss through his teeth and returns his own knife to the table. “Oh dear. Come, come, give me your hand. It’s alright.”
Tenderly, he wipes the Creature’s hand with a rag, commenting on the sheer amount of blood for only a slight nick. Of course he wouldn’t see the wound close itself then fade. The Creature knows he should mention this as he never wants to lie to his friend, but his mind is more concerned with a similar occurrence. One of anger and blame.
“You… are not shouting. Are you not… angry? Upset?”
“Now, why ever would I be angry with you? It was only an accident. Here, feel.”
He offers his own hands. Despite all the well-earned wrinkles and weathered skin, the Creature feels every scar along the blind man’s palms. A canvas of his long life.
“I cannot begin to recount all the times when that blade graced my flesh. Even before my sight failed me,” he chuckles. “There is nothing for you to ask forgiveness for.”
This troubles the Creature. Not the blind man’s reassurance, but the appearance of his scars, natural and fair coloured. A far cry from his own, tracing along his skin erratically with evidence of agitated flesh beneath. Yet even his palm remains unmarred by the knife. All that blood for nothing.
“Now, let us continue. You must be famished.”
Another lingering haunt sows itself within the Creature’s mind, even as the hope of a shared meal slowly takes priority.
Before he can slowly recite the works of a man known by the name John Keats, the blind man suggests they put their books to rest for one night. Nothing in particular incited this proclamation, only his claim that the oral tradition has as much value in storytelling as the written word. The Creature furrows his brow (he was looking forward to experiencing whatever new and beautiful scriptures this so-called Keats had to share) and asks what these “oral” stories will be based on.
“Memories, my dear friend. Memories and dreams. The greatest source of inspiration for artists and farmers, princes and paupers alike.”
The blind man is a poet in his own right; he will have no difficulty conjuring forth stories, the likes of which can rival those in his library. The Creature feels himself indulging in a bitter yet unavoidable emotion—envy. He has nothing beyond his time in the forest and mill. His dreams the Creature would rather forget. Moments of what he perceives as bliss tainted by images of pain and death. Those are not the stories he wishes to hear.
“I… cannot tell my own.”
“Do not trouble yourself. I have one in mind.” A moment’s pause while the blind man gathers the necessary pieces to his story. “Do you believe in ghosts, my friend?”
“What is a ghost?” The word feels macabre, grotesque in the Creature’s mouth. Sombre, yet tragic. He crawls along the floor closer to the blind man sitting in his most favoured chair and delicately reaches for his hand.
“Perhaps this tale will offer an explanation. A young woman crosses paths with a man. Tall, handsome, bringing with him a dark, mysterious presence. This darkness seduces the woman as he sweeps her off her feet and the two marry.” Already fascinated by the prospect of romance, the Creature rests his chin atop the old man’s knees, eyes wide and with a patient demeanour.
“They travel to his grand estate out in the countryside, but something is not right with this place. It is empty, no servants to be found. The walls moan out during the night, shadows begin to follow the young bride wherever she wanders. Then she sees them. Horrible visages of other women in their final moments of life, their features twisted and gruesome. They haunt her dreams, even her waking hours and soon the heiress believes she will go mad in this mansion. Yet what she does not know and only realises when it is too late is that these ghosts are trying to warn her. For they are the handsome suitor’s past wives, murdered in cold, cruel blood for their family fortunes. Strangled, poisoned, cut down in their sleeps. If only the young heiress could calm her nervous mind. If only she did not form a hasty judgment based on appearances. If only the husband was sent to her from heaven rather than hell. Then she could have avoided her awful fate of falling from the topmost staircase bannister and have the man claim it as just an accident. At least she would not be alone in death. At least she too could try and save the life of a future bride.’
‘A ghost is many things. It is a memory begging to be acknowledged. It can be divine revelation. Or the absence of one. Most of all, a ghost is guilt, pain, and immense regret given form.”
It takes a moment for the Creature to speak. Without a known reason, his voice cannot slip through his throat, causing his eyes to sting with water. “Is there another ending to that story?”
“Suppose there ought to be. I overheard it from one man, who heard it from someone else, who heard it from someone else. Should you happen to pass it along as well, friend, perhaps it will change again. The heroine will be more cunning than her villain. The ghosts may become more horrifying yet remain her true saviours. The villain may not even appear as he seems. Something more tragic and painful may lurk beneath the surface.”
“But will there be hope?”
There is an aching cadence to the Creature’s tone. The blind man says nothing, perhaps lost in contemplation, before that divine revelation he spoke of strikes. “Would you like to hear another? I promise it won’t be as tragic as the last.”
His friend squeezes his hand and sits back on his bones, cautiously eager for the story to begin. “Once there were two men in a heated argument. This happened so long ago that no one remembers what they were arguing about—women, money, land, pride. Perhaps all. But what is crucial to know about this story is not the topic of their quarrel, rather how it ended. One of the men found a large rock, and unable to stand his opponent’s stubbornness, smashed it against his head. After the rush faded away and he saw him lying in the dirt not moving, the man began to feel a deep, deep regret. This guilt would follow him all his life, like a ghost.’
‘Then one night while living out his now lonely existence, he received a visitor. Something he knew was not human and carried the presence of the man he killed so long ago. Yet instead of this spectre passing down judgment and punishment, he asked the murderer if he could be so kind as to offer a wandering stranger shelter for the night. So he did, along with offering his food, drink, and company.’
‘I believe this ghost was testing our protagonist. If the murderer had grovelled and begged for forgiveness or even tried to strike back, he might have received punishment. Yet despite such guilt, he maintained his pride and treated his victim with kindness and respect as he would an old friend.”
The Creature caresses his thumb over the blind man’s hand. “I like that story better.”
“I believe I do as well. One day, I will tell you how I came to possess it. It won’t be a long story, or a very good one at that. But you will know it.”
After the two settle in for sleep, the only sounds filling the mill being that of chittering mice and creaking walls, the Creature scours his fragmented mind. There has to be something to cultivate a story of his own. The centre of his palm then aches with a phantom pain. Memory stirs before the feeling escapes. As it always does.