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Portia kept running, though her knees ached and her back throbbed.  She didn't look back to count how many were chasing her; by the sound of their footfalls, she reckoned about a dozen pursuants.  She still had a good lead, yet the gap was closing, and she could hear their threats spitting  from between their teeth.

Up ahead, she could see the ominous stone form of the Canossa.  The thought of dodging in there seemed almost less appealing than what these thugs had in mind for her.  Then she chastised herself; the Canossa was just an old building steeped in spooky superstition, but these violent idiots were a very real danger.

Changing course almost imperceptibly, she darted up the covered alleyway which ran along the east side of the Canossa.  Once she felt comfortably in the shadows, she slowed down slightly, but did not stop.  While the darkness offered camouflage, the Canossa offered safety.  She continued.

By the time Portia had discovered a small opening in the side of the building, the thugs who had chased her had arrived at the head of the alleyway, cursing themselves for having lost such a prize.  Without a second look, she slid through the small door.

Portia put her hands out in front of her, feeling for a ledge so that she might not blunder off of it and fall.  She crawled a few feet through the small passageway before coming upon a room of inordinate size.  She could not take in the entire room from her limited vantage point, but she saw the incredible height of the ceiling and whistled appreciatively.

Then she looked down; luckily, she could drop onto another ledge, and from there to the floor without any trouble.  She slid a little on the strange floor; it was made of a slippery rock that Portia could not identify.  Perhaps what shocked her the most was the lighting; on either side of rows and rows of chairs, many candles were lit.  Hundreds, maybe thousands.

And it occurred to her that someone must have lit those candles.

Portia walked up the aisle that divided the rows of chairs.  In spite of the candles, Portia still could not see very well, and so she took careful steps.  She tried to put out of her mind all the rumors she had heard about the Canossa--about the strange beings said to live within its walls, the beings which caused all the deaths of gang members and would be attackers whenever they got too close. 

But the candles...

As she stepped into the dim corridor beyond the great room, she heard a gasp.  She could also smell a burning herb mixture of some kind.  Portia now wanted to escape the Canossa, yet she knew she couldn't go back the way she came, as the thugs would be waiting.  There had to be another way out, and with the way her luck was going, it would be found along this corridor.  She sighed, and moved along.

A crack of light spilled out of a slightly open door.  Whether candle or the dim light of New Hadria, she could not tell.  She touched the door, and very carefully peeked inside.

She felt as if she was sucking in all the air in the world as she gasped.

A man was in the room.  He sat, cross-legged, on the floor, and was looking up at her.  He was dressed all in black, like the color of his hair, and he was very pale.  She couldn't read the expression on his face; he did, in fact, look as if he had encountered the apocalypse itself, and had barely won.

She gulped audibly.  "I'm...I'm sorry," she babbled.  "I didn't mean to bother you.  Really, I didn't mean it.  I'm sorry.  I'm so sorry.  I'll just go now."

"No!"  The man's voice was strong, but not menacing.  He raised his hand in a gesture.  "You don't have to go."

Portia stood there, feeling dumbstruck, as the man got to his feet.  He was easily two heads taller than she, and she was not short.  She trembled.  "I mean, I'd like to talk with you, if you don't mind," he said mildly.

"Who are you?" she blurted.  "And what are you doing here?  I thought the Canossa was deserted."

"It is," he agreed.  "Except for me."

Portia gave him a questioning look.  "How do I know you're not some crazy axe murderer or something? A lot of people have been dying around here."

He stretched his arms to his sides, sighing.  "I'm sure you can see that I mean you no harm," he said.  She noticed that he had emphasized you.  "I invite you to part with such delusions now so that we can have more time to discuss pleasant things."

Portia considered, then slowly, hesitantly entered the room.  It was little more than a large closet, barely decorated.  She saw that the man had some photos stacked in one corner, along with a supply of candles and matches.  In another corner, he had hoarded the soft pillows that had once been used by worshippers.  He quickly piled several of these huge pillows to serve as a seat for her, so she need not sit on the cold stone floor.  To her own surprise, she accepted gladly.  Her body was a mess of aches from her run-in with the thugs, and it now appreciated the comfort.

"Are you hungry?" he asked furtively.  "Can I get you something to eat?  Drink?  You look like you need it."  She shook her head, yet he put out several large apples and a carafe of water, which seemed to have come from nowhere.  He sat again on the floor, in front of her.  "What happened to you?"

Portia sighed.  "I was dumb.  I should have taken the underground tunnel, but I didn't want to, so I was walking home from school on the street.  A bunch of losers came after me, so I ran.  They chased me.  I hid here.  End of story."  

The man nodded.  "Poor thing," he remarked sympathetically.  "Confined to the underground tunnels."

"You still haven't told me who you are," she said.

"Perhaps it's best if you don't know," he said.  

"Why?" She took an apple.  "Who am I going to tell?"

He laughed to himself.  "You might not be able to handle it."

"Hey, I live in New Hadria," she replied briskly.  "I can handle anything."

"I think this would even be too much."

"Well, it's no secret to me that you're not alive," Portia declared.  "So if that's what you're afraid of telling me, I already know."

Now it was the man's mouth which dropped open.  "How do you know?"

Portia bit some apple, and gestured around the man.  "That's my special talent--I work with spirits," she said.  "It's all around you, like your personal bubble or something."  She chewed.  "I probably could explain it better, but I feel pretty messed up right now."

"I see," he said, smiling wryly.  "And what else can you tell about me?"

She shrugged.  "Not much else.  There's a--a sadness, too," she said, and he quickly looked away.  She bit her lip, wondering what she had triggered.  "This ability--it's just something you're born with, I guess.  It runs in my family," she offered.  He nodded in faux understanding.  Then she said, "You know, I usually don't get good vibes from strangers, especially dead ones, but you, I like."

He grinned, and she could see his dazzling blue eyes light up.  "I like you too.  But I still don't know your name.  You can call me Jolon."

"Portia Derinow," she said.  Then she looked at her watch.  "Oh crap!  My sis is going to be worried sick about me."  She looked at the man  "I'm scared to go out there, Jolon."

Jolon looked pensive.  "Don't worry," he said.  "I can follow you to the tunnel entrance nearest here.  I promise no one will harm you."

Portia nodded.  "But why stay here?  Why don't you come out with me?  You can come stay with us."

Jolon shook his head.  "I cannot."

She looked puzzled, and then a slight understanding came over her.  "You are anchored here?  Is your body in the Canossa cemetery?"

"Body--and soul," he said sadly.  "Even as I follow you to your safety, it is only a part of me that can go so far.  You will not see me, just know I am protecting you."

Portia scratched her head.  "Are you lonely?"

He smiled weakly, as locks of black hair fell into his face.  "It is my loneliness which has kept me here in the first place," he said.  He looked at her solemnly. "Portia, promise me that you will tell no one that I am here, nor that we have spoken."  He paused.  "I've had sanctuary here for more years than you have lived, and I do not wish it to be disturbed.  Do you promise?"

Portia nodded.  "I promise."

Jolon knelt in front of a large rose candle, whispering something.  Portia did not wish to intrude; she stood in the shadows until he had risen and turned away from the candle.  "Did you see what I was doing?"

"I didn't want to interrupt."

"In my life, I loved a woman named Joelle," he said.  "I gave my whole self into that love, Portia, such that there was nothing left of me."

"And she loved you?"

"No less than I loved her," he answered.  "I spent all the time I could with her; I couldn't bear to be away.  It consumed me."  He chuckled.  "In fact, we never married, because we thought making such a temporal vow was cheapening our love."

"So what happened?"

He lowered his head.  "I was twenty-nine, she was twenty-three.  We were walking back to our flat when a band of thugs came out of an alleyway."  He looked up again, his eyes strained.  "There weren't many of them, just five or so--but five armed idiots against two unarmed lovers makes for unfair odds." 

He stopped; he was getting more distant as the story continued, and Portia was getting uncomfortable.  "You don't have to continue," she said.

Jolon touched her under her chin.  "No, it's good to tell--you are the first to hear this, Portia."  He sighed.  "Anyway, they tried grabbing Joelle.  I'm fairly certain they meant to rape her.  I don't know what came over me, but I just flew at them in fury.  I was no weak man myself, and the thought that these scum would dare set their hands on my Joelle incited me beyond reason.  They let her go, and all five came after me.  I kept shouting to her to run, to get to safety, and after a few moments, she did."

Portia was horrified.  "And you--"

Jolon pointed to his head.  "I managed to kill two of them myself before they shot me in the head."

Portia put her hands to her mouth.  "And that's how you died."

"That's how I died," he concluded.  He stared at her intensely.  "Now Joelle survived me, obviously.  She grieved hard, but she did manage to go on.  But for me, because I had been so attached to her--so attached to the very idea of her--my own spirit couldn't move into the land of the dead.  So I stayed with her.  She didn't know I was there, of course--she lacked your ability entirely.  But still I wouldn't leave her; I suppose I was waiting until she died, in the hopes that we could be together then."

Portia nodded, engrossed in the tale.  "And?"

He sighed sadly once more.  "When Joelle was thirty-three, she became pregnant by a man she had slept with once.  She wanted this; she wanted a child.  But she died in childbirth, while her daughter survived."

"So if Joelle is dead," Portia said, "why are you here?"

"Our fundamental beliefs of an afterlife differed greatly.  I believed in an afterworld, a place where my sould could find peace.  Joelle, however, believed in reincarnation, so no sooner had her soul emerged from her old body than it began to be pulled towards a new one."

Portia gaped.

"I saw her briefly, as her spirit made the transition," he said.  "I was able to ask her to remember me, and I think she heard me.  And then she was gone."

Portia shook her head, trying to clear it.  "What of you now, Jolon?"

Jolon shrugged dejectedly.  "I am trying to find her, I suppose, although my chances aren't very good.  I cannot leave this place entirely, and what part of me that can leave cannot do a thorough search.  More to the point, I have no idea who or what she has reincarnated as--she may not even be human, or in New Hadria!"

Portia asked,  "So you're stuck here forever?"

"Not forever," he said sadly.  "Only until I am reunited with Joelle."

Portia leaned back against the wall.  "I don't know what I can do for you, Jolon," she sighed.

Jolon laughed weakly.  "Neither do I.  Does your talent uncover reincarnated spirits?"

"I don't know.  I've never tried."  

Emilie J. Conroy

ejconroy778@gmail.com