Section 8: To the Ghosts

Cold moonlight crept into the shed, and silence spread over the sleepers.

Faint whispers drifted with the moonlight through the branches, giving way to snores rising and falling across the camp. Tattered clouds wandered among sparse stars, casting shadows over the camp before the gold mine. A chilling darkness seeped between the shelters, and the snores gradually faded.

Creak—

The old bedframe groaned as someone turned over. A spiteful glow flashed beneath the bed and vanished.

A gauzy, spectral shape rose from beneath it and circled the two sleeping figures. But just as the cold undead creature was about to touch the living beings it hated and envied, moonlight slipped through a crack in the shed. It lit the shoes hanging over the bedside and the Papyrus stuck to one sole.

The edge of the spectral shape lifted the Papyrus. In the moonlight, a few words could be made out:

[To... the most adorable undead... welcome... hope... come again]

The gauzy apparition paused. It circled the sleeping figure several times, then carried the note out of the shed.

The Papyrus was stopped by the wooden door and drifted toward the ground. The apparition darted back, snatched it, and tugged it through the gap beneath the door.

Three gauzy shapes emerged from the silent camp. Like pale dancing skirts beneath the moonlight, they fluttered, spun, gathered together, and slipped into the unknown depths of the gold mine.

Deep darkness filled the tunnels. Strange shadows stirred, rustling sounds arose, and sinister plots echoed through the mine, now and then breaking into wicked laughter.

At one point, one shape held up the Papyrus. A companion snatched it away, tore it apart, and demanded an explanation.

Long afterward, darkness and silence returned.

Sunlight was the best remedy for those still asleep.

The commotion outside the shed woke Annan first. Then came a pounding on the wooden door.

Annan put on his linen coat, slid back the bolt, and opened the door.

The noise rushed in, suddenly clear. Old Zoren's tense face relaxed when he saw Annan. After Annan woke Martin, Zoren told them what had happened the night before.

Every miner staying at the camp claimed to have had a terrible nightmare. the Mage Apprentice said they had been cursed by the undead, but that they were safe now.

The miners did not believe him. An apprentice who could cast no spells and owned no magic items was plainly unable to contain the chaos. Outside, people were trying to flee the camp, demanding their wages, and shouting for breakfast.

"Why are you two all right?"

Annan felt no different, and Martin was still bleary-eyed. Neither seemed to have been affected.

Annan realized something and looked at the door. The note stuck to it was gone.

Looks like my message worked, Annan thought, elated.

Not only had they escaped unharmed, but Annan had also achieved his first exchange with someone other than a human.

Old Zoren was just as thrilled. He took it as a blessing from the goddess of luck: every miner had been cursed by the undead, except them.

Annan stopped Martin just as he was about to agree. The Ghost might be willing to communicate, but thirty copper coins hardly seemed worth the risk...

"Forty copper coins each! And if you find ore, you'll get a share of that too!"

"I accept." Annan spoke before old Zoren could change his mind.

Old Zoren hurried off to prepare breakfast, swinging his bad leg like a windmill.

"You're amazing, Annan!" Martin said. Then he shifted awkwardly. "Could we tell my family I only got thirty copper coins...?"

Annan thought of how Martin handed his wages over to Aunt Susan, how he hardly ever received tips at the tavern, and how he always sold firewood for the lowest price. He agreed.

While they waited for old Zoren to bring food, Annan scanned the noisy camp and spotted the half-minotaur sitting at the edge of the woods with a thin wooden board in its hands.

Broken shafts of morning sunlight filtered through the leaves. Leaning against a tree, the Minotaur held a piece of charcoal tiny in its hand and sketched a shape on the board, its outline growing clearer.

The pale Ghost had no distinct form. It looked like a figure draped in a bedsheet.

"Is that the undead creature that entered the camp last night?"

Annan recognized what the Minotaur had drawn. It raised its head. Reflected in its brown eyes was Annan, wearing a dirty linen coat, his face and eyes clean and clear.

"Why is there no trace of the curse on you?"

"My kindness rubbed off on it."

The Minotaur did not ask for details. Instead, it explained why it had been unaffected. "My tainted blood lets me resist cantrips."

"Making this many people have nightmares was just a cantrip?"

"No one was hurt." The Minotaur realized that, despite Annan's noble looks, he knew less about the outside world than a child.

"Why don't you tell them?"

In answer, the half-minotaur shook its leg shackles, making them rattle.

"I'm a slave." The Minotaur put down the charcoal, handed Annan the thin board, and stood up.

"Is this for me?"

Annan gladly accepted the charcoal drawing. "Thank you."

The Minotaur paused at Annan's thanks, then walked into the camp, where the uproar continued.

Its circumstances reminded Annan of his own a week ago. Without Aunt Susan, he would not have been much better off.

For a moment, their shared plight almost made Annan want to buy the Minotaur. But someone barely surviving himself was in no position to help anyone else.

Annan carried the drawing back to the shed. Martin was already squatting beside the basket and eating.

Breakfast was black bread and sour salted peas again.

Mining paid twice as much as working at the tavern, but the food was so poor it reminded Annan of his days begging.

After forcing down breakfast, Annan and Martin—who proudly met everyone's stares—walked into the gold mine under a host of astonished gazes.

But as soon as they entered, Annan pulled Martin into a side tunnel only a few dozen meters from the entrance.

The intermittent clang of pickaxes went on from morning until afternoon. Then Annan and Martin came out carrying their baskets.

The good news was that they had not encountered any Ghosts. The bad news was that they had not encountered any gold ore either.

"One last day... just one last day..."

Old Zoren held an empty basket under his arm and muttered to himself like a gambler who could not stop.

Annan did not mind. He was even planning to write another letter, though he knew few words he had not already used.

[To:

Dear Ghosts, I long for your ○. I hope you will let me enter the depths—from a miner who wants ○○]

Annan checked the finished Papyrus. The circles made him blush, but he truly did not know the words and could not write them unclearly either.

He stuck the Papyrus to the door, blew out the oil lamp, and slowly fell asleep.

Late that night, three spectral Ghosts drifted silently out of the gold mine and spread out as they had the night before.

One of them went around the door and passed through the wall into the shed. It lingered near the sleeping figure's feet, then noticed the thin wooden board on the bedside table.

In the faint moonlight, a charcoal drawing of a Ghost came into view, its lines laid down in bold and light strokes.

The pale, gauzy shape picked up the drawing. It bumped the door with a soft thump, slipped through the gap, and stirred a breeze that lifted the Papyrus as it swept into the night.

Deep darkness filled the tunnels. Strange shadows stirred, rustling sounds arose, and sinister plots echoed through the mine, now and then breaking into wicked laughter.

At one point, one shape held up the drawing.

After much whispering among those hateful, wicked, shadowy presences, they put the charcoal drawing up in their cozy little home.