SWARON
GHOSTS
It was early October 1946, and Swayam Shekhawat watched the fading
sun sink lower from the porch of his plantation-style home. He liked
to sit here in the evenings, especially after working hard all day, and
let his thoughts wander. It was how he relaxed, a routine he'd learned
from his father.
He especially liked to look at the trees and their reflections in the
river. North Carolina trees are beautiful in deep autumn: greens,
yellows, reds, oranges, every shade in between, their dazzling colours
glowing with the sun.
The house was built in 1772, making it one of the oldest, as well as
largest, homes in New Bern. Originally it was the main house on a
working plantation, and he had bought it right after the war ended and
had spent the last eleven months and a small fortune repairing it. The
reporter from the Raleigh paper had done an article on it a few weeks
ago and said it was one of the finest restorations he'd ever seen. At
least the house was. The rest of the property was another story, and
that was where Swayam had spent most of the day.
The home sat on twelve acres adjacent to Brices Creek, and he'd
worked on the wooden fence that lined the other three sides of the
property; checking for dry rot or termites, replacing posts where he
had to. He still had more work to do on the west side, and as he'd put
the tools away earlier he'd made a mental note to call and have some
more timber delivered. He'd gone into the house, drunk a glass of
sweet tea, then showered, the water washing away dirt and fatigue.
Afterwards he'd combed his hair back, put on some faded jeans and
a long-sleeved blue shirt, poured himself another glass of tea and
gone to the porch, where he sat every day at this time.
He reached for his guitar, remembering his father as he did so,
thinking how much he missed him. Swayam strummed once, adjusted the
tension on two strings, then strummed again, soft, quiet music. He
hummed at first, then began to sing as night came down around him.
It was a little after seven when he stopped and settled back into his
rocking chair. By habit, he looked upwards and saw Orion, the Big
Dipper and the Pole Star, twinkling in the autumn sky.
He started to run the numbers in his head, then stopped. He knew
he'd spent almost his entire savings on the house and would have to
find a job again soon, but he pushed the thought away and decided to
enjoy the remaining months of restoration without worrying about it.
It would work out for him, he knew: it always did.
Cem, his hound dog, came up to him then and nuzzled his hand
before lying down at his feet. Hey girl, how're you doing?" he asked
as he patted her head, and she whined softly, her soft round eyes
peering upwards. A car accident had taken one of her legs, but she
still moved well enough and kept him company on nights like these.
He was thirty-one now, not too old, but old enough to be lonely. He
hadn't dated since he'd been back here, hadn't met anyone who
remotely interested him, It was his own fault, he knew. There was
something that kept a distance between him and any woman who
started to get close, something he wasn't sure he could change even if
he tried. And sometimes, in the moments before sleep, he wondered if
he was destined to be alone for ever.
The evening passed, staying warm, nice. Swayam listened to the
crickets and the rustling leaves, thinking that the sound of nature was
more real and aroused more emotion than things like cars and planes.
Natural things gave back more than they took, and their sounds
always brought him back to the way man was supposed to he. There
were times during the war, especially after a major engagement, when
he had often thought about these simple sounds. "It'll keep you from
going crazy," his father had told him the day he'd shipped out. "It's
God's music and it'll take you home."
He finished his tea, went inside, found a book, then turned on the
porch light on his way back out. After sitting down again, he looked
at the book. It was old, the cover was torn, and the pages were stained
with mud and water. It was Leaves of Grass by Walt Whitman, and he
had carried it with him throughout the war. He let the book open
randomly and read the words in front of him:
This is thy hour, 0 Soul, thy free flight into the wordless,
Away from hooks, away from art, the day erased, the lesson done,
Thee fully forth emerging, silent, gazing, pondering the themes
thou lovest best,
Night, sleep, death and the stars.
He smiled to himself. For some reason Whitman always reminded
him of New Bern, and he was glad he'd come back. Though he'd
been away for fourteen years, this was home and he knew a lot of
people here, most of them from his youth. It wasn't surprising. Like
so many southern towns, the people who lived here never changed,
they just grew a bit older.
His best friend these days was Gus, a seventy-year-old black man
who lived down the road. They had met a couple of weeks after Swayam
bought the house, when Gus had shown up with some homemade
liquor and Brunswick stew, and the two had spent their first evening
together getting drunk and telling stories.
Now Gus showed up a couple of nights a week, usually around
eight. With four kids and eleven grandchildren in the house, he
needed to get out now and then, and Swayam couldn't blame him.
Usually Gus would bring his harmonica and, after talking for a little
while, they'd play a few songs together.
He'd come to regard Gus as family. There really wasn't anyone else,
at least not since his father died last year. He was an only child and
his mother had died of influenza when he was two. And though he
had wanted to at one time, he had never married.
But he had been in love once, that he knew. Once and only once, and
a long time ago. And it had changed him forever. Perfect love did that
to a person, and this had been perfect.
Coastal clouds slowly began to roll across the evening sky, turning
silver with the reflection of the moon. As they thickened, he leaned
his head back against the rocking chair. His legs moved
automatically, keeping a steady rhythm, and he felt his mind drifting
back to a warm evening like this fourteen years ago.
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