Changing Heaven by Jane Urquhart Read Free Book Online Page A

is.”
    And Polly/Arianna, unpractised though she was, did see a coal fire and an unhealthy little boy sitting near it writing in a tiny notebook.
    “The boy?” she asked.
    “My brother.”
    “The fire?”
    “Our parlour.”
    “Then are we both witches?” asked Polly/Arianna, horrified at the thought.
    “No,” replied the woman. “We’re both ghosts.”
    “You mean I’m …?”
    “As a doornail.” The young woman extended her arm towards Polly/Arianna as if to congratulate her. As if to shake her hand.
    It took several moments for Arianna to grasp this information. “It’s not true,” she said at last.
    “Oh, truth,” said the woman vaguely, “I’d forgotten all about that. Facts, I suppose she means.” Then, looking at Arianna, “The facts are: we’re ghosts.”
    “It’s not true. I feel … I’m supposed to fall; but the parachute-”
    “Didn’t open.”
    “I must get back to him,” announced Polly/Arianna, floating as quickly as possible to a standing position. “He’ll be waiting and oh, God, he’ll be angry. Where’s my balloon? What wild wind! Where did it take my balloon? I must get back to him!”
    “Him, him,” hummed the wind.
    “You mean you want to haunt him?” asked the woman. “Because if that’s what you mean it can be easily arranged.”
    “Yes, that’s exactly what I want! I want to haunt him. Haunt him. I want him and I want him to want and to love me!”
    Hurly burly, burly burly! chanted the wind. Haunt, haunt, haunt!
    “Personally,” said the woman, “if you want my opinion, and even if you don’t, I think that haunting is a waste of time. Mooning around rather, when there’s so much to be done out here. And now that there are two of us there’s twice as much. All this sorting and sifting and settling of accounts. Mountains of memory after you’re dead!”
    “I’m not dead.”
    “Yes, you are, and so am I. Only I’ve been dead a little longer.”
    Suddenly it began to snow-fiercely. The little black village disappeared from sight. Every feature of the landscape was shut out by white. Arctic weather.
    “This is my home, where whirlwinds blow, where snowdrifts round my path are swelling. ’Tis many a year, ’tis long ago, since I beheld another dwelling,” chanted the woman.
    “What’s all that?” asked Arianna in confusion.
    “Oh … just something I wrote.”
    “Well, it seems quite strange to me.”
    “Yes, I was quite morbid, really. It’s amazing how much I’ve cheered up since I’ve been dead.”
    The wind roared through the two women.
    “Do you always get blizzards like this in September?” asked Polly/Arianna.
    “Sometimes. But it’s not September any more. It’s probably, let me see, February. When you are dead, time has no meaning and weather is more capricious.”
    “Oh, dear,” said Arianna, but to her surprise rather light-heartedly, “I guess I really am dead. He was handsome and now I’m dead. What’s your name?”
    “Emily Jane Brontë. I wrote a book, but I’m not sure that matters. Brontë means thunder in Greek.”
    “No, it’s not,” said Arianna, astonished at her own sudden knowledge. “It’s not Brontë, it’s Brunty. Your father changed his name. Was he a lot like thunder?”
    “No … yes. Now he is like memory.”
    “So, if we decide not to haunt, what exactly do we do out here?” Arianna surveyed the wastes all around her.
    “We remember,” said Emily. “And now that there are two of us we’ll watch each other’s memories and tell each other stories.”
    “True stories?”
    “Oh … truth …” said Emily, vaguely. “Whatever you want, I don’t mind much, really, one way or the other. It depends on what you remember … whether you remember the ideas or the objects.”
    “I remember him,” said Arianna. “I remember hope.”
    “Yes, memories of hope are good. A beautifully unrequited state and very memorable. You hoped …”
    “I hoped all the time for a house.”
    “Oh,