Solipsism
Ten: Remnant
I stop. "Ah, don't tell me, the last of the spirits… the Ghost of Christmas Yet To Come?"
River is waiting in the corridor ahead of me, leaning against a wall. At first she just stares at me, but then she nods once silently in my direction.
Even though the hallway is well-lit, there's a strange sort of eerie darkness about her. It would appear an escalation of sorts is in progress.
"Well, if you're expecting me to bend down on one knee in supplication, you'll be waiting a long, long time. You might as well get it over with… what is it you want to tell me? Do you have a secret to whisper in my ear?"
She says nothing in response, nor does she move. Doesn't matter to me… if there's one thing I can do, it is jabber.
"Cat got your tongue, River? Or maybe you're just keeping in character because if I recall correctly – and you know I usually do! – the Ghost of the Future does not speak. It just stands there ominously pointing… pointing somewhere, but where? I can't quite remember…" I laugh, but admittedly the laugh sounds a touch frenzied.
"Ah, still nothing? I have a feeling this is going to be a short conversation, Spirit. I'm a busy man with things to do, and places to go, so let me try to move this business along. You're here to warn me about earthquakes and horsemen and trumpets and the sun disappearing and the moon turning blood red and the End of Days unless I get myself off this ship, no?"
I pause and there's no response other than the icy stare.
"Hmm, I think I liked you better when I couldn't shut you up, River. You're creeping me out a bit, I admit, but really this whole discussion is mainly just a bore. I don't mean to be rude… well, actually, I suppose I do, but I'm leaving now. Bye!"
As I resume walking toward River's specter she steps away from the wall and stands in front of me, as if to block my way.
She meets my eyes steadily and then uses her finger to point to the floor in front of me.
I suppress an urge to shudder and look down.
I see a small blue smudge against the stark whiteness of the deck. As I crouch down closer to the fragment I realize what it is. It is a blue feather – a little piece of down, actually. I want to recoil from it but instead I reach out and briefly, ever so briefly, touch it lightly, gently with the tip of my gloved index finger. I know it well, it is a remnant.
My exhaled breath shifts the vestige, a reminder of Varna Aden Timmochan, softly across the smooth flooring. In its place splats a tiny drop of water – a tear.
I straighten up, feel my jaw crack as I set it, and move on.