Trigger Warnings: It's a fairly PG/Teen rated ghost tour. However, there are mentions of murder, abuse, and suicide.

Chapter 21

The Mer-chandise

o—o—o

22 February 1985

Weaving through the Agorin was easier with Nakiasha Perran guiding us through the shortcuts and around the crowds. It had been three days since the Celebration festivities, where there had once been a boisterous cacophony of song there was only thinning crowds and lighthearted melodies. Most of the tourists had gone home, those that stayed were not waking so early on their holiday.

As we swam deeper into the older parts of the city, the bright colors of the new construction faded away. The buildings lost their window like openings. They became less like webs of interconnecting delicate domes. They were still impressive in their own way, but their architecture was of a more heavy and solid harmony of balance.

It was a surprise to me when we finally floated through the last large decorative gateway and came upon the marvel of our destination. Instead of the expected bland beige and dome shape of the older areas in Erdra, both here and the private homes we had seen before, the Luster Shop was heavily embellished and shaped much like St Mark's Basilica.

In amongst these older buildings of heavy blocks or smooth domes, it stood several stories high and was many times larger than any structure outside of the resort that we had seen. The entire structure glistened with an otherworldly radiance. Its walls and domes were crafted from a silvery coral and gleaming mother-of-pearl, each surface rippling with soft, ethereal light. The grand domes on its basilica like structure were encrusted with iridescent shells, their hues shifting from a pearlescent white to the softest shades of lavender and azure as the currents ebbed and flowed.

Where the great building met the sea floor, luminous tendrils of magically imbued seaweed adorned the edges with tiny, glowing orbs drifting lazily about them, casting a gentle, ever changing light over the outer wall's intricate mosaics. The mosaics, a riot of colors—deep greens, rosy reds, brilliant golds—all inlaid amongst a glimmering moonlight wall, seemed almost alive as they swirled and shifted with the waters.

Once inside, we were greeted with vaulted ceilings supported by towering pillars of crystal clear quartz, each one alive with the soft glow of trapped starlight. Along the many concave lunette were silver and pearl mosaics that depicted tales of the ancient Mer, their faces serene, their eyes gleaming with wisdom from ages past. The small movements between their portraits were reminders of their magical nature. The floors were a swirling dance of silver and deep blues, inlaid with shimmering patterns that seemed to shift and move with the water, creating the illusion of waves lapping at our feet. What need have the Mer for solid floors?

It was a place where time seemed to stand still, where the whispers of the ocean echoed through the silvery halls, and where the mysteries of the deep would forever be enshrined in glimmering, liquid light. A place where the very walls seemed to sing of history, art, and an enduring love for beauty and knowledge. The sheer grandeur, the overwhelming opulence of it was at once majestic and intimate. I was more in awe of this place than I had been of any other for the whole of our holiday and it took me many moments to simply drink in the whole of it.

"Loo Ingrid Webber and Christian Fischer. Welcome to Mnementh Ralothyra, the oldest and grandest Luster Shop in all the world."

"Loo Faelyn Yelgeiros, this place is an astounding wonder. Absolutely incredible."

Faelyn Yelgeiros bowed slightly, touching his hand to his silvery master's braid, "It is an honor to work within this place of knowledge."

"I'll be on my way then. I know that Dain will be over with his friend, Travaran Liakana, by the end of your tour."

"Thank you Nakiasha Perran," I said as they floated back towards the entrance. "Well, we are both looking forward to learning more about lusters."

"And we are looking forward to teaching you," called Amrynn Qijeon as she swam up behind her partner. "And Ruvyn will be here later, perhaps the kids could play for a while after your tour?"

"That sounds like a wonderful idea."

o—o—o

It was a few hours later, over a plate of good food, that Amrynn Qijeon, Faelyn Yelgeiros, and I discussed the potential of using lusters in the upper world.

"Perhaps, the wands could work as an appropriate equivalent. You can't just say they will work Faelyn, not when we don't have as good an understanding of the capabilities. They could contaminate the knowledge with the natural magics of the wand itself."

"If they are already pulling memories, it would not be —"

"Yes, it would be. It took our people how long to find a way to neutralize the inherent magics so that they wouldn't cause contamination? The whole reason that we check the beads and vessels so often is to ensure that no other magics cause problems that are sure to happen."

"The Pensieve capabilities that they have are different, I grant you, but they are similar enough to find a way to pool our understandings. I'm not saying that it would be automatic, but just on what we already know and the new knowledge our friend brings of these potions, it should be possible in years and not decades. The upper worlders could be slaking their hunger well within the next five years or so."

"What exactly happens if the knowledge is contaminated," I asked as I took another bite from my Encaryn bun, its painted greens and blues reminding me of Joan Mitchell's No Rain. "Does it cause problems for the being or just faster degradation?"

"Best case scenario is complete loss of any attempted knowledge. After eating, you might have it for long enough to know it was there. But then it would just be gone, not a string left."

"That's interesting because that is what happens with this potion if any active magic were to be used by the drinker. Anyone with the magical limitations of a child Christian's age, or a squib like myself, would have no problem. If someone with active magic were to cast even a single low level spell, they apparently lose the whole language. Or languages, if they doubled up."

For a moment the table just digested that new understanding. While the adults ate a leisurely luncheon and debated the finer points of Luster magics, the kids had quickly eaten before going out to play at a park like area next to Mnementh Ralothyra. It certainly said a lot about how far I had come, how much more comfortable I felt, that I could let Harry go off with Ruvyn Rophyra. That I was again enjoying lively adult conversation was a marvel to me, the bittersweet sadness didn't feel as deep or painful with these new friends. It said a lot about Harry too. We had both made such progress during this holiday.

"I have some contacts in the Goblin Nation, they're very interested in developing new and emerging businesses with unique ideas. I wonder if there would be a way to get the Euro-Glyph School, or it's parent company, to agree to some sort of working arrangement with Mnementh Ralothyra. If we could find a way for other beings to learn at the same rate as the Mer it would be an incredible accomplishment."

"In principle, I have no problems with that," said Amrynn Qijeon with her partner nodding his agreement. "But for something like this to truly work, after we find a way to develop the Luster for them, there still must be some applied learning happening. The knowledge must become integrated for it to actualize within the mind. Would the upper world really be willing to invest in this?"

"Honestly, I think the bigger problem will be the magical interference. More people would be learning more languages at Euro-Glyph than there are if they didn't have to worry about their magic use. There are already small primary schools, for very young kids, available to British magicals. Though, some do educate at home before heading off to school at the likes of Hogwarts. Those schools would just have to shift their focus, allow the youngest of our population to engage with knowledge they didn't even know they were craving. It would be anyone over that age who would be wielding wands, that's where the trouble would start."

"HmmMm… Perhaps we should approach this from the perspective of the Pensieve rather than the Luster," Faelyn Yelgeiros suggested. "Let us leave aside, for the moment, the wand part and focus on the vessel."

"Well, from what I've seen today the physical part of the vessels appear similar. Pensieve vessels are carved with runes, made from stone or metal, and may be decorated with gems that could enhance its power."

"I've encountered goblins with knowledge of the vessel— there was once even a clan known for crafting them. The historical origin for upper worlders is unclear. However, the oldest vessel known to them is still millennia younger than our known oldest. Does that all sound correct to you so far Ingrid Weber?"

"I'm not sure how old the oldest Pensieve vessel is, though I do know one found on the grounds of Hogwarts predates the castle. Roughly a thousand years ago. But your description of the vessel is accurate to my knowledge."

"It's my understanding that the tradition was for the head of a family to inherit the family's sole vessel. However, over time, it became considered unseemly to share between them the same vessel for viewing memories. This led to a boom in creating new ones," Faelyn Yelgeiros said as he reached for another crystal, "which is when the goblins I mentioned started to craft them. After several generations, however, the use declined due to the association between the vessel and the wand. According to my friend in the Nation, they were considered so intensely personal that they were often buried with the witch or wizard."

"That must have been quite awhile ago, I can't remember anyone ever being buried with a Pensieve. People are still often buried with their wands — though it isn't as popular now as it had been before the wars. Some traditions just didn't seem as important or practical anymore, not in the face of such repeated devastation."

"A century or more of declined use wouldn't be out of the ordinary after such a production boom, I would think," pointed out Amrynn Qijeon. "An over saturation period is often followed by sharp decline. If they were disposing of them by burying the vessel with their relations, then there would not be one left to inherit and the decline in interest would simultaneously cause them to not have new ones crafted. Causing a natural decrease in the available vessels for later generations."

"And a decrease in the knowledge as well," Faelyn Yelgeiros added. "They stop working on making these vessels and eventually the knowledge of how they are made becomes lost. Then the knowledge of their function. The whole story of it gone in a few generations of disuse and disinterest. That is why Saleh Lialamin is always so worked up over the clothing becoming a fast fashion made by others, instead of in the time honored ways."

"What exactly is the function of the vessel?"

"I have never used one myself," I said as apologetically as possible while looking dejected. As though it were a big opportunity that I had somehow missed. "I have seen one used and I do know the basics involved. As far as I understand, there is none of the capabilities you showed us with the Luster vessel. There's no editing of knowledge or splicing of memories within the vessel. It's only function is the replaying of memories and storage of thoughts. Though, I believe only very powerful magicals can store thoughts."

"Is it correct that one simply stands in a display of the memory as it plays out?"

"Yes, the memory happens with every little detail that was observed by the person the memory came from. I know of one case where a magical language was spoken in front of a wizard who did not have that ability. When someone who could speak later watched the memory, they understood what was said in the magical language."

"Magical language? Are not all languages in some form magical?"

"I suppose so? If we want to get very technical. But in this case, I'm referring to those who can speak animal. There are some whose magic is channeled into this special ability. It is considered quite rare."

"I did not even know such a gift existed," the partners looked at each other in confusion.

"It's very rare," I reiterated — and, I thought, just a little too identifying. "It usually shows up as an inherited trait through families. My point was that even though the person who originally observed it had no way of understanding the magical language, the Pensieve vessel was accurate enough to allow it to be understood by an outside observer. All without the transfer of understanding that I believe happens with your Lusters."

"That is an interesting notion, but I believe it is simply the same as the other observations in the memory. The being may not remember consciously every pebble they passed, but someone going back through could count them and with enough knowledge be able to identify each type of stone."

"When pulling the knowledge from a mer, we are taking every detail stored in the subconscious. The mind is an incredible thing, but it sounds like the Pensieve vessel is just recreating memory faithfully without the background knowledge. That was one of the earliest stages of Luster development. When we realized we would be able to gain the knowledge of a dozen revs in just one rev of study by moving on from having to depend on a vessel for viewing, we began drinking new developments quickly."

"Do you think — I mean to say, is it possible to potentially take a person's memories and then edit them together to look completely different? There are these things called films, I'm really not sure that the Mer have anything like it. They are recordings of acted out stories, mostly. The non magical world makes thousands and thousands of them by recording a story with an audiovisual recording device called a camera. They act out parts of the story in front of the camera then they take those recordings and edit them together so that it tells the full story. Often they record parts out of order, maybe they record the middle before the beginning, but the editing puts it into the right order for the full story. Is there anything like that for the Mer?"

"There was once a worry that Lusters would be edited to remove or change knowledge. That is why the Chief decreed that all unedited memories would be viewable to all. Every master can view those originals, it is in this way that the Mer ensure nothing is inadvertently or purposefully removed from our knowledge."

"I believe she is speaking more of a play," Amrynn Qijeon suggested. "We do have Lusters that encompass our visual and performance arts. They are most often spliced together by type and history. It is not small pieces of a play put together, but rather a single watching of each."

"There are those in Britain that have attempted to do something close to this, but there was nothing there to store it for very long and the ideas for displaying it were not the best. I wonder if we could use the Luster vessel capabilities to create a film equivalent that would look realistic, as though it were unedited."

"I am unsure—" started Faelyn Yelgeiros when our dissection of the different possibilities in memory magics was interrupted by a welcome guest.

"Loo Amrynn Qijeon and Faelyn Yelgeiros! Loo Ingrid Webber!" called the familiar song of Dain Gilxalim as the mer himself swam into the room.

"Loo Dain Gilxalim," we called in return. Beside the often boisterous politician, was a slightly younger mer with a braid of thin cords that wrapped from their shoulder to their hip.

"This is the friend I was speaking of last night. She is called Travaran Liakana."

"Loo Travaran Liakana," I greeted the new mer. "I've been looking forward to hearing all about the Ring System and how it might be possible to combine it with a system of our own to make something better."

"Loo Ingrid Webber, it is good to meet an upper worlder who has such an interest in our capabilities."

"I think that Ingrid Webber must have a great interest in combining knowledge as that is also what our discussion has been."

"I suppose that's true. Though, my whole life has been about combining the knowledge of various places, both magical and not. And, as I was saying last night, we shouldn't wait for some calamity to innovate," I said with a shake of my head.

"There are many who would agree with you Ingrid Webber. As my dear Nakiasha Perran is fond of saying, 'If all you do is keep up the knowledge that you have instead of taking it and creating more, then the whole of civilization falls.'"

"I suppose that depends on where you draw the lines on each civilization. My grandson and I are in a very unique social position. My family has active magic and can use wands, but I am a squib and cannot use that level of magic. With Christian being so young, he doesn't have control of his magic at all. That leaves us rather adrift in the upper world— at least in Britain. We even had to find a specialist for a travel case that would work without wand level input, little thought is given to those who could not manage such magics. Without innovation, or just drawing in new ideas from other areas, our lives would be much more difficult."

"That is fascinating, I do not have as much interaction with various nations as Dain Gilxalim and was not aware it was something that was an impossibility. Rather, I understood it to be more a matter of skill level. Just as not all can be masters of Luster or nugen," she said motioning to the others in the room. "Though, I was aware that mer and humans have different magics. That humans do not create their own magic, but process the wild magics and emit ambient magic."

"That's what my lai-nah, Chalsarda Grejyre, does at one of the larger pearl farms—they handle the stringing," said Dain Gilxalim. "We create tidal cascades at the farms to release wild magic into the waters, which encourages the growth of pearls. The pearls we use in our magic are formed closest to these cascades."

"Amazing," I murmured. "My friends in the Goblin Nation taught me that their wild magic is infused into coins, circulating ambient magic throughout the world or accumulating in vaults for house elves to access. They call it singing a star into existence."

"hmmM uh, the minting process of the Goblin Nation is complex. Their metals are entirely made by magic, allowing them to emit ambient magic. Only three races can craft items that create ambient magic. It is our tidal cascades are what we create, it isn't as physical as what the Goblins craft. The cascades simply influence what's nearest to them the most, the already growing pearls, before moving on to the rest of the world. That's why our ancestors started stringing pearls close to them."

"The 'stringing' isn't some form of magic then?"

"No, no it's a fairly nonmagical process. Stringing is done when the bivalves are at least two revs old. My lai-nah takes a long, thin byssus string and attaches small seeds made from the ground shells from past seasons. The string is threaded through each bivalve—oysters, clams, and so on—initiating the pearl formation. Once the cascade is released, the wild magic helps to form the pearls, with the remaining magic dispersing into the waters."

"And into the rest of the world," added Faelyn Yelgeiros. "It may diminish in the waters as it soaks into the earth, but that is only because the earth is taking it and reforming it into new wild magics."

"Quite so," said Travaran Liakana in a clipped cadence. "The whole of the world needs more wild magic now with such a greater number calling on them and creating ambient magic from them, we are rapidly weakening on a world wide level. The springs that once overflowed of wild magics have been dry for generations. There are so many flora, fauna, and beings that require it. Not all beings can sustain themselves on ambient magics, or a combination thereof."

"That's certainly true. The cycle of water feeds wild magic to the whole of the world. The Goblin Nation sends magic into the earth, yes, but it is the circulation of their currency that truly moves magic. And that currency only moves ambient magic. The Mer send wild magic out to the whole world, no matter where their tides are created," Dain Gilxalim stated proudly.

"A perfect system of harmony," sang Amrynn Qijeon.

"Indeed. Nothing is lost in the cycle of our wild magic, much like the cycle of the pearls and bivalves. When the pearls are fully grown, they're separated from the meat, which is taken to the city markets. The pearls are then cataloged, graded, and become decoration or runic beads. The shells can be ground to make more pearls, fertilize crops, or sold whole for decoration—often on walls in homes or offices," Travaran Liakana explained. "The upper worlders' obsession with time has even spurred a thriving clock industry, where larger shells are used as backings, with runes carved into their surfaces. Everything is used and acknowledged, nothing wasted."

"I'll have to get one of those clocks. It would be quite the souvenir of our time here. I wonder how well it will work in the upper world; I suppose that they must have some sort of runic array that would allow it."

"I am certain that you will find a clock with the appropriate runes to meet your needs. The Mer have a deeper understanding of using written language to create magical objects," said Travaran Liakana. "For instance, the resort that you are staying in has numerous interlaced runic sequences to maintain the different environments and facilitate travel from upper worlder ships. However, it is our Ring System that is the best example of modern runic works."

"About the Ring System, I would be very interested to know how that works and whether or not it could be applied to a travel system that we already have in place."

o—o—o

It was as we were finishing up the tutorial of the glimmers that a rustling sound came from around the entry to the office.

Dain Gilxalim and I both turned our attention away from the golden shells and towards the two kids morosely floating into the room. Two very colorful kids.

"Oh, Ruvyn you weren't supposed to leave the —"

"I didn't maah, it was Siveril Crasandoral. He and the olders were playing Spah Loo. They chased us away from the play set."

"My daih-nah," murmured Faelyn Yelgeiros comfortingly. "We will speak with his Elders, it is too much for him to do such things."

"He is clearly very hungry," came a soft growl from Amrynn Qijeon.

"What is this exactly?" I asked as I gently tried to rub a bit of purple from Harry's shoulder.

"Spah Loo is a game favored by kids older than Ruvyn," said Dain Gilxalim. "It involves a bead of color marking the other player. I am honestly unsure how to remove it from human skin, a mer just needs a good scrub. The abrasive nature of it removes the coloring, but that might harm a human's skin."

"I must apologize for this happening to your grandson, Ingrid Weber."

"I'm not too worried about it Faelyn Yelgeiros. You aren't hurt, are you Christian?" I softly asked the child in my arms. "It's just paint and it will come off eventually. We'll ask back at the resort. We need to get going soon anyway, our ghost tour is tonight."

"Please, allow us to escort you back to the resort. We will need to get Ruvyn home for a scrub as well."

"That's very kind of you thank you."

Swimming back to the resort in the late afternoon with the family of mer was just as easy as it had been when we were escorted to Mnementh Ralothyra in the morning by Nakiasha Perran. There was a harmony to the songs as we swam past what little crowds were left in the Agorin. Over the course of our time in this underwater metropolis, I had gone from a shrinking violet to the hungry thorned rose that I felt I used to be.

o—o—o

Luckily, the resort had seen many colorful kids since Spah Loo became a popular game. There was a potion readily available to wash away the thick goopy paint from Harry with very little fuss. He seemed to find it a fun adventure now that he understood he would not be punished. Even Ruvyn Rophyra had returned to the Luster Shop assuming that he would be punished, but Harry would have envisioned something much more fierce and dreadful. Instead, as we worked a glob of neon green out of his hair he chattered at me about how fun it must be to play Spah Loo. His enthusiasm continued over our light dinner. I listened as he nattered on about his ideas, encouraging his creativity and this child-like exuberance, while reminding him to eat.

The sun was still flickering its last dying light over the water and stone of Venice as we approached the meeting point for our ghostly tour. There is no more perfect a time and place to chase macabre memories than in Venice after sunset. The torch light flickering along the ancient waterways, melting candles in cluttered windows like foreboding eyes in the stern rough stones of its buildings. The scenery itself casts a spell of ghoulish proportion. One that is only enhanced by the very real ghosts flickering in and out of the shadowy darkness.

We met at the columns in St Mark's, where once upon a time the Venetians would behead their criminals. Just days ago the square had hosted innumerable people in bright, fashionable fancy dress as they celebrated Carnevale di Venezia. During a time of so many tourists, the ghosts that usually stayed near the square had hidden themselves away. A ghost walking through a living is not pleasant for either being. Looking around the square it was clear why it was necessary; there were just far too many ghosts for such a small area.

Our group's guide, Giandrea, was a native Venetian and she waited for us under the Lion column. As she waved her kerchief to call over the next tour group the loose curls from her two horned styled hair bounced around her like glimmers of moonlight in the ever darkening night. When Harry and I drew closer, I realized that much like my supposedly simple Carnivale dress had been much more complicated than it should be, so too was her dress. Layers of some thick fabric, creating double skirts, were iridescent as she moved and motioned to more tourists. The pearls strung along her boned bodice and through her hair, weaving a pattern against her ghostly form, stood out for their opaqueness. Though its lines were simple, she was adorned in such opulence that its magnificence had followed her beyond the grave.

Once we were all gathered she eagerly ushered us away from the crowds towards the Ponte della Paglia and ducked down a crumbling corridor that led to footbridges draping silent, shadowed canals. She talked all the way, pointing out various architectural places of note, or of interesting historical moments that happened where we were passing.

"As we walk the length of this bridge, there is a clear view of Ponte dei sospiri. The English name for it, The Bridge of Sighs, was popularized by Lord Byron. It was from this enclosed bridge that prisoners moving from the Doge's Palace to the prison saw their last view of Venice before their imprisonment."

"Pay no attention to the tower– it was a tenth century addition," our guide scoffed as she led us onward.

She continued on in this light manner until we reached our first true destination. A collection of salt worn buildings, old and tired, stood enshrouded by darkness. Giandrea's ghostly light flickering across the building and the waters beside it.

"This is the Church of Sant'Anna. It was here that the famed romance of a carpenter named Sabra and his darling love Kierita took place. They were determined to marry against her father's wishes. When he found out, he drove her forcefully into the convent of Sant'Anna in Castello. He said to her, 'If you must marry a carpenter, it will be Jesus Christ.'"

There was a little laughter at the quip and I wondered if her father actually said that or if the tour was a little exaggerated in its tellings. Most ghost tours are exaggerated for the effect, perhaps ghost stories told by ghosts are even more so.

"The whole time that she was in the convent she was thinking of how to escape and be with her beloved. Eventually the nuns were able to convince the father to take her home again, but it was arranged for the same night that Kierita was set to escape," Giandrea pointed towards a side of the building. "She was climbing over the wall and into the boat of Sabra as her father came to retrieve her. When he came upon this scene there was a terrible fight and both were grievously injured. As Kierita lay dying her own father cursed her, 'You will haunt this convent until what remains of you is only dust.'"

Giandrea mournfully bowed her head, her hands folded in front of her, and looked as though she would scold the stones on Kierta's behalf.

"He left them there to die of their wounds. It wasn't until the day after that the nuns found them. They could do nothing for her except bury her in the garden of the convent. The boy survived and attempted to return to his work, but he was forever changed. He later took his vows and went to finish his life in the Franciscan Monastery of San Francisco, which is still a monastery now," she gestured vaguely towards the north, "just a little island before reaching Burano on the north lagoon."

As she spoke, another ghost came up beside her. She wore a long simple gown that showed the camicia through its finestrelle. The contrast of the whiter colored undergarment showing through graceful cuts in the sleeves of the darker dress was eye catching, but not nearly as lavish as Giandrea's gown.

"The curse came to pass," continued Giandrea, "and the young Kierita has haunted the convent ever since. She is known to help young lovers as much as possible and has one favorite story that she likes to retell."

The young woman in the simple gown glided forward and was given the rapt attention of a dozen or so tourists.

"This is a story of love that happened very many years ago," started Kierta with a sad smile. "It was between a poor girl who was in love with the son of an aristocrat. She wanted not only an advantageous marriage, but also one that would also be filled with of love. In this case, it was the father of the hopeful groom that forbade the two from seeing each other. When she heard this, she became determined to take her own life and came to Sant'Anna in Castello. As she took a bottle of poison to her lips, she said a life without her lover was unkind."

Kierta looked wistfully back towards the old church and smiled.

"It was as she spoke this that she felt an ethereal figure striking through her arm, making her drop the bottle. All the poison spilled over the ground, and she fainted in a shock. It is not the done thing for a ghost to pass through a living," she said with a hint of contrition laced with fierce determination, "but to save this girl and ensure she found the love that I went without required such a measure."

A look passed between the two ghostly women, an acknowledgment of some kind. One that said they understood the obligation to go so far outside the acceptable in order to help another woman in need.

"With the help of a local poltergeist I was able to put a purse at her feet while she was still insensible and then I disappeared. When she recovered from her fright, she found the purse and loosened its strings, finding within hundreds of gold coins. With these coins, she was able to marry the one she loved. Together they used the gold to open a very prosperous shop and live out their lives in love."

Kietra curtsied to her audience and slowly faded back through the stone of Sant'Anna, the sound of our polite applause following her. The entwined love stories leaving a bittersweet cloud over our group as we followed Giandrea towards the next stop in the tour.

We traveled back over Riva ca' di Dio bridge and headed north. Giandrea flitted this way and that, sometimes several feet above the ground, to point out various things of interest or to introduce us to other ghosts. Down the long alley that was Campiello de la Pescaria, where the buildings were so tightly drawn together that one could forget that the waters of Venice were so nearby.

The Basilica di San Giovanni e Paolo, an eerie crimson edifice towering over the sky-blackened lagoon waves, was lit by flickering torchlight. Arches of brick, like thick fingers cut through the night's sky above our heads. Dozens of ghosts moved amongst the ancient buildings, only adding to the haunting feeling.

"This is the site where Marino Faliero, the 55th Doge of Venice, is buried in an unmarked stone sarcophagus," said Giandrea. "It was in 1355, that Faliero, acting as Doge, secretly tried to betray Venice to its rival enemies. He very nearly cost our floating city its independence. He was promptly beheaded in Saint Mark's Square. As punishment, the traitorous doge was buried with his head between his legs."

A dozen or so ghosts wandered down behind Giandrea, their heads firmly clasped in their hands instead of resting on their necks. They wore clothing that spanned centuries; lace ruffs, robes, and belted tunics could be spotted across the gathering luminous group.

"If you come near his tomb late at night, you will see Faliero's headless body wandering," Giandrea observed. "His disembodied voice begs for strangers to tell him where to find his skull, which is the only thing that can bring him rest."

She took a reverent pause as we contemplated this, but then one of the headless ghosts behind her blurted, "But for God's sake, if you see him, don't tell him where the head is! He disgraced our city for centuries! He doesn't deserve your help! Let him wander! Let him wander!"

Giandrea gave an affectionate smile to the ghosts as they all began to chant together. Even amongst these ghosts, it appeared that what Faliero did was beyond the pale.

"You may have already walked through this way," Giandrea said as she slowly spun around to float backwards and face the group. "It normally connects Castello to San Marco right at the Rialto Bridge and is always crowded. You might have walked by without noticing this building. There are so many others nearby with elegant architecture. Santa Maria Formosa with its Renaissance and Baroque styled exterior walls. Towers to distract and inspire awe in those visiting our city."

She has lead us towards a little café in a large blocky building. It was late and dark, but people were sitting at the tables under the awnings. Since the muggles could not see our ghostly guide, we must have looked rather odd. All huddled together and staring at a blank space.

"This was the Casa Venier, where the Venier family held their salon. The home was famous because there was a casino on the first floor. There were many casinos in Venice, especially before the fall of the Republic in 1797. At one point, there were 115 casinos in the San Marco area — it was like the Las Vegas of its time."

Giandrea circled around us so that we would look more at the building, instead of her ghostly self. I took note that the upper floors had large windows and balconies. But compared to the Renaissance styled church nearby it did not seem quite as enchanting or interesting.

"These were small, intimate places where friends of the arts gathered. They were used for gambling, but more often for the courtesans of the town. The upper-level courtesans were highly educated and lived more like aristocrats. When they arrived at the Casa Venier many visitors came in masks to hide their identities, which you can still see during Carnival."

Having completed her circle around our group, Giandrea had picked up a new ghostly friend. This woman was dressed as elegantly and lavishly as Giandrea. Her hair was pulled up and away from her face, pearls and ribbons wove through it. Her dress and boned bodice were ornately adorned. Even the way she carried herself seemed to denote extravagance.

"The masks we use for Carnival today are colorful, but the original ones were simpler. Often called a moretta or a muta mask, theirs was a brown oval-shaped mask that they held in their mouths with their teeth with a button, which did not allow them to speak," said this new ghost. "It was a good way to remain unrecognized, of course, and mysterious. They might take the mask off once they were in a small private room."

"Allow me to introduce to you Veronica Franco, one of the legendary intellects of Venetian history."

Veronica gave a small bow and gestured towards the unassuming building.

"These ladies were honest and educated women, so why did they go to such places? The rules were more relaxed for the cortigiana onesta than the wives of nobles. It was in such places that we could relax and interact with others. The women of the street lights, the cortigiana di lume or meretrice, were not permitted entry at all. It is not so different from today, but you must remember that the time we are talking about is when marriages were arranged."

She turned and spoke with a fierceness to us that belied many centuries of frustration towards an unjust social system.

"We're not talking about the romanticism of the 1800s. Women were very much confined to three roles. They had the choice to marry, to become a courtesan, or to become a nun. Marriages were arranged to maintain political rights, and to be part of political life, you had to already be noble or very wealthy."

I could see how it was easy to believe things had not changed for women. Always there were those that could push boundaries. Always there would be extreme situations where social rules fell to the wayside and freed those that were previously oppressed. Usually, those situations were dangerous. Often, those situations were about war. What now were the roles of women? Even in literature — even in film — we were the mother, the virgin, or the whore.

"Wives were cloistered creatures without education or financial independence, their life devoted entirely to home and family. Courtesans, on the other hand, could mingle freely with the rich and famous, acquire education and wealth of our own, participate in literary, political and intellectual circles, and even publish our own work."

Always those on the fringes, pushing the boundaries as they walked between worlds. Invisible, but not invisible. It must have been an incredibly fine line to walk. I know it has been for me.

"When I was very young, I was able to marry a physician after my parents gathered the necessary dowry. I fought with him for every coin, rarely winning a contest. The life of a wife was not for me. My mother had once been a courtesan and it was not a life I knew nothing about. As a courtesan, I was able to gather powerful patrons, including Domenico Vernier. He not only ran the casino in his Casa, but also a renowned literary salon. He served as a literary adviser to many of the women poets of the Veneto region. Including myself."

Incredible. I had never heard of her, but my knowledge of poetry was limited. To think that she could rise so high was a tribute to her literary talents.

"Between 1570 and 1580, I edited works of various authors and published books of my own poetry as well as epistolary works. I was greatly concerned with the plight of younger women who lacked dowries. I often wrote to my powerful friends on their behalf and when I made my wills I left them a portion of my wealth."

That she would think to raise other women, impoverished women, up and help them to be a wife when she did not want that path is inspiring. Her story is no doubt printed and out there. Her doings and goings on no doubt recorded, by her or her powerful friends. The women that she helped, though, they are unlikely to have the same claim. These so called "well behaved women" would be too busy living their lives to think about recording what they do and likely too modest about their own achievements to think anybody else will care. Their stories are lost to history.

"My success inspired extreme jealousy from male courtiers and poets whose position and patronage I was greatly threatening. A particularly venomous rival of mine was Maffio Venier, the nephew of my patron Domenico Venier. I was repeatedly attacked by name in satirical and often obscene verse by Maffio. My poems and letters effectively strike back at Maffio and defend the role of courtesans in Venetian society.

"It was in A Challenge To A Poet Who Has Defamed Her that I said,

When we too are armed and trained, we can convince men that we have hands, feet, and a heart like yours; and although we may be delicate and soft, some men who are delicate are also strong; and others, coarse and harsh, are cowards. Women have not yet realized this, for if they should decide to do so, they would be able to fight you until death; and to prove that I speak the truth, amongst so many women, I will be the first to act, setting an example for them to follow.

"Here in this Casa of my favored patron, I was a frequent visitor. When Domenico Vernier died, so too did much of my influence. I was never again invited to play or write within its walls. I died, burning of fever, alone in a small apartment in a forgotten corner of Venice."

It was a saddened troupe that made their way to the Rialto Bridge. The way that Veronica Franco spoke was so passionate and moving. She stirred within me, and several of our fellow tourists, a need to do something. What that something was I did not know, but I hoped it would come to me.

Giandrea paused at the edge of the Rialto Bridge and gestured towards another ghost. Gliding over he appeared to be keeping his head balance on one shoulder, when he was in front of our group he popped up his head and it settled on his other shoulder. He repeated this funny juggling act until he was before our group.

"This is where I leave you with your next guide. I cannot pass over to San Palo, but he will take very good care of you as you head towards your last stop before returning to the columns by San Marco."

"A very good evening to all of you," our new guide boomed. "As you cross the bridge you will see that we ghosts, who can cross, simply float over the waters at the height of the bridge. Come, come, let us cross."

Much like Giandrea, our new guide gave us little tidbits about the goings on around our path. Unlike Giandrea, our new guide tended to juggle his head while talking. It was like he used his head as his own personal fidget toy.

When he finally paused we found ourselves outside of Santa Maria Gloriosa dei Frari, a 13th-century church of sandy stone bricks.

"It was at this very square in the 14th century that a mansion caught ablaze," he said as he finally stopped popping his head back and forth. "The mansion's owner ran outside. He was screaming that his seven year old daughter was trapped in the blaze. As the story goes, a merchant assured the father that he would rescue his child."

As he spoke, more and more headless ghosts gathered around the group. They seemed to be waiting for something.

"However, after the merchant made his supposedly heroic entrance into the chaos, he abandoned all effort to look for the girl and began to fill his robe with silver and gold finery. As parts of the ceiling collapsed, the merchant jumped out a window into the canal. Where he was so over weighed by his stolen treasures that he sank and drowned."

Noises of disapproval came from the headless audience. A grumbling, gathering crowd is almost never a good sign. I pulled Harry in a little closer to me, holding his hand.

"If you are in this square at midnight the merchant will appear to you, walking in flames. He will ask you to take him inside the church and pray for his soul," his voice softened to a quiet whisper.

"But if you see him," a ghost to my right suddenly thundered, "don't pray for him!"

"He let that poor little child die in the fire," shouted a chorus of ghosts. "He doesn't deserve your help! Let him burn! Let him burn!"

Harry, and many of the other tourists, jumped at this sudden chorus. I realized that this must be planned out. So many ghosts in Venice, specific tours led by ghosts would have these chanters lined up to help with their narrative. A little drama that was all in good fun.

As the chorus of ghosts dispersed our guide led us onward and back towards Saint Mark's columns. There was some nervous laughter amongst us, but he encouraged lighthearted feelings with his ever more involved juggling act. At one point in our walk he involved other headless ghosts in the juggling.

We reached the Gondola Traghetto di San Tomà, a ferry emerged from the waters of the canal. On board we could see ghostly figures drifting in and out of sight. As we clamored aboard, our guide gestured for us to come close to the front. The water bus was of an older design, but not more than a hundred years old. I wondered how it was possible for such a solid boat to exist with the ghosts steering it.

"It was during an unprecedented aqua alta," our guide was saying, "that more than a hundred people drowned in the canals. A normal aqua alta, it is just a small flood. They start in October and then they die back down. But this was a Great Flood of the whole of Venice. Many died in the waters. This ferry helps those that are more confined to the waterways."

The ride was not long to get back across to San Marco district and when we were back on the narrow streets our guide led us off towards our final destination.

"In this part of San Marco, several murders were registered in these areas here. Imagine in the past, without public light—it was very dark to walk through these alleys. The one that I will tell you about, it was unlucky. A bread carrier early in the morning, carrying the bread down the bridge."

If our guide thought that it was bright in these alleys now, I can't imagine what the past must have been like. There were little lights coming from all directions, I must admit. Though it was more from places like windows and balconies, or shops on ground level that were still open to serve the younger set.

"He noticed just down the steps, in the darkness of the early morning, the floor was shiny with something silver. He found what turned out to be a silver dagger sheath and thought, 'Oh, that's nice,' put it in his pocket, and started walking. Then he noticed, down here in the darkness, a body—a dead body."

We turned down another alley and I realized that it was simply for dramatic effect. In this small street, it was cramped and dark. There was no glow from windows. No light from shops. The brightest light was that of our unnamed guide as he glided over stones, his head still on his shoulder as he spoke.

"The bread carrier, he went to check what had happened and he turned the woman over. Of course, this left blood on his hands when he did it, and turning her over, he noticed a knife in her heart. This is when the police arrived, they always have such good timing, and they asked, 'Okay, what happened?' He said to them, 'I just got here and found her like this.' But they saw the blood on him, and then they checked him, and yes, the sheath he picked up earlier belonged to that knife. A matched set. So he was immediately condemned to decapitation between the two pillars in the square."

We walked out of the darkness and into a brighter area, closer to Saint Mark's Square. The narrow alleys became wider paths. The windows were lit and bright. There were people lounging in chairs enjoying coffees and cigarettes under string lights.

"A week after his death," our guide continued as we crossed into the square, "they discovered the real story—it was actually a love affair between two nobles over a woman. And from this moment on, that was the year 1575, the judicial system was changed. If the judges made a mistake, they had to be judged afterward. Bet you wished it worked like that everywhere, yes? So they were very careful from this time on, and every time they gave a charge, they remembered this case of poor Pietro, the bread carrier."

As we rounded the square and came up to the columns, Giandrea could be seen beneath the lion. She smiled when she saw us and waved her kerchief.

"Thank you so much for taking part in this tour," Giandrea said to our other guide.

"No problem at all," he said as he floated away from our group, juggling his head with a smile.

When he was out of sight, Giandrea motioned to the columns. "These columns are incredibly famous. All the world over now knows of the columns in Venice, even if they do not know the history of it. You have no doubt seen that we have numerous ghosts that feel most comfortable here in the square and around the columns. It was between these columns that people were put to death for centuries. Many were beheaded, some were hanged. Much like your guide Pietro, who was convicted of a crime he did not even commit."

She shrugged a noncommittal gesture as she paced in front of the group.

"They are officially called the Columns of San Marco and San Teodoro. We meet here for this tour under the Column of San Marco as the Lion of Venice became a symbol of our city and a greater part of our history. But what is that history?

"The Lion of Venice has existed for more than a thousand years. It was so awfully neglected that in the 13th century it underwent such a greatly needed restoration that there is still existing documents about it. That documentation is the earliest evidence that it existed in Venice before the 13th century. But the many knowledgeable people that have come to Venice to study our Lion believe that it may have originated during the Tang Dynasty or even earlier in Assyria in 300 BC.

"To me, that history is a lost story. It says to me that time moves on. That people move on. The world, it moves on. It does not wait, it does not stop. It keeps going. On and on and on. Stories written on top of stories. In the space of a century the names of the dead are lost to the living. The importance of a three ton winged lion is lost and rewritten by the living. It is up to you to write the next story. Do not just live, be alive."

o—o—o