Ashes to Ashes — Part the First
Ashes To Ashes:
A Curious Ghost Story
By James Elias Cooper
Printed in London 1885
Prologue:
The story I am about to relate is a ghost story, though not of the kind you are accustomed to hearing. It is not of moaning spirits, nor of chains dragged through desolate halls until the clock strikes midnight, nor of any such trifles of imagination. This is a true ghost story—one I have long endeavoured to set down in writing, and which I confess may be my chance to unburden myself. Whether I deserve such a thing, I cannot say; you, dear reader, must be the judge.
I have carried this tale for what feels like an eternity, perhaps longer than I realise. It has settled into my bones and clings to me as smoke clings to cloth, settling into the very seams of my being. Many times have I attempted to banish it—to bury it beneath other memories, to drown it in idle thoughts, or to sit in silence and will it gone—but it returns, always, uninvited and unchanged, as though no time has passed at all.
I ask not for sympathy, nor do I expect forgiveness. I ask only that you listen. If the telling of this story lightens the burden I bear, even slightly, then I shall consider the effort worthwhile. And if it does not—if I remain as haunted as ever—then at least I shall have spoken it aloud, and that, too, is something.
Chapter the First:
The Beggar and the Boy
“Beggars Are Never As They Appear”
Once upon a time, there was a lad of tender years, no older than seven, known as James.
One fateful day, whilst engaged upon an errand to the grocer’s on behalf of his dear mother, young James chanced upon a knot of rough lads from the schoolroom—boys who had long marked him as their preferred sport. They were familiar tormentors, for to them he was an easy amusement — something to chase, to corner, to frighten — and they relished the prospect of yet another chance to bedevil him.
James, sensing their ill will, took flight, as they gave chase, his small legs carrying him with all haste through the cobbled streets. By fortune alone, he had drawn just far enough ahead to slip into the shadows of a forsaken alleyway. There he stole behind a crate, peering out as the darkened figures swept past the narrow mouth of the alley. And thus he vanished — though not for the last time.
“My word, lad — I must say, you vanish rather well.”
Startled, James turned sharply toward the sound, for the voice — aged, gentle, warm, and composed — had risen from the shadows behind him with such suddenness that its kindness did little to ease his fright.
Turning, James beheld a beggar seated upon a weathered crate — a figure unlike any vagrant he had ever encountered. This man was strangely clean and carried an air of pleasantry that was curiously ill‑suited to the plight of his station. His beard, grey and venerable, fell in gentle, untrimmed lengths; his eyebrows were bushy and faintly wispy, his visage etched with the wrinkles of wisdom. A bemused, benevolent expression played gently upon his face. He wore a top hat, battered and well‑worn, along with a threadbare, tattered suit that retained an unmistakable dignity. Red‑and‑white‑striped socks peeked from the man’s shoes that bore gaping holes, their former polish had long since eroded; though scuffed and cracked, the shoes were neatly laced, as though he took great care in so doing. Yet there was an inexplicable charm about him, a quiet mystique that made his appearance seem less sorrowful and more like that of a figure drawn from some old, whimsical tale.
James halted, unsure whether to flee or speak.
“There now, no need for alarm,” he murmured, lifting a hand in quiet reassurance. “Sit with me a moment, if you’d care to. Do you believe in magic, James?”
James gave a small nod.
“Well then,” the old man said with a soft smile, “I’d rather like to show you something.”
With an inviting gesture, the beggar drew another crate toward them and offered the boy a seat. He set a third crate between them to serve as a small table. Upon this makeshift table he performed feats of legerdemain — the art of conjuring, or what one might simply call magic. For the beggar was, in truth, a practiced conjurer.
From his ragged coat, the beggar drew three walnut shells and a pea, placing them on the crate with the easy familiarity of someone who had done so many times before. His hands—steady despite their age—moved the shells in smooth, practiced motions. Wherever James expected the pea to be, it was not.
He set the shells aside and brought out three brass cups and three small red balls, their knitted coverings worn from long handling. The balls travelled from cup to cup, slipped through the brass as though it offered no hindrance, and appeared in places James was certain they hadn’t been a moment before.
Finally, he produced a single ivory ball and rolled it across his knuckles. In a moment it became two, then three, and at last four, each one held neatly between his fingers. James watched, wholly absorbed.
“You seem quite taken by it,” the old man observed. “If you’d like, I could teach you something simple. Would you like that?”
James nodded at once.
The old man reached to his side and lifted a small tin cup — the same one he used for alms. From it he took a worn penny and held it between his thumb and forefinger.
“This will do,” he said. “Now watch closely.”
He showed the coin plainly, then seemed to place it into his other hand. When he opened that hand, it was empty. The penny had vanished.
James blinked.
“It hasn’t gone far,” the old man assured him, opening his first hand to reveal the coin resting there. “A simple beginning, but a useful one.”
He placed the penny in James’s fingers and guided his hands with patient care, showing him how to let the coin fall into the hidden palm while the other hand closed as though receiving it.
James tried it once, fumbled, and tried again. On the third attempt, the vanish worked — not perfectly, but well enough that he startled himself.
The old man gave a small, approving nod. “There now. You’ve the makings of it.”
And indeed, had anyone glanced into that dim alley, they might well have mistaken the pair for a grandfather imparting gentle counsel upon his grandson.
“Now then,” he said, almost to himself, “there is one last thing I should give you.”
From within his tattered coat, the beggar produced a wand of exquisite craftsmanship, its form a harmonious blend of ebony and ivory. With hands that were coarse and lined by the passage of time, he pressed the wand gently into James’s small, unblemished palms.
“Keep it close, and use it wisely,” he said. “That is all I ask of you.”
Thus equipped, the beggar sent the boy on his way. But when James turned back to offer his thanks, the place where the old man had been was empty. A pale thread of smoke wavered in the dim air, dissolving as though he had never been there at all.