Ghost

Start/Roadkill - Searows

She'd been shaken awake by the sun. She lay in the bed, feeling like a worn sock, and opened her eyes to the morning. Gathering a breath, she rolled out of bed, stretching in the light. She dressed in overalls, a long sleeve shirt, and one of her grandma's wool sweaters. Untangling a few knots in her wild hair with her fingers, she patrolled downstairs to the kitchen, sock-feet padding along the thick rugs. The kettle stood at attention on the stove and she put the back of her hand near the copper to see if it was still hot. Feeling that it gave off no heat she took it to the faucet and filled it halfway. Granda was either still asleep or laboring in the garden. 

"His rheumatism is most likely acting up, due to his stubborn pride." she thought. Even after he retired from goat farming, he had insisted on renting out the land, and after that, he had decided to take responsibility of the sheep, much to the chagrin of the farmers and shepherds. They had enough things to look after without a rheumatic retired goat herder "watching" over their sheep. It killed him not to work. He insisted sheep were similar to goats, having grown up around them both. No one on the island was much interested in goats and yet somehow he had still made a living off of them, somehow they had become interested, breaking their traditions. Perhaps it was the goat milk soap her grandma had concocted. Perhaps it was the goat milk itself. She could remember the day the first goats were shipped to the island. They had made quite the ruckus. They weren't newbians, because the town had voted without hesitation against that, they were dairy goats, and they were smarter than the sheep on the island. 

When he retired, he would go out in the early mornings and inspect the sheep before the shepherds had shaken their eyes of sleep. He would complain loudly of their condition at the pub, which drove the renters mad, and it was only because of McCawley that they had stayed on the property. Granda took no notice of McCawleys hand in the matter, preferring to think the renters had no better place to go, content in the idea that they were indebted to him like he was some landlord of the 1900's. He was oblivious to the kindness of the island, to the love the town shared for him, albeit their love was mostly for the memory of his dead wife as well as him and his family history. 

At least in the beginning, he had. Now all he could manage was a drive along the paddocks and a constant pestering of McCawley and O'Neil.

"Rhona's vegetables need me more than those wretched sheep." He would chortle, and tap on the wheel with a swollen knuckled finger, before going off into a tangent about how the sheep still hadn't been sheared, or that McCawley hadn't notified him about the fallen fence post on the other side of the field, and that he'd have to have a talk with his renters because of it. And all the while Roslyn would sit in the creaking passenger and watch the blots of sheep rip at the dull grass, intent on stuffing themselves for lambing. She would think of his stubbornness and the stubbornness of the sheep, and her own secret stubbornness that Gramma had so often noticed and pulled from within her to whittle away. It obviously hadn't worked with Granda. She wondered why she had kept trying. Perhaps Gramma had collected the shavings and kept them in a box, close to her heart. Perhaps that was why it had taken her so long to go. 

"Mornin' lass." Granda greeted her with a shaking hand on her shoulder and a kiss brushed like wind on her cheek. 

"Are ye tryin ta torture tha wee thing?" He motioned to the kettle that was emitting a sound similar to a woman in childbirth. She laughed and poured the water for the spiced and black tea. She had lined the cups with honey, and now she began to froth milk into foam as Granda mixed batter for pancakes. She handed him a pan and containers of blueberries and pecans. He decorated the bellies of the batter with these and slid them off the pan and onto a plate. Armed with maple syrup and butter she set the table as he doled cake after cake onto the plate. 

They ate carefully, blueberries like bombs waiting to go off, and read the newspaper together as they sipped their tea. 

" Dinnae ken why ye insist on ruining the taste with that foul stuff." Roe grouched as her grandfather removed a flask from his hip and poured some of the contents in the mug before him.