Olive Jars

Olive Jars - Chapter Two

Fintan exhaled - his breath lapped icily against the windscreen. His hands were numb and clasped onto the steering wheel, his arms clenched in waves of goose bumps as a breeze washed under his sleeve. The breaks squeaked as he stopped the truck, the engine rumbling to a halt; but neither of the gentle sleepers behind him woke. The sky was a dull morning-blue, filling in the small spaces between the grey clouds. He waited a while for Paige and Quinn's bodies to adjust to the stillness and wake. During this time he considered the lay of the house, of their new patron, upon the plot. It was positioned far to the back of the grounds, which left a dusty, baron expanse of ground to stretch away from the rickety looking stairs leading onto the porch. A light, dim and yellow with age, fizzed in the misty dew on the porch - even in the earliest hours it attracted insects which Fintan could hear humming outside. Despite the naked land crickets chirped, awaiting the sunrise, and various species of birds cooed and warbled into the day. These sorts of indications of life swelled into a noticeable phenomenon as the sun peeked over the hills which lay far into the horizon, to the right of the plot. 

"Fintan," Quinn whispered, barely drawing enough breath to force across his vocal cords, in fear of waking Paige with his movement. She lay across his chest, her blanket sprawling along their legs. "Is this the place?" 

"Why would I have stopped otherwise?" his brother answered. His voice was louder, and the excess noise drew Paige into waking immediately. She looked around. 

"Why didn't you wake us?" she asked, deducing the state of conversation between the brothers uncannily accurately. 

"I thought that you might want to sleep." Fintan replied slightly feebly, struck into a stupor by the aggressive ridicule Paige unleashed in return: 

"Wake us! Next time wake us!" she sat up and snatched her blanket away from the seat. "We waste time on low paying cretins like this if you do not wake us." She marched up to the door of the house; the precision of this gesture lost, as the distance was well over thirty paces; and rapped the rusty mePaige knocker irritably. After some time the door was answered by scantily dressed young man with a long ponytail of flaming red hair. "Good morning," Paige thrust her hand to hover before his waist, he shook it and smiled amusedly at her, "My name is Paige Rapp. My associates and I have come to attend to your ghost." The man nodded and stepped aside.  

"It is a pleasure to meet you, I had only spoken with your administrator stationed in the next suburb." He spoke, in a suave manner, as he accompanied her towards the kitchen. Paige looked around expectantly for the familiar spherical light. "Oh, it's not in here," he said regretfully, "You see, you have come at a bad time. The ghost's visits are entirely sporadic. I am never sure when to prepare myself for, them." He chuckled politely to himself. Paige sighed, disappointed that they would have to wait for a potentially troublesome ghost. She gazed around the well-furnished sitting room, making up her mind that Richard, their 'administrator', needed a Paigeking to. This quote seemed decidedly suspect; the effort was too high for the current charge. It was not as though this man was in need of their charity. 

"Richard didn't leave any letter for us?" she asked the man. 

"Should he have? No, I am afraid I have received nothing else from him besides the quotation and a contact number." Paige looked around agitatedly as she weighed the pros and cons of leaving this commission now and moving onto the next one. "Oh, how rude of me," he exclaimed quietly, "Would you care to take a seat? Could I interest you in something to eat or drink?" Paige stared at the man, considering his politeness. This attribute seemed natural to him, and she envied his companions for this; Fintan and Quinn seldom showed remembered such nuances when dealing with her. However; whether this quality had become such a foreign thing, or by another prompt; Paige felt a strong aversion to his gentle, hot-potato, whispery speech and elegant movement.