Book Review and Author Interview: The Prodigal Son by Anna Belfrage

The Prodigal Son by Anna Belfrage with author interview: Learn some fun details about the characters!


Set in 17th century Scotland during a time of religious persecution, Anna Belfrage’s The Prodigal Son opens to the departure of Matthew Graham, Alexander Peden and two others from an illegal conventicle, followed by a half a dozen soldiers seeking to arrest them. Matthew reflects on his wife Alex, a time traveller from the 21st century, and her opposition to his covert activities and the consequences they may bring upon their entire family.

Third in The Graham Saga series, the novel lays out events in the family’s past as these trials continue to haunt each member in different ways. Belfrage accomplishes this by sprinkling information throughout the story, like a flavor that satisfies as its strength increases. This provides fulfillment for the questions arising, particularly for readers unfamiliar with the first two of the series’ books, whilst ensuring a taste for more.

Though Matthew narrowly escapes the opening episode, the soldiers embark on a campaign of harassment, accosting him and searching his homestead periodically, their goal being to intimidate as much as to turn up Minister Alexander “Sandy” Peden. Complicating circumstances include the hatred of Graham’s own brother, Luke, previously responsible for having Matthew deported to the colonies and sold to indentured servitude. Between Luke and a returned Matthew is Ian, the child born to Matthew’s first marriage with Margaret (now wed to Luke), and whose paternity is debated throughout the book, though Matthew had been tricked into relinquishing all rights to the boy.

Alex, a modern woman who by necessity has adapted to life in her new time and place, slowly warms to Ian, though she fears the cost to her own eldest son. She perceives Peden to be a fanatic and scorns his belief that women are spiritually inferior. Though she admires his strength, her views of his rigidity in matters of faith clash with Matthew’s protective actions—acts that guard Peden from the authorities, but leave the Grahams wide open to total destruction.

Belfrage serves up details of this threatening aspect, too, over time, in courses that reveal frightening, hinted-at possibilities and then, finally, a shocking reality readers may have a difficult time digesting. While most are aware of religious persecution in history as well as our own era, human psychology provides a protection against such knowledge with scant, sometimes forgotten details or by placing distance between the parties.

Here the author provides no such immunity: we have grown attached to the Grahams and their children, having seen the various sides of each and been given a glimpse of their cares in the world. When tragedy strikes—for the Grahams as well as another family—its proximity sears our hearts and the reality of what people have had to endure sinks in with a terrible understanding.

Belfrage makes room, however, for humorous relief, unappreciated by the commanding officer taking part in questioning Matthew, but recognized by modern readers for the inquiry’s circumstantial nature:

One of the younger soldiers took a step forward. “He’s tall and the man we saw was tall—that we know for sure.”
“Ah,” Simon [Matthew’s attorney and brother-in-law] nodded. “And did he have dark hair?”
“I don’t know,” the young man said.
“No? Why not?”
“He was wearing a cloak.”
Simon rolled his eyes, smoothed at his coat. “Not much to go on,” he said to the officer, who shifted in his seat.
“Tall, a competent swordsman—and we know Mr. Graham has a past as a soldier—who else could it be?” the officer said.
“You?” Simon said.

The author creates believable characters who are simultaneously honest and flawed, whose imperfections, occasional obstinateness and recognition—if reluctant—for a balanced concern of the difficulties they face all bring readers to a riveted attention of where each are headed and we develop concern for their futures: we care what happens to them, and ache when all does not go well.

Matthew, for example, continually breaks his promises to Alex by time and again riding back to Peden, passionately maintaining his inability to forego his spiritual obligations. He roundly condemns the forces of Charles II for their brutality, though one exchange brings concession by default: “‘[F]or years it was people like my family that were persecuted by people from your church.’ That shut Matthew up.”

Neither is Alex spared the confrontation of brutal truths. Though through the novel she uses her “past” history lessons to remind her of events or circumstances in the time she now inhabits, it sometimes takes drastic measures for her to understand her husband’s position in more than just theory. After a brutal beating at the hands of an interrogating lieutenant, she concedes: “I sometimes forget that this is a time where the little people have no voice, where the representatives of the crown can do as they please and there’s no venue of recourse.”

As implied in the title, however, there is room for redemption, and as we witness naked fear, cruelty and tragedy, so too do we see tenderness for the precious in life, hear the stolen laughter and feel the power of two whose bonds of love will dare to fight to remain united in the face of all attempts to ruin them. Matthew and Alex’s love for one another is acted out in some explicit romantic scenes—perhaps more than many other works of historical fiction—as but one part of what makes them whole. That wholeness also confronts the truth within the extravagance of their divisions and possibilities of homecoming in more ways than one.

Where this will take the family remains to be seen in Belfrage’s newest novel in The Graham Saga, and though one could continue on to read the fourth without having experienced the first two, this reviewer predicts many will want to return to the beginning. This is not because The Prodigal Son does not work as a stand-alone novel; as stated above, Belfrage does a spectacular job of seamlessly filling in the blanks of two complete previous works. However, a feast is a difficult thing to pass up: Alex, a strong, modern woman on a 17th century learning curve, her equally resilient husband, their friends and family—-readers simply will want to know more and experience the events in their lives along with them from beginning to end.

Interview with Anna Belfrage

Image courtesy Lisl Zlitni

The tea is steeped and cake at the ready! I’ve recently read The Prodigal Son and was utterly intrigued by the

questions–and some problematic possibilities–raised in my mind pertaining to Alex’s journey back in time.

Hello, Anna, and thanks so much for joining us today and taking the time to answer some of our questions.

And hi to you too, Lisl. I’m thrilled to be here!

The Prodigal Son, third in a series, features time travelling Alexandra Lind and her 17th century Scottish husband, Matthew Graham, living in the latter’s time and homeland. How did you first decide to bring these two characters together from different eras? Or did they come to a life on their own?

It all began with Alex. She sort of kept popping up in my head – sometimes at the most inopportune times – and demanding my attention. Obviously, having a modern woman speak to me of the hardships in the 17th century grabbed my attention, and soon most of my nights were populated by dreams featuring Alex. With Alex came Matthew, at first no more than an outline. (Alex is the jealous type, and she isn’t too thrilled by how fond I am of Matthew. When she scowls at me, Matthew grins and winks, rather flattered by our attention.) On a more serious note, I did know I wanted to set a book in the 17th century, in Scotland and during a period of religious unrest. As I have a soft spot for men who have the integrity and courage to defend their beliefs, Matthew grew into a man of convictions, a man willing to risk a lot for his faith – and for his family, even if The Prodigal Son places him in the uncomfortable situation of risking his family for his faith.

Alex, being a modern liberated woman, faces challenges in the 17th century that she wouldn’t likely encounter in her “past” life. How do you decide her balance? That is to say, how does she know when to assert her independent thought or to step back?

If you ask Matthew, she shows very little restraint when it comes to voicing her opinions. In general, I agree with him; Alex is an independent woman – but she is also an intelligent woman, and as she has no yearning to be tried as a witch, she keeps an adequately low profile with certain people. I believe all humans have the capacity to adapt very quickly to new social norms – it is a prerequisite for our success as a species – and Alex is no exception to this.

Do you see yourself in Alex at all? If yes, how so? Is she modeled after someone in particular?

I hope I would accept new circumstances as well as Alex does. And yes, she is forthright and brave, has a big heart and a capacity to laugh at herself and others – I would like to believe these are qualities we share. But no, Alex isn’t modelled on anyone but her own self; she was very much a person in her own right when she started visiting me.

Every so often in The Prodigal Son Alex seems to open up a bit for the reader, including once when she laments the loss of her reading time and material. What kind of books did Alex like to read?

Alex is a computer engineer. Ergo, it follows the poor woman had a fondness for reading stuff like Bringing IT Security to a New Level. She was twelve when she read The Lord of the Rings for the first time. Other than that, she read quite a bit of crime with favourite authors being Reginald Hill and Elisabeth George. She also read everything by Gabriel García Marquez and loved Don Quijote. Her father taught her to love poetry – mostly in Swedish.

As you wrote the novel, did you learn anything surprising abut Matthew and/or Alex, or their children?

I just love the Graham children, and especially Ian, who is so torn in two. I had no idea Ian was dyslectic until I wrote the book, neither did I know just how complex Matthew’s love for his land was. Hillview lives in his blood, sits in his heart. His little manor is a precious charge he must hand over to the next generation, and to fail in doing so would be unbearable to him.

Do you have any interesting writing quirks? Do you write every day?

I write something every day. Not necessarily part of a new novel, or so, but I will definitely set pen to paper (finger tips to keyboard) on a daily basis. Most of it ends up on my blog – or in the virtual trash can.

Not sure I have any quirks – hang on; I guess I do. When I’m writing the more action-packed scenes, and especially if Matthew is in danger, I just can’t write it in one go. I write a sentence, stand up, take a little turn, pour some tea, watch two minutes of The Mentalist or whatever my husband is watching, sit down, write another sentence, exhale, and do it all again. Very exhausting, let me tell you!

Who were/are your favorite authors growing up or as an adult?

Growing up I was a major Henry Treece fan. I read a lot of Rosemary Sutcliff as well, and Tolkien – always Tolkien. As an adult, I am a fan of Sharon K. Penman, Antonia Fraser, James Burke, Barbara Nadel, Michael Dibdin and Salman Rushdie – oh, and of Diana Gabaldon.

What topic have you never read about that you would like to?

Not sure what you mean; like things I want to know more about? If so, I’d really like to get to grips with Plato. And I wouldn’t mind knowing more about astronomy, or about geology. And I’d like to learn to read music scores. And to speak and read Russian.

Do you have any projects on deck currently?

Apart from the ongoing Graham Saga – and there are more books to go – I have a trilogy tucked away which tells the story of Jason and Helle, two people who met and loved but briefly three thousand years ago before he was cheated into betraying her and thereby caused her death. Since then, he hurtles after her in life after life, desperately wanting to make amends.

Other than this, I am working on a novel set in 17th century Sweden and England, starring a young girl who grows up at Queen Kristina’s court and who becomes rather attached to a set of jewels that don’t belong to her, and so….

But both these projects take second place to the Alex and Matthew story – I have a very emotional relationship with these, my favourite characters. Sometimes I think they’re around for real, but my husband keeps on informing me that isn’t the case.

Do you like to read e-books, or still prefer the sound and feel of paper?

I have become an e-book addict. Why? Because it’s so convenient, and as I travel a lot, all I need is my Kindle to carry the equivalent of Ancient Alexandria’s library with me. But there’s something to reading a “real” book – especially in the bath.

I’ve read of your fondness for chocolate and recently discovered your love of math. Which do you like better?

Chocolate! Given the approaching X-mas season, a chocolate Advent calendar is obviously the perfect combo….

Given the opportunity to journey back in time, would you take it? What if you didn’t get to select the era? If you did, which would you choose?

I’d like to know for sure that I could go back. I may daydream a lot about life in other times, but I think the reality of it was pretty harsh. It was cold, it was dirty, the food could be dismal, and should you fall sick – or develop a toothache – well, God help you. (My preferred century, the 17th, was probably one of the dirtier, as in most European countries the communal bathhouses had definitely closed by then… ) Despite all this, if I were given the chance…. And if I’m to choose an era, it would be the 17th century – somewhere in the Colonies. Or the 15th century in Spain. Or maybe the early 14th century in Scotland. Or… Agh!

Is there anything else you’d like to mention to readers about yourself or your books?

I sing a lot. I cheer my colleagues up by dancing in their doorways – strangely enough, not all of them seem to appreciate it. I hate flying. I have a car thing, and should anyone feel like gifting me a bright blue Audi R8, I’d be thrilled to bits. I make an awesome apple pie. I dreamed of becoming a Navy SEAL and saving the world when I was young(er). Actually, I still dream of being a Navy SEAL and saving the world…

tee und kuch
Image courtesy Lisl Zlitni

Thank you so much for joining us, Anna, and we hope to see you again soon!

Thank you for having me, Lisl, and I must say that German Chocolate cake was just the thing on a cold and rather dreary November day!


A copy of The Prodigal Son was furnished to the blogger in exchange for an honest review. Cover image courtesy Anna Belfrage.


The Open Door

It was a dark and stormy night–no, no, that’s so not right. Besides, it had stopped snowing days ago and the hoarfrost clinging to the trees stood stark against the clear blue sky. Mid afternoon shouts of romping children squealed in through the crack I’d allowed with the open door to relieve some of the baking heat, and I peered into the stove at my rosemary bread. Nearly done. But the house was slightly dark, which I found odd, given the southern exposure that generally lights up the rooms and, one might think, contribute to the heat even this far from the kitchen. Peering outside I scanned the skies for clouds, chalking it up to time of day and knowing night would soon have us in its grips, not so long after dinner. Running upstairs for a jumper I swerved to avoid something Adam had left there. I’ll have to discuss this with him later—again.

Still surprisingly early when I tucked him into his bed later, I decided to read, something I hadn’t had heaps of time to do lately, given the circumstances. Very satisfying it was to sit down in a tidy room; my mind felt a bit more at ease for it hadn’t since some weeks—the room as well as my mind, that is. Mad, jagged piles of mail and papers threatening to overwhelm me at any given point had been stuck in a corner, sewing projects piled up, notices from school: all hinted to me with their glaring reminders of unpaid bills, necessary mending, unfinished applications, attorney appointments and job interviews to prepare for, re-furbishing plans to attend to—and the wee one needs boots! I drew in a breath and then just as quickly shushed myself: not tonight. I needed to take advantage of the calm and orderliness of my surroundings, for I am one, unfortunately, with poor filters and have always found it difficult to ignore disorder around me; my mind senses it too keenly and itself feels cluttered and distracted.


The soft thud of the heavy book on the carpet must have been what woke me. Still stretched across the sofa, I groggily scanned the room, indulging once more in the lovely order finally achieved, and remained seated. The pleasure of not jumping up for some demand or another washed over me and even my face seemed to blush. I glanced at an empty corner, which I’d designated as the spot for the suit of armour I’d had my eye on; it would fit nicely with the décor I’d spent months gathering. My home was comfortable and inviting, and I felt pleased. Long ago I had dreamt I was sitting on a sofa, elbows leaning on knees, when I became aware of a tiny form at the door frame peeking round the corner and, elbows remaining on knees, opened my arms to invite the small, sneaky being to me for a hug despite the late hour. It was perhaps this recall, an immediate indicator then that the child I carried was a little boy, that told me now the sensation I felt of someone creeping down the stairs behind me was this boy child, six years later acting out the dream I’d had of him, even if not precisely in the same way.

[Image of knight to be replaced]

Having moved lazily from my groggy state and now sitting up so the stairs were to my right, I was surprised to see nobody there. A soft feeling, however, had spread across the room, and slowly I felt the movement of others as they gathered nearby, watching me as I unseeingly watched them, breathless, and quietly astounded at my lack of terror. Some I felt were people I recognized; the identity of others I could not say. In the corner stood a very still and tall someone, watching me quietly, as if he were assessing me, or perhaps my world. Oddly my first articulated thought was of the suit of armour and how impossible it was for him to remain because of this; I knew he smiled from one corner of his mouth and laughed ever so softly, as if he were benignly amused at my acquired dilemma. I looked back to the others and heard their reassurances that all was well; they can no longer be harmed and the time for mourning them has passed.

The time is past? How do you – I stopped, tickled by a breath near my face, the breath of the first someone to lean down to the level of my seated position, as he looked directly at me. That is, we were face to face; though I could not see him, I knew I was looking squarely into the face of someone long late. I tried to say the words in my mind, to create a greater sense of reality, that I was not imagining or making this up and even if I could not see, I was indeed staring directly past some breach between two worlds. My heart beating only somewhat stronger, perhaps because I continued on some level to tell myself this was not happening, I searched the space before me for his face, for something visual, anything to help me reach across to him, for I felt I must see him, had to communicate with him; the devastation of not doing would be great.

It must have been relief that came with the breath finally escaping from my lips, though it also seemed to solidify some separation, and this being was no more, at least not in front of me as only moments before. The feeling of grief took me by surprise, like a storm that breaks without warning and, as the rush around my ears and self that engulfed me dissipated, I collapsed onto the sofa. All the gathered company had disappeared, excepting the mysterious man who outrageously stood in the way of “my” suit of armour; I was alone. I could hear Adam’s soft, rhythmic breathing coming from his room upstairs, and I wept.


My mother’s favorite ghost was the lady who floated down the stairs as she sat knitting. Always some ‘Lady,’ I scorned when I heard her stories. Grey, green, betrayed, sorrowful, unimaginative, why do they have to be here at all? Of course she recognized my disdain for the fear it was, and frequently scolded me for what she designated as my lack of discipline. She came from a misty land filled with ghosts and though she chided me—So do you! You have this ability as wellthough you refuse to work to develop or understand it. It is easier for you to be afraid—she was wrong. She told stories of her premonitions and ghostly encounters in her own childhood, but even my father seemed not to spend much time giving these tales any credence. I supposed then that I was like him, and wanted no part of it all.

Still, there were unnerving, eerie parts of our house: the back storage room, staircase and my bedroom were all areas that alarmed me owing to the unsettling events that occurred there, and I avoided them like the plague. It was a gigantic show, of course. Though I never engaged these apparitions or presences alone, I liked listening to her stories and after some time openly allowed her to tell them, even reveled in their brashness and chill-inducing breathlessness.

[Image of staircase to be replaced]

There was the man in the kitchen who apparently, she concluded, must dislike dirty floors because every single time she dropped something—which she always asserted was actually pushed from her hand; she felt the force—she ended up realizing how dirty the floor was and she might as well clean the whole thing. Nothing ever “fell” from her hands when she stood on a floor immaculate. Someone else disliked loud noises, the explanation she conjured up whenever my brother complained of his stereo being turned off. I myself heard coughing and speech at night on the other side of my bedroom wall, in what my mother called the “loft” despite its adjacent location.

One day I returned from school to find her closest friend waiting for me. My mother, she related, had been papering the wall on the stairway, fell all the way down and broke her arm. Pushed, really she said in a whisper. She says in no uncertain terms that she felt a hand give her a good shove and down she went. Apart from wondering how it got to be called a “good” shove, I later wondered that my mother had to have missed some serious pre-considerations when she failed to reckon on the danger of climbing a stepladder at the top of a staircase. My siblings mocked my common sense at every turn, but even I would not have engaged in such reckless behavior.

In reality, I believed her. I lost no love for this particular staircase and sprinted up or down whenever I had to pass through its hair-raising effect. More than once I had encountered something myself there, though it puzzled my mother why I sat at the top of it at bedtime. The truth is I refused to go upstairs to the bedroom I shared with my sister until she came as well—the stairs were the less frightful as our room clearly had some manifestation, as evidenced by my chronic nightmares, voices and the sensation of someone being in there. As the time Nadia came upstairs was generally much later than my bedtime I tended to be chronically tired at school. Once I fell asleep sitting at the top of the stairs and hit the door jam with such force I developed a cartoonish bump on my forehead. I also fell several times though it was not until someone pushed a glass of water out of my hands as I was about to descend did I actually ever feel anything. There was definitely a push.


So it was I surprised myself by being unafraid one evening as I stood by the washing machine and the lights flickered on and off. Indeed it was with great relief that I looked up at them because just several nights before my visitor had appeared to me in a dream, perhaps in response to my request. Having recalled my mother’s advice to ask apparitions who they are or what they need (Are you bloody kidding me? had been my response), but not being quite ready to accept a verbal reply should it come, I did in fact speak aloud, carefully choosing my words to form statements and no questions. Briefly I expressed my disappointment, explaining my shameful cowardice, and asked him to return in a way that could facilitate communication without fear breaking us apart. I expected that nothing would happen.

Ordinarily I would have dismissed such an encounter as did in fact occur save for the utter vivid reality of it all. Very rarely have I had a dream in which I was so aware as I was in this one, and never before did I know I was in an altered state as I carried on a conversation with someone. Yet there I was, fast asleep when he appeared at my bedside, at first standing some distance away, and I swiftly sat up. He began to speak and came closer, sinking to his knees in much the same way as I had been taught to do for the comfort of small children. His facial expression was very earnest and he spoke to me as if it were of great import that I hear what he had to say. For all his intensity, he was also very kind and soft-spoken. I was so awake, so very, very awake, and yet I slept.

It was perhaps after some time I began to tire, and this may have lessened my ability to absorb the notion of speaking to someone from the next world. I found myself easing off the elbow holding up my head and backing onto my pillow, which in turn may have further increased my unease. Suddenly I felt it was unnatural to be engaged as I was, and a shock of alarm shot through me. My companion’s expression became inquisitive, then anxious when I said, “I am sorry, so very sorry but this is a bit much for me.” Immediately he backed away, apologizing as he did, and my regret was swift to arrive, for I could see the upset written clearly on his face. How I longed to turn back time but for mere seconds! Alas, it was too late and once more I found myself, face wet with tears, wondering how it is this could happen and why did I care so much about these encounters.


The flickering lights brought me straightaway to recall of my mother’s guidance on the ghostly: they can be mischievous or simply want to say hello; electricity is a favorite medium for them to capture our attention: just acknowledge them and all will be fine. I smiled in relief, for I had spent some days being sorely disappointed and wondering if he would ever return.

As time went on I became somewhat accustomed to the lights—which had hitherto never shown any signs of faulty wiring—flickering at one turn and going completely off at the next. Of course the deeper suspicion that aging wires really was the only cause may have engendered acceptance, although the timing frequently puzzled me. One afternoon found me wrecked and with heaps of washing to do, when the lights went off and remained so. Astonishingly unafraid, I sighed deeply and waited. Still the lights failed to return. I became slightly impatient. Please turn the lights back on I bid in a somewhat testy voice. Without hesitation they returned, I resumed my work and went to my bed.


As months passed I continued to be aware that the male presence in the living room—in my suit of armour’s corner—had not taken his leave. Apart from the décor dilemma, this was not so much a cause for concern, although I did find it peculiar he remained. I sensed he watched me frequently, and as I came down the stairs and his position was directly opposite, often our eyes would lock, even though I could not see him. Sometimes I would stop, continuing the gaze, almost willing him to speak for I sensed a very strong personality, a dark and brooding one almost but again, not threatening to me. I thought if he ever spoke or appeared I might scream and leap from my skin, but this dance went on nonetheless. If I allowed myself to form actual words in my mind—He is watching me, for example—then I could sense his energy in a stronger form; many of the times he was somewhat amused with me, though I never could learn what I did to entertain him so. I wondered if he ever moved from his spot when I slept or left.

It is perhaps an indicator of how comfortable I was—or at least how edgy I was not, as “comfortable” may be taking things a bit too far—that one night I wished to take some tea in between my first and second sleep, though I felt slightly wary to go downstairs. I would have to walk through the spot where someone had taken to lingering: the bottom of the stairs, as if it were some transitional spot that somehow benefitted them and also lent credence to Adam’s firm insistence on that first night that he had not left anything there. Whether I was bothered by moving past here or not simply depended on the night, though I never detected any sort of pattern to be able to predict if I would or would not run screaming at last, betraying some terror occupying my inner being. It was just all too smooth.

On this night I felt the disquiet, though oddly enough I decided to go for my tea. I say I “decided,” though it was not so much a choice as that some force, my own or otherwise I do not know, propelled me to the kitchen. All the while I had instinctive rather than articulated thoughts of the weirdness I felt coming from downstairs, but moved as if I were a puppet, somehow controlled by someone else. I coached myself just to keep moving, whatever happened, to play at being calm, with the notion that only the appearance of fright could elicit anything horrid.

The kitchen felt very safe; I prepared my tea and moved through the dining room towards living room and the stairway. Walking through the same spot I had to get to the kitchen, this time I suddenly began to move as if I were in a film and progressed in slow motion.  I strode directly into…something. Have you ever been walking through a neighborhood, perhaps very early in the morning and suddenly your face is enmeshed in a gigantic spider’s web? The sensation is somewhat equitable, as in you realize it and generally keep going, though the web stretches with you. In this instance I, too, moved on for I felt it crucial to continue unhindered and return to the safety of my room. But this whatever it was stretched as I went, elongating into a battle of wills as I determined that as slowly as I may be walking, not only will I get away from it but I will do so the victor. Within this slowed version of time I walked, tea in hand as it splattered and scalded my wrist, then leapt in tiny waves out of its cup and I could feel myself break free from the phantom I had just walked through and calmly proceeded to my room.

The lights continued to capture my attention, though not always in ways I favored. They came on at night when all were abed, and my spoken wishes began to be ignored. I became aware of another presence, that is, in addition to the two I already knew: I could sense their differences, perhaps in the same way mothers can discern those of their babies’ cries. It stood in my room at night near to the same spot my first visitor had, and it by turns frightened me as well as caused my temper to flare. On several occasions I woke in the night to catch it blowing in my face; twice it seemed to be sucking my breath away. I gagged and coughed to resume normal breathing and shooed it off.

After some time the kitchen lights began to play havoc with my work, including just some days after installing fresh bulbs. I am somewhat embarrassed to admit I lost my temper that day; with so much pressure bearing down on me related to being jobless and too many other stressors, I felt not the energy to play games with someone whose tricks were now becoming unfunny. Angrily I told it I had enough to do without chasing after its silliness and mean games. You are to leave this light alone, now.

Photo courtesy Lisl Zlitni

At one point I consulted experts to have a look and offer advice. They explained the etiquette of communicating with the dead and showed me machinery designed to detect factors to eliminate the possibility of ghosts or enable an exchange. Results were rather inconclusive: while there was nothing really to confirm any sort of presence—and even I didn’t sense anything in the company of these ghost hunters—the male of the group claimed to have also walked smack into someone unseen, and several of us witnessed an India tin by some unseen force rattle and settle, as if it had been picked up and dropped straight down onto the counter. There were also those questions we asked yielding a fantastically lit-up monitor that went mad at particular enquiries. We discussed reasons why they might not show themselves: they may be gone or never have existed; annoyed or discomfited by my recent furniture shift; or not in favor of the newcomers’ arrival. We discussed a great deal, but nothing in either direction could ever really be ascertained. I questioned the entire experience, wondering if perhaps the strain of the past year was simply too much, and my own energy caused many of these occurrences.


Things then came to a head. I had taken practically to cowering under my covers at night, growing increasingly frustrated with a situation in which sleeping required a guard; I left the light on to disable the spectre’s ability to sneak up to me, and enabled my light sleeper mode—something I could do from the days when Adam was a sickly baby and I woke at the sound of his labored breathing.

On one particular evening I woke just as the creature made to come closer; my eyes opening sent a swoosh across the room and it reeling backwards. I sat up, throwing off the protective covers, vexation emboldening my anger, which outranked any fear I may have felt. I would not have tolerated any human intruder; why had I allowed this to go on for any supernatural one? This is my home and you are violating my good nature; I won’t have it any more. You are to leave at once!  I felt its astonishment and a drawing back of breath, similar to that of an infant gathering steam for another good wail and knew it aimed to test my resolve. No! It’s enough! You snuck in here with others, but are unwelcome! Get out! I hissed these last words from my standing position in the middle of the bed as I watched its transparent form, a shape I could not quite define, rush from the room, an echo reverberating down the hallway as I knew it was gone. At the doorway stood someone else whose head turned as he observed the pathway of departure, and I felt also his somewhat surprise at this turn of events. But I was grievously exhausted and fell down to the bed, where I woke up next morning without having pulled up the covers.


Some weeks later, when it had been just over one year since the night when my living room was somehow opened to those who had passed, I sat with a pile of books, reading, skimming, trying to decide which one to indulge in. I happened to glance at the red book I’d been reading then, and a breeze blew in from the open window. Late morning, the sun was finally marking his appearance, with a break in the cold snap. We’d had a very rainy summer, often too miserable for the children to play outside, and hoped for a nicer one this year, though it was still some months away.

The chinook coming from the glacier blew in once more, this time capturing the leaves of Tagore, skimming through as if by some unseen hand looking for a particular page. The swirls indicated a midwinter relief, and I stood in the doorway to watch the magnifiscent sunrise, observing as if Aurora herself brushed broad crimson and saffron strokes across the sky just for me. Stretching, I captured some of the dust in my hands, releasing it to the air as I watched it dance away into time. Slightly chilled I turned back to my work, noticing as I sat once more that a passage had been chosen. Leaning down as I sipped my tea I read—

That traveller is no longer here, no longer here.
His beloved kept him not,
His realms released him,
Neither sea nor mountain could bar him.
Today his chariot
Travels at the beck of the night
To the song of the stars
Towards the gate of dawn.
I remain here weighted with memory:
He is free of burdens; he is no longer here.


Thank you for reading this account recording some of the events of this particular year.