by Bernard Renaud

Created on: October 19, 2010   Last Updated: October 28, 2010

Upstairs in his room, James was preparing himself for his journey back to the place of his early childhood experiences. As he walked about the room he glanced at a photo of his so early years at a Sheepscombe. He stopped for a moment and looked at the photo, at the large grey buildings that surrounded small court, he could hear the laughter of other school children who ran back and forth across the yard, and saw the school master keep caste a vigilant eye over those who were quite and those who chose otherwise.  He imagined himself walking slowly on the streets of Painswich, by the old grey limestone buildings, through the gardens of the abbey and the small forest of yee trees, yes he would certainly count them.

From across the room he heard the familiar sound of the candle stick phone that stood on the oak night stand. He slowly placed the photo in its place atop the dresser, walking over to the side of the bed, gently sliding the ear piece off its resting place.

“Yes Madame” he said.

“We are off James” the quite voice said, in a week then “

“Yes Madame in a week, until then” James answered.

“Until then” Mrs. Winchester replied “There was no need and she agreed.

Is it time to go time, she heard the voice of Mr. Winchester ask as he walked into the hallway.

“Yes dear” she said, did you make the reservations” she asked him.

“James made the arrangements yesterday” he answered as he closed the plainly polished cover of his pocket watch.

“Good, I will be just a moment dear” she said as she open the stain glass door of the hallway closet. She walked in and found her oatmeal funnel coat; this will be just fine she thought to herself

“Come Mr. Winchester, it is time to go” she said as she tightened the belt to her coat.

They walked to towards the front entrance. Mr. Winchester, impetuously, slipped her hand in his as they walked towards the front door.

 “Why Mr. Winchester whatever are you doing”, she said.

 He smiled at her, as their arms swung gently with each step, saying nothing more than “it is autumn dear.” There was a youthful bounce in their walk as they stepped out not the autumn breeze.

 The autumn breeze grew stronger as they walked over to the willow tree where James had parked the silver ghost.

“My, he said as he looked up towards the sky,” the children of Astaeus seem to be in a

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