"I don't know. A little. I love drawing them sometimes. I am not an extreme enthusiast about them." The second part I say in English, too lazy to try remember the Danish vocabulary for it. Grandpa looks a little lost, so dad translates what I just said, to which he smiles.

"I love bird watching," grandmother says. "If you want, I can drive you over to the pond," she suggests. I am quite torn in two, because on one hand I know she is trying to reach out to me, on the other hand I want to go there alone, and draw in private.

"Thank you grandma, but I think I'll bike there instead."

"It will take you all day to get there," she answers. Surely she must be exaggerating.

"How far is it anyway?" I ask, before deciding to rush into the living room to grab my iPad.

We all pour over the mapping website I open, discussing what route I could take, should I bike there. We settle for a route that goes along the town's main road, branching into the golf course and runs along its perimeter, cuts across the adjoining forest, before meeting the park from its south west corner. The bike trip will take me a little over two and a half hours one way. I am already burning with excitement in antic.i.p.ation for my long bike trip on the morrow.

So the next day I wake up at 5:00am. The sun is already up and streaming through the small window. I drag on a pair of tights, and some denim shorts over them. I grab a striped t-shirt on and wrap a jumper around my waist. I pack up my sketch pad and pencils, stick my drawing board under my arm, before running to the kitchen to throw together a bunch of sandwiches and grab a bottle of water. I can hardly wait to be off on my excursion. I sneak out of the main door silently, as dad is still sleeping. He normally wakes up at 6:15 on weekdays.

The bright sunshine hits my face as I walk out, and I immediately put on my sun gla.s.ses before unlocking my bike. There is a chilly breeze, but that does not scare me. I will soon be hot from the long bike trip ahead of me.

I relish the cool wind blowing against my face, as I nod my head in tune to Bob Dylon's music blaring out of my earphones. It is a splendid day, and the route we chose is scenic and breathtaking.

The change is very slight at first- so gradual that I do not notice it for a while. I am therefore not sure exactly when it began, as I have been riding for over two hours already. As I emerge at the edge of Rundskov forest, and ride along the road that meets the park, it is unmistakable then.

The air is thick and heavy. Heavy with... heavy with something. Something heady, almost too sweet smelling. Like nectar, like grandpa's garden in the morning, at the furthest corner among the lilies of the valley. Intoxicating.

I gasp out aloud as the narrow winding path in the thick forest breaks out onto a clearing that can only be the park I'd been told about. Mesmerizing!

It is clear to see that I am not the only one enchanted by this little piece of heaven. Hundreds of birds swarm around the park in large flocks, along with b.u.t.terflies and numerous other flying insects of varying colours. Rabbits scurry around untamed, squirrels and beavers of sort, as far as I can tell. It is a little jungle in here, protected by the tall Ash and Birch trees that are typical in this part of the world. The sun's rays filter weakly through the trees' canopy, showering the clearing in a warm orange glow. The same glow is also reflected over the pond's waters, with the wealth of life in its waters proving just what great magic this place holds.

I am enthralled by all around me, for never have I seen or experienced anything as beautiful. I waste no time in jumping off my bike and setting up my drawing board. I soon start to sketch.

A blissful trance sets over me as my pa.s.sion takes over my senses. My pencil flies across the paper like it is possessed, my eyebrows knitted tightly together as I concentrate hard on replicating the enchanting views before me.

It is hours later when I finally set down my pencils, but I daren't look at my phone to confirm the time. I have used up half of my thick sketchbook, each page filled with landscape sketches from the different angles of this little paradise. There is just so much to capture, each angle seemingly as enthralling, or even more, than the last one, and just had to be captured.

My stomach growls, and I realize I haven't eaten anything the whole day. I sneak a peek at my watch, 8:37pm, and yet it is still as bright as it had been when I arrived this morning. I start making my way back to my bike, which is lying on the ground at an odd angle on the other side of the pond from where I first hopped off.

I feel the warmth spread out through the slightly chilly breeze before I see him, it. I do not react, though. I know better than that. I place one foot in front of the other, and work on keeping my breathing steady. He is floating beside me, at arm's length off to my right.

He moves with me, beside me, at my pace. I know he can move faster, for I saw him speed past me, flying, as we were fishing on my first weekend here. I resist the urge to look up, and the urge to walk faster. I bite the inner lining of my mouth as hard as I can, using the pain as an anchor to control my heartbeat. I taste the blood as my teeth accidentally penetrate the soft skin.

Can it smell it? I fake a look at my watch, and the gasp following it. Hopefully it will think that it is the reason for my tension, and quickening heartbeat.

I can now see my bike, so near, if I can just get to it! I then watch as another of those creatures materialize besides my bike. The one that had been chasing the creature to my right.

Don't panic! I order myself, don't react and most of all, keep calm!

I see her lips move, but I hear nothing at first. Then it comes to me, a most melodic sound, spellbinding, entrancing- like a song in the wind.

When he answers her though, it takes everything in me not to start in surprise. His voice is so powerfully quiet, gentle yet unmistakably authoritative as it resonates throughout the silent park. Even the animals react to it, standing a little straighter and p.r.i.c.king their ears as he speaks. I know he is a he, male, because she is definitely a she. Her voice rang of authority in beauty and grace, his was majestic and demanding of authority.

I can now see her profile as clearly as I can make out my bike. The shimmery light brown curls cascading around her face, the striking feminine features that adorn her slight curves and long legs. Most interesting of all, the wings, the flowing swan like wings, powerful and muscular, long and graceful, their topmost tip towering a few inches over her head, and their lowest feathers sweeping the ground she stands on. The feathers are breathtaking, long silky wisps of a vibrant green colour, resting gently over each other.

It is so hard for me to keep up my relaxed state, when I am so hungry and in dire need of peeing. One has to give. I must pee.

I smile inwardly knowing it would be the perfect way to let them know that I, like all other humans, do not see them. Who in their right mind would, around other people, pull down their shorts, crouch down and pee? So I do just that.

I hear the high pitched melodic laugh ring out right before his rumbling one. Surely they cannot possible still suspect me of seeing them, even if my heart might have skipped a couple beats when they had first appeared!

When I am done, I get up and keep heading towards my bike. She materializes away before my eyes. I guess they were convinced by my performance after all.

Well done, Caroline Gati Christiansen! I think to myself in satisfaction. I can no longer see the male one by my side as I walk on; but the air still feels warm, and I know that it means they are somewhere close. I make sure not to give way to my fear and run.

I reach my bike and lift it upright, placing my sketchbook and pencils into the shoulder bag on the front basket. I place my folded drawing board onto the basket on the back, and secure it in place with an ugly long knitted belt one of my cousins in Kenya had made for me. I have finally found a good use for it, all right! When I look back up again- he is standing right in front of me!

Does he suspect? I reach into my bag and pull out a sandwich and the bottle of water, as I lean my bike against me. I take a big bite, chew slowly, and chunk it down with the water.

Why is he still here? I ask myself. I'm driven by an insane urge to look up, so that I can better see his face. But I don't dare do it. I fix my gaze straight ahead instead, which is really just a view of his ripped torso.

I guess his species doesn't believe in T-shirts! I chuckle to myself in pleased satisfaction at the view, and then halfway realize that he's heard my chuckle, because he moves forward towards me, faster than I have ever seen a human move, and stops right before me in a split second, his warm breath blowing onto my forehead.

I have only that very split second to think, to stop my rising heartbeat in response to the threat of his close presence. I choose to continue with my chuckle, exaggerating it, letting it develop into a laugh. It is the only way I know to distract my thoughts from the idea of fleeing or screaming.

"Dad's going to kill me for coming home late," I say to myself aloud as I laugh. Great now he thinks I am the crazy type of humans that speak to themselves and laugh out loud. At least my insane laughter has stopped his advance. For a second there I thought he would kill me with one swift swerve of the sword, whose hilt I can just make out behind his head. I finish off my sandwich and rub my mouth with the back of my hand as I keep my gaze staring straight ahead, onto his beautifully menacing chest. I then climb onto my bike and ride, bracing myself to bike straight through him. He moves away at the very last moment. I don't hesitate for a moment and keep biking at the same manic pace out of the park.

By the time I get to the golf course, it is pitch black. I can hear my phone's frantic vibration, but I daren't pick it. I know dad must be worried sick, but I am completely tense from all that happened at Rundskov Park. All my courage was spent there. Now I am just a sh.e.l.l of myself, in desperate need to get home. Home to my dad, and mom. I miss my mom. Tears from my pent up tension start streaming down my face, but I cannot stop them. I do not even bother to wipe them away. They soak around my eyes, and my vision becomes even blurrier.

When I finally make it out of the golf course, branching onto the main road, I almost crash into an oncoming car from straight ahead. I swerve wide as the driver honks frantically at me, and don't bother to stop, instead keep riding at the same insane pace.

I slowly recover from my shock as I bike uphill. My phone is now vibrating incessantly, and it is impossible for me to keep ignoring it.

"Dad, I am so sorry. I completely lost track of time." I blurt out the moment I answer it.

"Where are you?"

"I will be home in a quarter hours' time or less." I answer.

"I could come pick you up," he says quietly, not wanting to push me too hard, though I can sense the worry in his voice, and traces of disappointment.

"No, I'll be alright dad. I am enjoying my bike ride," I lie, biting my bottom lip as I speak.

"Ok princess, just be sure to get home soon."

"I will," I a.s.sure him. I hang up the call, feeling much better again. The tension and panic I'd felt for the last couple of hours has been slipping out of my system during the hard, fast paced bike riding I had subjected myself to in the past two or so hours.

I now relax my pace, and ease into a steady rhythm, feeling much safer out here on the open roads.

When I get home, dad wakes up the moment I step into the house.

"I'm sorry," I whisper, but he waves away my apology and instead embraces me.

I grab an apple from the kitchen before moving to my room, where I throw myself onto the bed and lie down facing the blank plain ceiling, pondering over the odd creatures I'd seen earlier today.

What kind of ghost are they? Is the last thought in my head before I fall asleep.

Chapter 5.

It's safe to say, as you have probably guessed, that dad never allowed me to go for long bike rides after that. It is always, be home by dinnertime, Caroline! Be sure to help your grandparents with dinner, princess!

Dinnertime in Denmark tends to be at 6pm. My temporary curfew is therefore currently at 5:45pm, since I am at least expected to help out with setting the table.

I spend most of my days at the backyard or at the closest beach by the fjord, with my drawing board and paints. I have mostly been working on one of the sketches I made of Rundskov Park. It is painstaking work to paint, laboring and taxing. I am the kind of person that would be termed a perfectionist with my artwork. Especially with this piece of work, with which it is just so hard to replicate the image of perfection etched in my mind on to the piece of canvas before me.

Unlike the landscape sketches I previously made at the park, I'm not painting a replica, but an interpretation of it. Using the sketches as a guide, I'm attempting to interpret the beauty and the life with colours on a blank canvas. Varying grades of colours for whatever emotion each ent.i.ty, object, evoked in me. It's something I learnt from my mother, and until now, I hadn't yet met with a scene intriguing enough that I'd be tempted to undertake such a difficult interpretation process.

Often on the afternoons grandpa and grandma would sit outside with me as I paint. Grandma would peruse her magazines while grandpa would smoke his hand made pipe, that I got him for Christmas five years ago, and follow my brush strokes with his eyes. It is a lovely ebony pipe that had been carved by my grandfather on my mother's side back in Kenya, when he had still been alive. He had given it to me because I'd been so fascinated with it as he made it, that he had even let me help with sandpapering it. My African grandfather would be pleased right now if he saw just how well my Danish grandfather is using his pipe, and just how much he loves and appreciates it.

I saw my grandfather's spirit immediately after his death. He'd visited me during second grade English at St. Mary's, my elementary school in New York. He'd just suddenly appeared at the front of the cla.s.s, looking around him in confusion. I then knew immediately that he was dead, and was unable to stifle the loud sobs that escaped me when I saw him.

He was so surprised at my reaction. It had to be the moment when he first noticed that his beloved granddaughter could see the dead. He walked over to me as soon as his surprise wore off, and tried to hug me in consolation, but his touch had dissipated through me.

He then began talking to me, his voice doubtful that I could hear him- but I could. So I smiled up at him encouragingly despite my teary face, not daring to utter a response, for most of my cla.s.smates were staring at me as though I'd lost my mind, for bursting into tears unprovoked and wailing unstoppably in the middle of cla.s.s. My mother was then called from work to come and pick me up. One look at her face, and I knew she'd heard the news.

"How did you know?" Mother asked baffled.

"I just know," I answered her, and grandfather smiled at me sadly from where he stood by my side.

I refused to go to school the following couple of days, choosing to spend my days drawing with my colouring pencils and talking with my grandfather. My mother just a.s.sumed it was one of my imaginary friends again, a coping mechanism, and had not been particularly worried.

He told me all the stories I loved about the legends of our tribe, its history and the common myths. Silly stories like why the zebra is stripped, and how there once was a tortoise that beat a hare at a race. He'd helped me get over my loss and let go gradually.

Early Thursday morning that week, we boarded a plane to Nairobi, Kenya. Grandmother picked us up from JKIA airport that night in her old pickup truck. Dad was with her, having arrived from Malawi earlier that morning. It had been nice to see dad, but like always, I had nothing to talk to him about. I did not know him. He hugged us tight, and then grandmother did the same. He swung our luggage to the back of the rusty pickup, joining his lone duffel bag and a parka.

The four of us had then squeezed into the front of the pickup, with me perched on dad's knees, and travelled for the next eight hours to mom's tribeland at a steady pace.

My grandfather's ghost rode with us the whole way, placing himself on the center console, between my grandmother at the drive seat and my mother. He kept making faces the whole time and telling jokes about grandmother and our family. I couldn't help but laugh out loud, and at times it had been hard not to respond to what he said.

My grandmother appeared a little scared and worried at my behavior and had asked me eventually with whom I was talking to. Grandfather begged me to say that it was one of my imaginary friends, like my parents a.s.sumed, but I told the truth.

I was talking to grandfather.

They all looked back at me with stricken faces at my answer, but I didn't care. I had been seeing ghosts long enough to know that they did not stay on earth for long. In fact, I had a feeling that grandfather was overstaying, and had to leave soon. So I did not want to waste the remaining time of his stay by pretending not to see him.

"Was it grandfather you've been showing your art all week, and talking with on the plane?" mother asked, trying as hard as she could to mask the worry in her voice.

"Yes," I replied without hesitation. "No grandfather, it's ok, I'll just tell them the truth." I proceeded to say aloud upon my grandpa's insistence that I lie.

He feared that they would take me to a hospital for the crazies, and he'd been right. He told me stories of how in the old days of our tribe, people who could see and hear ghosts, were murdered for it. The people feared it to be a work of evil spirits. The story scared me, but I reasoned out with him aloud.

"They won't accuse me of evil spirits for talking with you, grandfather. They are my parents, they love me." I was not paying them any attention to note the look of shock and fear that crossed the faces in the car at my utterances, because my attention had been focused on my grandfather's warm lined face. We then spent the rest of the time telling stories and laughing together, when my grandfather finally gave up on lecturing me on the importance of discretion.

By the time we arrived at my grandparents' traditional homestead the next day, the sun had been scorching high at midday. None of the grownups questioned me more about my grandfather or his ghost, leaving me alone in peace to talk to him. Some of my uncles and aunties looked at me funny when I would randomly burst out laughing or say something to myself, but most of my cousins my age just began talking to their own imaginary friends with me. They looked up to me a lot, maybe because I was a 'foreigner' from faraway lands, therefore marking me as different.

The younger children stalked my father wherever he went, touching him, and staring at him unabashedly. Any other person would have been embarra.s.sed at this kind of attention, but dad was used to it. He had travelled so many times to different places in the world where his looks stuck out like a sore thumb. He entertained the children, and even went as far as to speak his heavily accented Swahili with them. His Swahili is good, much better than mine, but my accent is not as foreign as his.

Mother says it is because I began hearing her speak Swahili since I was a little baby, and thereby learnt the language with her accent. It is easier for children to adopt accents with a new language than it is for grownups. She is right. My Kuria however, my mother's tribe language, is terrible. I can understand most of it, but every time I speak it, I just stumble through the words with such misplaced intonations that all my cousins laugh at me. I have learnt from my past mistakes, so now each time someone speaks in Kuria to me, I make sure to respond in Swahili.

Mother and I took a nap together later that afternoon, on a small bed in one of the many thatched huts that she grew up in, and woke up later in the evening. The celebrations for grandfather's life had begun in the main house and the gardens around it. There was lots of music and dancing, three large bonfires had been set up on the large front garden with large pieces of roasting beef strewn over it.

The aroma of the roasting meat and other food delicacies made my stomach grumble, and what a great range of food and drinks were served during the ceremony. Those that weren't children, basically most over fourteen years old, drunk the rich sweet millet wine, busara. The band played lovely trance-like African tunes to which people danced all night. Members of my grandfather's age-group, sang praise songs of his life and what he had conquered. They mentioned his children that would carry out his life and legacy, and they even mentioned my mom and dad, and the sunset haired granddaughter (that is me). Grandfather danced often with me, probably because I was the only one that could see him.

Much later in the night, as the day began to break, and my whole body was so tired from dancing, I sat by one of the bonfires and stared at the vibrant crackling flames. My grandfather came to seat beside me, watching the flames with me. I knew what he was going to say even before he began.

"I have to move on now, sweetheart," he started, and I shook my head in childish protest. "I have to, and you have to let me go."

"I won't!" I said indignantly, clutching at his pipe tight against my chest.

"You should, child. I am getting weary. My soul needs to go home and rest now. And you need to start living with the living, the dead belong elsewhere."

"I want to be with you!"

"You will one day, but right now the people that love you, need you." He insisted, pointing his finger at me. Hot fiery tears escaped my eyelids, for I knew he was right. I hugged my pipe tight to myself, just how I would have hugged grandpa if I could hold him. He then smiled at me warmly, understanding the gesture.

"I will wait for you, and one day when you are VERY OLD, and ready, I'll welcome you with all my heart." He concluded, stressing the words very old. I felt his presence leave even as his ghost lingered before my eyes a few seconds longer.

At the first rays of sunlight that morning, we lowered the body of the great Mwita Gisusu deep into the ground, covering it up with the freshly dug mound, and planted a eucalyptus tree above the grave. The great spear, first born son of the family Gisusu was dead.

I held onto his pipe, taking it with me wherever I went for the next four years. My decision to give the pipe to my Danish grandfather, was because I love him dearly too. He'd always made me feel important and special, always giving me the attention I need. And besides that, he loved to smoke almost as much as my African grandfather had, probably even more. I knew he would love the pipe, and appreciate its artistic properties, as well as its functional ones. Turns out I was right. For nearly every late afternoon I spent with him thereafter, I've seen him sit on his reclining garden chair, light his pipe and smoke.

Chapter 6.

After hours of sketching under the lazy warm sun and the cool North Sea breeze one afternoon, dad bikes into the driveway. He parks his bike while calling out greetings to his parents. He then comes over to me and kisses the top of my curly head.