Carabas takes his third long draught of fermented goat milk. Then he gets to his feet, with only a slight sway, declaims:
As everyone knows, Catlings (and possibly other Speaking Peoples, but who can say?) live nine lives, and when one dies, their spirit moves on to another Catling newborn kit.
(Some argue that, should a Catling have lived an egregiously unworthy life, they might be banished for a life in another race, where, no doubt, their grace and charm and wit cause them to excel and succeed and learn how they should be. The only question about that is whether it would count against nine lives holy Bast has decreed for us. It seems unfair, if so, but perhaps a punishment should sting. But I digress …)
I understand what some peoples mean by “ghost,” but if the spirit has moved on, why would such a thing occur?
What my people do recognize is that some places, some events, have such powerful memories made of them, associated with death, that the memories can linger onwards for a time. These memories are what others call ghosts, but they have no reality about them. A poignancy, perhaps, as such events usually involve loss, deaths of such power that they echo and reverberate onward. But the living spirits of that place have already been reborn, or gone on to what lies beyond the ninth life.
And what is that? Ah … I have not drunk nearly enough to share that secret with you.