Mistle Child (Undertaken Trilogy)

by Ari Berk

  “Then how?”

  “You must speak these words and none other: ‘I am the Earth Child and the child of the Realm of Stars, this you can see already. I am withering with thirst and shall soon perish. Grant me cold water flowing forth from the Lake of Memory.’ ”

  “That is all?” asked Silas, repeating the words in his mind to memorize them. But as the words rang in his ears, he could feel their power, their antiquity, and how familiar they felt, as though he had said them before.

  “Traditional, those words are. Old. Just say ’em. Then they shall give you to drink from that holy spring and then, you know, you’ll take your place among the heroes and all that sort of thing.”

  Silas stared at him.

  “Look, are you certain you are ready, little cousin? Drinking from the spring is only a portion of the trials that await you. Those who come down, I am sorry to tell you, often lead lives of trouble. Your path shall never be easy.”

  “Maybe, but if I don’t do what I am supposed to do, who will do it?”

  Jacobus Umber smiled at that.

  “But perhaps,” Silas continued, “you could tell me what is to follow?”

  “I am no soothsayer. But if I were a gambling man, I’d bet on miracles. Terrors. Blood-deep never-ending Obligations. Doom. That’s all.”

  “What do you mean ‘doom’?”

  “I mean, isn’t that why you’ve come? Oh, young master, have they told you nothing upstairs? I pray you’ve the stomach for what follows.”

  “Do you mean the Door Doom?”

  “I do,” Jacobus Umber said, but now he looked nervous, as though speaking those words put something poisonous into the air, “but let’s say no more about that. None of my business anyway.”

  “I know something of it,” Silas said. “I know I am doing no more than my ancestors before me have been asked to do.”

  “Well, that’s fine, then. You had better be on your way. They’ll be waiting for you back upstairs. I wish you bonne chance, cousin.” Jacobus Umber blew out the candles at his desk and quickly vanished through a tiny doorway sunk almost invisibly into the wall.

  Silas went forward as he was instructed. When he passed through an arch richly carved with ivy vines on one side and a yew tree on the other, he saw the two springs. It was an unusual sensation for Silas, standing there. The springs represented two choices that were very important in the Undertaking: memory and forgetfulness. For wasn’t that the very offer he often made to the dead? To fade, or remain? And now, here he was, standing by the waters that made those choices possible.

  By the spring of memory, two stone figures stood guard, tall and imposing, each bearing a bronze spear and a shield adorned with twined serpents. Their long tunics and cuirasses were almost the same color as the rock of the walls behind them. Their helmets—high and crested in the fashion of ancient Macedon—obscured their faces. They did not stir.

  Without taking his eyes off the guardians, Silas went first to the spring of forgetfulness. It was surrounded by bottles and flasks and human bones, perhaps left behind by those who drank its waters, and then, forgetting why they’d come, merely sat by the spring and let their lives wind down. Taking one of his own flasks from his satchel, Silas bent over and began to fill it, careful to dip only the flask and not his hand in the waters. When he looked down, he felt dizzy. The surface of the spring was in constant motion as the waters flowed up from the darkness below. As he watched, the ripples all began to swirl in one direction, around and around, appearing to draw down at the spring’s center like a small whirlpool. Silas felt his throat go parched. He was thirsty, and the spring was right there in front of him. Its waters would soothe his throat. Before he knew what he was doing, he slowly reached down toward the surface of the spring. Just as his hand was about to dip into the water, someone shouted his name from the archway. His own name struck him like a blow and he sat up. Had it been Jacobus trying to help once more?

  Looking about him, regaining his senses, Silas carefully sealed his flask, put it back in his satchel, and backed away from the spring. Even standing a few feet away, the spring exerted a force on him. To forget everything . . . all of life’s problems and pains . . . to instantly forget them . . . the bliss of it if . . . No. Enough. He quickly turned to the other side of the room and walked toward the spring of memory, drawing another flask from his satchel. At his first step, the guardians stepped forward with frightening speed and raised their spears to point at Silas. Startled, he yelled, “Wait!” But the guardians advanced toward him.

  Immediately Silas blurted out the words as he’d been told.

  “I am the Earth Child and the child of the Realm of Stars, this you can see already. I am withering with thirst and shall soon perish. Grant me cold water flowing forth from the Lake of Memory.”

  As he said the words, the wisps of blue fire, the corpse candles, rose and arrayed themselves about his head like a crown of bright, flickering stars.

  The guardians raised their spears as though about to attack, but instead laid them upon the cold stone of the earth. From the small altar next to the spring, they lifted a black and red kylix, an ancient two-handed vessel, decorated with large painted almond-shaped eyes. Each guardian delicately held a single handle and in unison, bent toward the spring. They plunged the cup below the surface of the water, stood up, and offered it to Silas.

  Slowly, Silas took the vessel. He raised it to his mouth, and began to drink. The cup was nearly full to brimming, and the weight of it against his lips made it hard for him to drink slowly. The water was cold, and it hurt his teeth. As it slid down his throat he felt his limbs go numb. And he was so thirsty, more thirsty than he’d ever been before in his life.

  From the first sip, he could suddenly feel and remember every moment in his life when he’d been thirsty, and this made his desire to drink even more desperate. He gulped at the water, hoping he would never reach the end. As more and more of the water of the spring of memory filled him, it loosed the bindings of his mind. He could see, as if from a rooftop, all the parts of his life’s pageant now become visible at once.

  He saw himself sitting on the porch, a child waiting for his father. Behind that vision, another him, but now a young man, still waiting on the same porch, and again, less than a year ago, walking through Lichport, still looking, still waiting for his dad. All three visions occupied the same space, the same moment, no longer isolated in time. He saw himself with different eyes. He was his father, seeing himself as an infant, as a toddler, as a teenager. He saw his father, kneeling by this same spring. And again, Amos kneeling; this time in the tall grass, crying, clutching an infant that lay motionless in his arms. Then he looked out from the corpse-eyes of his great-grandfather who was standing in front of his house, perhaps even now, watching the street, waiting for his great-grandson to return. He was Jonas Umber, eager for the honors due the family, impatient for the next generation to share in a familial sense of obligation. He was Maud Umber, not the maternal ancestress of noble carriage he’d met, but a soul trapped within a circle of fire kindled from her own terrible longing. He wanted to pause, to better understand her sorrows, but his mind was whirled away to see out through a hundred times a hundred other eyes. All his. All someone else’s. All the same. Their lives were within him, once only shadows in the blood, now fed and made substantial by the waters of the spring of memory. All the portions of his life, the moment he called them up, became clear and sharp in his mind’s eye, every detail of every memory standing out in stark contrast against the others. And in those visions, one thing remained a constant: Each person was waiting for something to happen. There was even a memory of his recent vision: A figure stood before a valley covered with bones. Was it him? Or his father? Was it actually a memory, or an event not yet come to pass? Silas wondered: Was no one in his family ever content?

  As he knelt by the spring and set down the empty vessel, he knew in his very bones and blood that this was what some of his relatives and ancestors ha
d also done. Those who remained, those who endured and hid away from time and the dissolution of their lives, had taken the waters of memory and stayed on in Arvale. An idea leapt to flame in his mind. What if the waters of memory were administered to other ghosts? The dead outside his family? Could they also endure with full recollection of their lives without becoming trapped in the shadowlands? Silas knew some spirits could continue in full knowledge without it, but what of those lost souls whose minds were broken, trapped in their own personal landscapes of guilt and shame and forgetfulness? What if he gave the waters of memory to Beatrice?

  Oh, God, he thought. That is her name.

  And for the first time since the night he lost her, Bea’s name and all his memories of her came rushing back into his mind on the rising tide of recall that the waters of memory granted. Looking down onto the spring’s reflective surface and within its brightly jeweled depths, he saw her face. Bea’s eyes were closed, and mud covered parts of her body. Weeds waved in the currents flowing over her form. Silas closed his eyes.

  He saw her walking before him, dancing about the tombstones of the town. He saw her by the Umber cemetery, waiting for him beneath the spilling moon. He saw her eyes holding him . . . her smile . . . her laugh, and in his heart he heard her voice singing as a fast-flowing, glistening stream would sing, if it had a human voice.

  Beatrice, he thought, his heart flooding with longing. I will come back for you.

  Silas rose from the spring and left the chamber without looking back. He made his way back the way he’d come. At the partially blocked passage, he paused once more. The crying had resumed, louder, and Silas could now hear it was a girl’s voice. Emboldened by his visit to the spring, determined that no one should be imprisoned or forgotten after seeing Bea’s face again, he didn’t pause. He went over the low, broken wall, stumbling in the rubble on the other side as he tried to better hear whoever was in distress.

  The small blue flames about his head blazed out and illuminated the door. Silas saw again the letters DM carved in to the door’s surface and could clearly hear someone weeping beyond. He paused, fear creeping up to him. The door had been deliberately sealed, he reminded himself. Whatever was in there had been imprisoned for a reason. But maybe there were more clues on the door itself. Maybe there was another inscription that would tell more of the mystery.

  He leaned forward, and as he put the flat of his palm to the door to support himself for a closer inspection, the seals on the door cracked, its locks slid back, and the door slowly opened toward him slightly. Silas stood there astonished at what his hand apparently had done to the door. He was the Janus. He remembered Maud’s words, that as Janus, no door could refuse him. Now he knew the truth of it.

  But with the door cracked open, he became frightened and his hands started shaking uncontrollably. He couldn’t see any movement inside. As he craned to get a better view, the door flew open, knocking him down. At the same moment, a shriek crescendoed within the confines of the chamber and Silas clapped his hands over his ears to keep the piercing wail out of his head. As he struggled to get up, a comet of smoke and flame flew past him and out of the passage, and the awful screaming subsided.

  His heart was pounding as he looked up into the once sealed cell. He took one tentative step inside. There were bones in the corner, partially covered in rags, rotten and threadbare, perhaps once a garment. Next to the bones lay the desiccated corpse of an infant. Silas put a hand over his mouth as a small pitiful sound escaped his throat. He stepped closer to the remains. They would have to be buried. He leaned over and saw that what he’d thought was a baby’s face was only a doll, a child’s plaything, the head carved roughly of wood. Its face was stained and its little dress was rotten with holes. From the position of the bones arranged around it, it looked as though whoever died here had done so while holding the doll. The bones were not very big. God. Little more than a child. Left here to die. Who could do something like that to a child? But what else might have been imprisoned here? He quickly realized he knew nothing about what he’d just released and that thought nauseated him.

  A disturbing sound rose slowly on the air behind him, like someone moaning in pain—at the bottom of a pit, or the end of a tunnel—the most distressing noise Silas had ever heard. The longer he listened, the more terrified he became. As he turned back to the passage to leave, he heard soft breathing very close to him and as he reached around and tried to close the door once more, an ear-rending scream burst the air near his face, and he fell to the floor.

  When Silas regained consciousness, he did not know how long he’d lain on the floor of the passage. He got back on his feet to the sound of ringing in his ears, and began to stagger out of the passage and up the huge vaulted corridor of stone, back the way he’d come. At the top of the stairs leading to the Great Hall, he extended his hand toward the locked door to knock. As soon as his hand touched it, the door opened. Not an accident. Just like the sealed door below in the catacombs.

  When he emerged and walked through the archway, Maud was waiting for him.

  She turned and called to the far corner of the hall where Jonas sat by the fire, “It is done!”

  Rising from a small stool where he’d been waiting by the door, Lars jumped up and grabbed him by the shoulders saying “Silas?” as though he was asking him his name.

  “Yes . . . ,” Silas answered hesitantly, confused by Lars’s agitation.

  “Just making sure. I have heard that some who come back don’t know their names anymore. You’re well. I’m glad!”

  Jonas strode across the room, studied Silas’s pale face, and laughed. “Did you see a ghost, boy?”

  Silas didn’t answer. He was scared about what he had done, about opening the locked door in the catacombs, and the sound of that terrible cry was still reverberating in his head. Maybe whatever it was, it would just move on, go home, or fall away from the world.

  “You do look a little frightened, child,” said Maud with a concerned tone.

  “No,” Silas said, nervous that his guilt showed. “Just a little in awe.”

  “That is well. Truly, this house sits on mighty foundations.”

  But there was a hint of familiarity in Maud’s tone he didn’t like. Did she know what had happened down there? No matter what she said to him, it felt like a script, like everything he saw or experienced had been planned long in advance. And he now sensed, more than ever since his experience at the spring of memory, that she was acting. From the moment of their first meeting he had felt something of the awful grief in her, but looking at Maud now, she was a mask of deliberate calm. She was hiding something.

  “Tell me now about the Door Doom. It’s part of my work. I want to know what it entails.”

  Now Maud looked a little surprised. Jonas stepped forward to answer Silas.

  “The Doom is the obligation of this house. It is what is required. As Janus, your assistance is necessary to those that reside in the . . . places of waiting.”

  “To be free? To be at peace? So it is like my work as Undertaker?”

  “In a sense, it is not entirely unlike that work, but there are differences. Everything you need to help them is here, before you. The Doom is part of your work as Janus. It is why the Undertaker returns, in life, periodically to this house. The Door Doom is that ancient and hallowed rite by which those who will not go to their rests are brought to their ending by persuasion. Or rather, by compulsion.”

  “You mean they are banished? I’m not sure I want to do it that way.”

  “I understand your reticence. It is an enormous responsibility. But it is the surest way, Silas. Yet ‘banished,’ I think, is a harsh word. They are not banished, per se. They don’t go anywhere else, not really. The matter is considered and when a judgment is made by the Janus, well, then the dead are seen to in the accustomed manner. It’s all very formal, no emotional outbursts required. I think, compared to your father’s ‘method’ where every ghost gets a hug and a good cry, you’ll find th
is much more efficient and far less melodramatic. In any case, you won’t have to spend any time convincing the dead of anything. Your word is law when they stand in the doorway upon the Limbus Stone. Won’t that be a relief? Not having to haggle with the dead?”

  “The Undertaking is not always easy. Sometimes they don’t want to go—”

  “Yes. Yes. You know how difficult certain of the dead can be.” Jonas closed his eyes for a moment and smiled, as if entertaining a happy memory. “It’s better if you see for yourself. I would have thought you would be eager to apply your exceptional gifts.”

  “Well, yes, it’s just that I’m not sure I believe that things have to be exactly as you’re saying. I have some experience, you know. I am the Undertaker of Lichport and I’ve never had to ‘pass judgment’ on anyone.”

  Frustrated, Maud broke in, speaking fast. “Yes. You are the Undertaker of Lichport, as you keep saying. No one denies this. But Silas, until you experience this tradition, a well-respected rite, how can you know what you believe is best? Try. In experience lies wisdom.”

  “I don’t know.” Something felt wrong about what they were saying. Maybe this was why his dad had turned his back on “family ways.” But Silas could not deny he was intrigued. So far, as Undertaker, there had been a lot of guesswork, a lot of experimenting and interpreting the words and work of others. Maybe the Door Doom would be something he could learn from and make his own. Even if he didn’t take it all to heart, maybe some portion of it could help in his continuing work back home. Wouldn’t his dad want him to keep an open mind, to experience things himself and make his own decisions?

  Jonas spoke again, calmly. “May I take your sober silence as a hesitant ‘yes’? Tomorrow, we shall together convene that most hallowed and ancient rite of the Door Doom. You should return to your rooms and get some sleep.”