The Temple of Heart and Bone

by Evren, S. K.

  Dashing along the fence, instinct overtook reason and emotion. The body took over from the mind, checking only once or twice through memory for destination. Running feet and rhythmic breathing worked to preserve life while the mind reeled. Scenes of horror and pain, of cruelty and fear blurred through the mind’s eye while the overgrown field swept by underfoot. Unemotionally, instinct noted to the body that the forest was approaching quickly, ignoring the ravings of disbelief and fear. The body churned and moved, gripping its lantern tightly, uncaring about the fire within. Breathing heavily, the body reached the trees and hid itself quickly behind one.

  Behind the tree, the nightmare of the farmstead fell into the distance. The tree was security. The tree was an anchor to life. The mind looked around the forest, wondering momentarily how the trees had appeared. Breathing worked continuously, restoring attachment to life, even as it expelled used breath. Slowly the horrors subsided, and deep inner fears acknowledged distance between the forest and the Death left behind. Cautiously, as if the very buildings could uproot themselves and give chase, the figure looked back the way it had come.

  The buildings remained where they had been, and the figure sighed in relief. No dim forms or shadowy images slipped through the field toward the forest. The hail, which had fallen so suddenly, melted again into rain, and water streamed down the cloak-covered figure. The clatter of shutters could still be heard in the distance, angry spirits beating their breasts for acknowledgement, vengeance, and justice. The screaming agony faded into the night, a lone voice begging helplessly against the howling wind.

  From the cover of the tree, the figure stared a long time at the remains of the farm. Its arms embraced the tree, grateful for the shelter, eager to anchor to something, anything living. Almost imperceptibly, the darkness faded slightly over the farm. The charred and rattling buildings stood out more in the light, and the figure began to appreciate the distance it had covered from the scene in the barn. The fence and the field expressed a wide gulf between farm and forest, wider than the mind could account for in memory. Brief images of running and breathing flickered amidst the darkness of terror. The figure shuddered, tightening its embrace on the tree. The images of running, of breathing and of fear were left behind, and the mind worked to restore purpose and order.

  The sun, the figure realized, was rising, or had risen, behind the inky stain of the storm clouds above. No guess could be made as to the time of day, other than it was, perhaps, near sunrise. As the clouds had shrouded the moon and stars of night, so the brighter light of day was hidden from the world below. Darkness merely paled, lessening rather than weakening. The storm and the night seemed reluctant to pass on the mantle of ownership to the light and the day. Turning away from the farm, the figure released the tree and sat back against it, wondering how far was left to go.

  If the old man was right, the path should start somewhere nearby. He had said it would not be hard to find. The first order of business, then, would be to look for the path through the trees. Breathing deeply and sighing with resignation, the figure stood up against the tree, taking a moment to scratch its back along the bark. A residual chill raced down the neck to the heels and the body shuddered involuntarily. Starting first to the left, the figure marched out to look for signs of a path in the trees. After ten or fifteen minutes of walking, the figure doubled back and began to search to the south. In less than ten minutes, a depression of the ground suggested a path winding through the cluster of trees. Deeper and less used than the narrow game trails, the figure decided to trust to luck and moved out along the path.

  Wending its way through the trees, the path proved to be somewhat erratic, though it always returned to its original course. It took some time to understand the twists and turns it had taken. The figure realized that, no matter which twists or turns the path had taken, it was always wide enough for a hand-drawn cart to move through. The old man had said that there was a wider path, much further to the south, which had been cut for a horse-drawn wagon. This one, he had said, was used for woodcutters and barter. He had also said it had more twists than a Northern trade agreement, and he had been right—but not by much.

  The bark of the trees had been cut at different areas of the path. Symbols marked routes to other camps, perhaps, or game or wood trails. It was a language known to the locals, the figure thought, and wondered about its meaning. The old man mentioned the cuts, and said that the proper set to follow would be the one that carved out a double horizontal line. When asked what they represented, the old man had simply replied, “the way through, I suppose.”

  The figure smiled to itself, thinking of the old man’s voice. He would have to hear about the experience at the farm. That was just too uncanny. The old man would be able to explain it, that was sure, might even be able to look into it, if it was something that needed looking into. It was odd for bodies to be left in the open like that, as if no one had been out to inspect the damage or investigate the disappearance of friends or loved ones. It was highly unusual, and totally against the prevailing religion of the region. The rules, the figure mused, were undoubtedly designed more to protect the population than to calm either deity or spirits. Religion, the figure thought to itself, had served only one purpose from its dawn in time, to control the minds of the masses.

  Certainly, there had been some instinctual fear in experiencing that cluster of untended corpses. Bodies represented death to the mind, either violent or perhaps infectious. It was only reasonable for instinct to be afraid of them. Whatever had killed them might remain to continue its work, whether it had been a disease or a predator. Since the primal mind, or instinct, had no means of direct communication with a rational being, it worked in chemicals and emotions, in images and reactions. The release of chemicals was what made the heart race. The sounds that had been startling in the cellar were merely the results of heightened humors, senses of the body tuned to chemical perfection by instinctual awareness.

  Deities and spirits, religions and ghost stories were tools used by primitive cultures to instruct and protect their members. The very prophets and storytellers of the times probably themselves believed their tales. Their own instincts and primal minds had worked to form guidelines that would keep them alive. Rising above the lesser members of their society, they interpreted these prophecies and sacred texts for the less gifted, sharing their insight and wisdom, ensuring their tribal blood-lines would survive. As always, the educated were the protectors of the less fortunate. The figure let out a derisive snort.

  The path in the forest passed to the accompanying thoughts of reason. Rain continued to fall and clouds continued to darken the sky. Trees marched by, marking the time, and pale darkness continued its grip on the world. A different scent came to the traveler in the forest, the scent of a mass of water, different than that of the falling rain. In the near distance, the darkness in the trees began to fade, and the figure wondered if it had found its destination. Pressing on more swiftly, nearly exhausted from the night’s travel, the figure looked forward to stopping for more than an hour, or less, of rest.

  Reaching the edge of the trees and the beginning of a clearing surrounding a quaint, if run-down cottage, the figure took another restorative pull from the flask of spirits. Moving with a renewed chemical vigor, the figure circled the cottage at distance, noticing shattered windows and slight signs of charring. Someone or something had been present to put out the fire before it could consume this cottage as it had consumed the old farm through the woods. The windows would need to be covered to keep out the rain and the cold, but that wouldn’t really be too much work. The level of the lake appeared to have risen from the rains. The rickety-looking pier was almost level with the water.

  Moving around to the front door, the figure noticed that it wasn’t latched. Wind, time, or looters must have left it open to clatter in the wind like the shutters of the farm. The memory of the shutters caused an involuntary shudder. The darkness had lifted to the point that the lantern was mostly u
nnecessary, though, the figure reasoned, the cottage might be darker inside. Once again holding the lantern out to the front, the figure concealed its other hand within its cloak. Pushing the door open with its foot, another scene of sadness was revealed sprawled upon the floor.

  Covered with leaves and surrounded by the stain of its own blood, a skeleton lie moldering on the floor. Looking closely, the amber and yellow stains that had surrounded the skeletons in the farmhouse cellar were missing, and this tugged at the figure’s mind. Turning its attention to the rest of the cottage, the figure realized that the building was in fairly sound shape. There was a cozy, if cluttered, little fireplace, but that wouldn’t take long to clean. The windows could be shuttered and boarded, which would at least keep out the wind and the rain. All in all, it was just as the old man had said it would be. The figure stepped further into the room.

  Something strong and hard wrapped itself around the figure’s ankle. Alarmed but swift, the hand that had been concealed in the cloak produced a dagger and struck down toward the feeling of pressure. The blade struck the stone floor between the ribs of the skeleton, whose very hand had closed around the figure’s ankle. As the figure looked down, the vacant eyes of the skull turned to regard it, raising its chin in appraisal. The figure turned to run, but the skeletal arm pulled the ankle it had grasped. The figure fell onto its face with a heavy thud, knocking itself senseless on the floor.

  Chapter 11 – Stick and Stone

  Why, Drothspar thought to himself, why had this happened? Why hadn’t he been there for Li? What had he done to deserve such punishment? What sins had he committed that required his wife—his very life—as a sacrifice for atonement? Was this divine judgment for his excommunication? What state of torment had he entered on waking in the forest? Questions blazed through his thoughts. Speculation offered guesses, nothing offered evidence.

  The fit of rage and terror he’d experienced had subsided somewhat. All he could do now was lie still and speculate. He was dead, or something very much like it. He could think; that was certain. He could even reason. He wasn’t a ghost, some simple shade that flickered about between legend and reality. He could affect the world around him. He had gathered the leaves on the floor to himself. He had a tangible form.

  He was not, however, what he had been. Flesh had fallen from his body. Fallen, perhaps, or been gnawed off by hungry little scavengers. How odd, he thought, to have been eaten and digested. The thought didn’t particularly bother him. He knew he couldn’t go and politely ask the animals in the forest to regurgitate his flesh, please.

  Nothing in his novitiate—nothing in life—had prepared him for this. There were rumors, of course, of older priests performing exorcisms, casting out unclean spirits. There were whispers of rites to aid troubled souls on their path to the Maker’s Forge. Aside from legend and old peasants’ tales, he had never heard of a spirit animating its bones. Ghosts were ghosts, spirits were spirits, yet one question remained—what in Creation was he?

  Revenge, he thought to himself. Revenge was one of the reasons he had heard that spirits would remain in the mortal realm. Stories told of spirits that would stalk the places they had died, hoping for a chance to fall upon the wits of their killers. The spirits had no other weapons. They could only attack the conscience and mind of their murderers. Many of these stories ended with the spirits becoming as mad as their victims. Haunted by their own trauma, altered irrevocably by their own lives and deaths, the spirits became completely lost in mind and soul. They returned to their haunting night after night, unable to remember anything else. Revenge lost its meaning—spirits stayed because they didn’t know what else to do.

  Could revenge be his purpose? On whom would he take revenge? His own killer had been a nameless, faceless marauder riding a horse in the darkness of night. His wife’s killer, perhaps? How would he ever find out—?

  Something stirred outside the cottage; something was moving around through the storm. Most animals would have the good sense to stay in their dens. What, then, could be moving outside? The idea of looking out the window occurred to him, but he decided to remain still and listen. If he started scraping about the room, he might alert whatever was moving. The hollow eyes of a skull staring out of a shattered window would probably frighten away most things, he thought to himself.

  Footsteps sounded on the wooden porch. They were quiet, moving slowly, but footsteps all the same. They stopped for a time at the front door. Drothspar’s thoughts worked coolly as he considered the situation. Whoever opened that door would see a skeleton lying in a pool of dried blood, not a priest bereft of life, love, and flesh. He needed answers. Whoever this intruder was, he decided, they could provide at least some of them. Besides, this was still his home.

  He felt angry as the door hinged mournfully open. A lantern, shielded and low, entered before a dark-cloaked figure. Though the cottage was dim, he could see the legs and body quite clearly. It wasn’t a spirit, he was certain, and certainly not a form like his own. Someone living had intruded on his thoughts. Some intruder had entered his home! Outrage mixed with jealousy. The figure moved closer, closer. The legs were in reach. He lashed out his hand and clamped down on the interloper’s ankle.

  The figure resisted. Its own hidden hand flashed out of its clothing and stabbed at his rib cage. Hooded eyes stared down at him, and he, raising his head, stared back through the eyes of death. It turned to run, but this intruder was not getting away. Pulling just as the figure lifted its foot to kick loose, Drothspar shifted its weight completely out of balance. The body lurched forward, hitting the floor with a muffled thump.

  Drothspar kept his hand on the ankle and shifted his body into a crouch. He tugged at the foot, but the figure did not move. Moving his hand up the figure’s leg, he worked his way up to the torso, always keeping one hand on the outstretched form. Placing his hand on its back, he could feel the rhythm of its breathing, and he was strangely grateful he had not killed it.

  He wondered about that feeling for a moment. Why had it mattered? What difference could it make if he killed some intruder? Why should they get to live while he was some sort of abomination? He thought he should feel more violent than he did. He was dead after all, and this creature still lived. The anger he had felt when the door first opened, however, had not been sufficient for murder. He didn’t want to kill this person because he didn’t know anything about them. His death had taken away his flesh, but his beliefs had remained. He was comforted by that thought, even as he rolled the figure on its back.

  Covered head to toe in an inky cloak, the figure remained silent and still. The cloak was so thick that it was not possible to see if the creature was still breathing. Keeping one hand clamped to the figure’s arm, Drothspar reached up to pull back the hood. His head jerked back in surprise, and a quick guilt rose up in his phantom breast.

  It was a young woman, probably a few years younger than he had been when he died. Her forehead was bleeding slightly, but her nose was bleeding freely. He worried that she would inhale her own blood, so he looked about for some way to support her head. Nothing was readily in reach, so he released her arm and cradled her head with his own right hand. He brushed the mahogany-colored hair from her wound and soaked up the blood on her pale face with her cloak.

  She was in her early twenties. Her features were striking, each calling attention to itself while adding to the whole. Her cheekbones were high, seeming to point to her eyes. Her eyes, while closed, had a slightly almond shape, like those of a curious cat. Flowing from the line of her eyes, her nose was long and graceful, ending smoothly above two closed red lips. The red of her lips, however, was the product of her nose, which continued to bleed. Wiping the blood from her lips, Drothspar felt another twinge of guilt. He mentally smacked himself for attacking the first living person he found.

  Touching her lips with the cloak, he noticed them move slightly. Her eyes fluttered open momentarily and then closed. Her forehead creased with effort, and she opened her eyes
once again. She seemed to be fighting with focus, something he understood quite well. He tried to smile with phantom muscles as she eventually focused in on his face. Her eyes widened with terror and her lips opened to gasp for breath. She seemed to feel his hand behind her head. Her face flushed a crimson red. She let out a sigh as her eyes rolled back in her head.

  Drothspar let out a mental sigh of his own and paused to consider his situation. First, he needed something to place under her head. Her nose had stopped bleeding momentarily, but he was worried it might start up again. She had a bag over her right shoulder that had been covered by her cloak. Freeing it from her shoulder, Drothspar slid the bag under her head and cushioned it with her hood.

  He closed the door to keep the cold blowing rain from falling on her face. He stood up and raised his hand to his chin in thought. Looking down at his hand, he noticed her dagger still lodged between two of his ribs. He toyed with its handle to see if it was loose. It was stuck solidly, so he wrapped one bony hand around the other and pulled on the knife. The young woman opened her eyes just in time to watch him pull her knife out of his chest. He heard her gasp and watched as her eyes widened once more. Gripping the dagger in one hand, he wove the other back and forth, trying to let her know everything was okay.

  The woman watched the skeleton brandish her dagger and wave its arm furiously. Her face flushed a deep crimson and her eyes rolled back in her head. She fell unconscious on her make-shift pillow. A small trickle of blood ran from her nose.

  Shaking his head, Drothspar knelt to stop the flow of blood. He needed more than a closed door and questionable pillow to comfort the unconscious woman. He’d need a way to communicate with her. That much was certain. He’d also need some way to cover his body. He looked around the cottage, but nothing presented itself as clothing. The curtains had all been burned too badly. He didn’t think he’d make a very striking figure as bones wrapped in charred curtains. On the other hand, that would probably be far too striking.