by Evren, S. K.
The clothing he had worn at the time of his death had either rotted away or been carried off by animals for use in nests and dens. Once she stopped bleeding, he looked into the bedrooms where he and Li had kept their clothing. Everything of use was gone, either looted or packed away. He looked at the little sanctuary he had built into the cottage walls when they had arrived. He had wanted to retain some connection with his priestly past. Li didn’t entirely approve, but she hadn’t said anything negative about it.
His priest’s robe! The robe he was wearing when he met her! He had kept it hidden behind a loose log of the sanctuary. Li had never forgiven the Church for expelling them under false pretenses. She had accepted the little sanctuary because, as he told her, it had been devoted to the Maker, not the Church. The robe, however, she had banished. He was supposed to have taken it out and burned it, but it reminded him of the day they had met. He couldn’t bring himself to burn it. It had, in its own way, been a part of his experience of her. He had hoped that one day she might relent and he could share that memory with her.
He hung his head. That chance was long gone. He shook off the thought, worried the injured young woman on the floor would wake again to see Death standing over her. Working as quickly as he could, he wriggled the loose log out of place and recovered his robe. It was dusty, to be sure, and had more than a few holes in it. The holes, however, were small, and the robe was very long and thick. It was dark brown in color with a lighter brown mantle over the shoulders. A dark brown hood draped over the back of the mantle, matching the color of the main robe.
Slipping the robe over his head, Drothspar worked his arms into the sleeves and his head into the hood. The robe draped loosely over his form, and reached several inches onto the floor. He remembered it as coming just below his ankle. He thought about it, realizing, wryly, that he had lost a considerable amount of weight. Looking around the cottage, he remembered the girl’s knife. Working by the fireplace, he trimmed the hem of the robe. Standing up, it was still a little long, so he took off a bit more. He wanted the robe to drag just a little to hide the bones of his feet.
Once that had been accomplished, he started working on a way to communicate. He could write, if only he had something to write with—and on. Looking in the fireplace, he found an old, charred piece of wood. Pulling it out of the debris, he tried writing on the floor. It was a bit hard to make letters at first, but he scraped the shiny aging off of the outer layer, and the writing became easier. He wrote a simple message on the floor and decided it might be nice to start a fire.
A small bit of flint had fallen beside the fireplace, and there was more than enough tinder. A stack of old, dried wood remained near the fireplace, apparently not valuable enough to steal or take away. The flue was probably a disaster. He opened the metal plate in the chimney and dust and debris fell like an avalanche into the fireplace. He gave another phantom sigh and started working on cleaning the mess.
Within a short time he had cleared the debris from the fireplace and gathered old plants and leaves for tinder. Striking the flint to his rusted dagger, he managed to get some sparks into the fireplace. He tried to blow on the glowing embers, but nothing happened. He nodded his head in understanding and struck flint to metal again. The sparks flew once more and he tried to wave the air with his hand. The little sparks glowed slightly, then dimmed and went out. Gathering the hem of his robes, he tried a third time, striking flint to dagger. Sparks flew from the flint and into the fireplace. Waving the hem of his robes, the sparks glowed and smoked in the tinder. After a few moments, a small fire came to life, licking the dead plants. Slowly and carefully, he fed the flames with little twigs and splinters.
The clicking of flint and steel had stirred the young woman on the floor. Her brow creased in effort and pain, and she reached her hand to her forehead. She looked at the fireplace and the figure working the flame.
“Hello,” she croaked, her voice both nervous and hoarse.
Drothspar didn’t turn and continued to feed the fire. He pointed down to the floor, to the charcoal message he had written there. The woman followed the line of his arm, his hand covered by the sleeve of his robe.
“I cannot speak,” she read aloud, “but you are safe. You were injured, but you should be okay.” She looked at the figure working the fire and noticed the color of the robes.
“My God,” she said, “you’re a priest! You wouldn’t believe the dreams I was having.” She paused for a moment. “You are a priest aren’t you?”
Drothspar cocked his head and thought about how to answer. He considered her health and welfare, realizing she would probably be more relaxed if he agreed that he was. He also considered his past and his present condition, and decided he couldn’t lie. He shook his head negatively.
He could sense her nervousness immediately. Keeping his face turned toward the growing fire, he leaned slightly toward her and wrote with his sleeve covering his hand and his writing.
“It’s okay,” she read. He put a few larger sticks into the fire, careful not to smother it. The woman touched her hand to her cloak, searching.
“Where’s my dagger?” she asked nervously.
Drothspar pointed to the kitchen, a part of the cottage that was equally distant from the both of them.
“Okay,” she said uncertainly. She reached for her pack, frantically for a moment, until she found she had been laying on it. She rifled around in her bag, trying to see if anything was missing. Everything must have been in order because she stopped searching and pulled out a flask. Taking a drink, she extended her hand to the figure by the fire.
“I have some spirits here, would you care for a drink,” she offered.
Drothspar jerked slightly at the word “spirits,” then relaxed when he understood. He shook his head negatively, continuing to stare into the fire.
“What happened to me?” she asked him.
“You fell,” she read what he wrote.
“I fell,” she repeated. “I was pulled, I was pulled off balance. You did that, didn’t you?”
“Yes,” she read.
“Why?” she asked.
Drothspar paused for a moment to think about it. Adding a bit more wood to the now stable fire, he turned and answered on the stone floor.
“You surprised me,” she read.
“I didn’t expect anyone to be here,” she replied to his writing. “The old man who told me about this place said it had been abandoned for years.” Drothspar’s head rose at her words, but remained facing the fire.
“How many?” he wrote.
“How many what?” she asked. “Oh,” she said understanding, “years. Let me see, six or seven, I think he said.” She watched as the hood by the fire slumped low toward its chest. “Hey,” she asked, “are you okay?”
“Not really,” she read the written reply. “What is your name?” he wrote.
“Chance,” she answered. “It’s not my ‘given’ name, but I don’t really care for my given name.”
“Chants,” he wrote, followed by a big question mark.
“No, no,” she said, “‘Chance,’ as in ‘taking a chance.’” She watched as his head nodded slowly. “What’s your name?” she asked.
“Droth…,” she read, following his letters, “…spar. Drothspar,” she said finally. “Drothspar? That was the name of the man who lived in this cottage.”
Slowly he nodded his head.
“You’re that Drothspar?” she asked intently.
He nodded again.
“Oh my God,” she said. “Petreus is going to be amazed! Do you know,” she began, “he thinks you’re dead!”
“He’s right,” she read the written reply, her heart thumping suddenly in her chest. Her breaths came faster and her spine grew cold. She watched as the sleeve-shrouded arm wrote once more. “I am dead,” it wrote, “at least, I think I am.”
“You think you are?” she questioned him, her voice going up several notes.
“Please,” the writing a
sked, “please try to be calm. I will not hurt you. I promise.” He held his hand over the floor, indicating that he wished to write more. After a moment, she understood his pausing inquiry.
“Okay,” she said, “I’ll try.”
Slowly, as if afraid to startle her, he pulled back the sleeve of his left arm with his right hand. She saw, clearly, the bones holding the charcoal stick. She gasped quickly and let out a brief, startled scream. He flexed the fingers of his hand, begging her patience.
“Please,” he wrote, “I do not understand how this can be either. I promise that I do not intend to hurt you.”
She stared at the writing on the floor and the hand that held the charcoal stick. She glanced quickly at the dagger across the room, and thought seriously about dashing for it. Drothspar didn’t move, knowing there was nothing more he could say or do. He thought he could feel the fear burning inside of her. Although he wasn’t sure how, he could somehow feel her attention focus on her dagger. Tension filled the little room. Then, suddenly, she relaxed slightly.
“I don’t suppose it would do much good,” she said, “my dagger, I mean.”
“Not really,” he wrote. “Too late,” he added afterwards. He felt her tense up again after he wrote that. He cursed himself for his grisly little joke. After a moment, however, she let a nervous laugh escape.
“I’m sorry,” she quickly apologized, “I didn’t mean to mock you or anything.”
“It’s okay,” he wrote, “I was trying to make a joke.” He turned slowly to face her and looked about the floor. Selecting another part of the ground to write on, he wrote her another message. “I’m running out of space over there.”
Drothspar could feel the eyes of the young woman soaking up the secrets of his form. Death was a common companion, brought on by disease, starvation, war, even old age. The inner visage of the body’s structure, however, remained hidden, in most cases, for years after the ending of the life. To see a complete skeleton, he thought, would be uncommon enough. To see a completely animate skeleton was, even to him, somewhere between a miracle and a tragedy. The young woman appeared to be deep in thought before she caught herself staring and looked away.
“I’m sorry—again,” she said. “I didn’t mean to stare… Well, I guess that’s not entirely true. I did mean to stare. I just hope I didn’t make you too uncomfortable.” She grimaced, and looked about the room as if trying to find some way to explain.
“I understand,” he wrote in reply. He scratched it out quickly. “At least I try to,” he charcoaled in its place.” She looked at him and nodded her head slightly.
“Do you know how it happened?” she asked.
“No,” he replied.
“Do you know how you died?”
“Yes.”
“How long ago did you,” she paused, searching for a term, “how long ago did you wake up?” She raised her eyebrows and spread her hands, “Is that what you did?”
“Time,” he wrote and considered her question. He still did not seem to have a feeling of the passage of time. He thought back over the occurrences since he “woke up.” He tried to remember the passage of day and night. “Two, maybe three days,” he estimated. “Woke up,” he added, “maybe, not sure.”
“Do you remember anything at all?” she pressed.
“A voice,” he wrote. He couldn’t remember the voice clearly, or even if it had really existed. It seemed like the tattered remains of an almost forgotten dream. He focused, not on the voice, but on the feeling of the experience. He couldn’t remember the words or the sounds, but he could remember feeling called. “Calling,” he added after voice.
“You heard a voice calling you?”
“Maybe,” he etched. The floor again became cluttered with writing. He shifted slightly and chose another spot of floor to write on. “I remember a calling,” he wrote, “then gone.”
“Something called out to you,” she encouraged him, “and then it stopped?”
He thought about the moment again, focusing on the feelings before he rose to some form of consciousness. The voice had stopped, but he felt like it hadn’t ended, it had just gone. He considered how best to express the thought in charcoal and floor. “Not finished,” he wrote finally, “just gone.”
“I think I understand what you mean. It’s like when someone is telling you a story, and then they leave before they finish it. Even if you don’t know the end, you still know that something is missing.”
Drothspar nodded. “Yes.”
“This is an awkward conversation, isn’t it?” she asked in a wry and frightened voice.
“In many ways,” he wrote, twisting to find a space on the floor. A moment later he added, “Joke.”
She smiled at him. He tried to smile back at her, but there was no change in her expression. Mentally he slapped himself again. He had no expression. It was so strange. He could feel his phantom muscles. He could feel the smile on his face. He could read in her eyes, more clearly than any mirror, that the smile he made was not really there. Hollow eyes and pale bone were his only face to the world.
“You can hear me,” she said aloud, as much to herself as to him, “but you can’t speak.” She looked at him more closely, searching his face and head. “I don’t mean to pry, but, um, do you have ears?”
Drothspar had been sitting leaning slightly forward. He sat up quickly, his back becoming erect. Her question surprised him.
“I didn’t mean to offend you,” she said quickly in a mollifying tone. “I was just curious, please forgive me,” her voice trailed off on a pleading note.
Drothspar looked at her and noticed the worried look on her face. He realized how much of their communication was based on expression and posture. He had straightened in surprise at her insight, and she had interpreted it as something like indignation. He waved his hand at her in what he thought was a calming fashion—hoping she wouldn’t faint.
“Not offended,” he wrote, “just surprised. I have no ears. I do hear.” Slowly, to avoid startling her, he pushed back the hood of his cloak. Chance hissed slightly, sucking in her breath through her teeth as if she were looking at a serious wound. “I could hear your breath,” he wrote.
“I’m sorry,” she replied, “I guess I wasn’t as ready as I thought.” She searched for words to express herself to the writing skeleton before her. “I hope I didn’t offend you.”
“You did not,” he wrote. He could see, however, that her mind was working on something else as she read his words.
“Still,” she said, again more to herself that to him, “you certainly can hear.”
He nodded his agreement.
“Can you see? Well, I guess that’s a foolish question, or is it? You know I’m here, you caught my foot…” Drothspar was grateful she couldn’t see the phantom blush he felt in his nonexistent cheeks. “Can you see?” she repeated her question.
“Yes,” he wrote. “Hazy at first, getting better.”
“So, you can see without,” she paused taking a breath of air, “eyes. You can hear without ears. Can you smell things?”
He nodded again.
“Can you feel things?” she asked, curiosity beginning to overtake the fear.
He nodded his assent.
“Can you tell the difference between soft and rough?”
“I can feel,” he wrote, “but different.” He searched for a way to express the difference to her. “Like hands wrapped in wool.”
She frowned slightly, trying to imagine feeling something with her hands wrapped in wool. She cocked her head slightly as another thought occurred to her. “What about the difference between hot and cold, can you feel that?”
He remembered feeling slightly cool in the night at the farm. He hadn’t thought too much about heat, even though he’d been sitting right next to the fire. He turned toward the flames and stuck his hand into them. He could tell that it was warm, but there was no sense of pain for him. His sleeve, being ragged, dry, and old, began to smolder quickly. He pul
led his hand from the flames, and patted his sleeve against the floor.
Looking up at Chance, he noticed she had a startled expression on her face. He felt a little sheepish about thrusting his hand into the fire. He was considering how he might explain himself to her when she spoke.
“It’s okay,” she said, “I’d probably have done the same thing. Actually, I’m kind of known for doing impulsive things.”
“How did you know?” he wrote. “What I was thinking,” he added quickly.
“You were so intent on your hand and your smoking sleeve, and then you just looked up at me and stopped,” she shrugged at him. “I guess I do sort of the same thing when I realize someone’s been watching one of my, um, adventures.” She smiled at him tentatively. “Did you feel it?” she asked.
“Yes, but no pain. Only heat.”
“Well,” she said, “that covers sight, sound, smell, and touch. What about taste?”
Drothspar looked at her steadily. If nothing else, she certainly was thorough. He hadn’t really thought about it, but without a tongue, he was pretty sure it was pointless. All the other senses were related to things he no longer possessed, why should taste be any different. “How?” he wrote.
She picked up her shoulder bag and sifted through it. She found some bread she’d wrapped for the journey. She unrolled it from the cloth and broke off a small piece. “It’s a little soggy. I guess some of the storm seeped into my bag.”
Up until that moment, an unspoken boundary of distance had separated the two beings in the cottage. Drothspar had remained carefully by the fire, and Chance had remained close to the door. Slowly, nervously, the young woman extended her hand with the bread in her fingers. She cringed slightly when he took the piece, afraid she might feel the bones of his fingers scraping against hers. Drothspar took the bread carefully, trying to avoid touching her for much the same reason. He felt unclean, and he didn’t want to spread that feeling to her.