The Temple of Heart and Bone

by Evren, S. K.

  “Master, I admit that the Rebel Fallen did disobey the Maker. However, they did not do this for their own glory. All of their glory was seated in audience around their Master. They did not disobey for the worship or adoration of man. In truth, they have been reviled by men as long as the True Fallen. I believe that they disobeyed their Master out of Love for Him. Master, though I know it is wrong to say, the Rebel Fallen are not evil. Their actions may have been misguided, but they were not selfish.”

  Gathner, who had been on the verge of dismissing the boy, sat still in his chair. His eyes widened and his mouth opened slightly. No other expression showed on his face as he continued to stare at the novice. Drothspar, however, was certain that he was in trouble. The archpriest, he knew, was a very calm and reserved man. His declaration that the Rebels were not evil, however, appeared to have shocked the man beyond belief.

  Drothspar sat in his chair. He was looking at his feet when he heard the archpriest’s chair scraping loudly on the floor. He heard the footsteps as the man came around the table. He closed his eyes tightly and actually flinched when the archpriest spoke.

  “Drothspar,” he said seriously in a deep and resonant tone.

  “Yes Master,” Drothspar replied in a voice devoid of hope.

  “I am very proud of you, my son!”

  “Master, I can—” His words were lost as the reserved archpriest caught the young man in a gruff bear-hug. He blinked repeatedly as he was embraced by the man he was certain was going to beat him. “Thank you, Master,” was all he managed to get out.

  “Drothspar,” the archpriest said, as he stood back with a proud smile, “you are on your way to understanding evil.”

  Looking at the bodies around him in the cellar, Drothspar was certain that he could identify the works of evil. Looking at the condition of the bodies, wondering at what they must have endured, he hoped that he never truly understood evil. Three of the same inky shadows occupied the cellar. Two undulated near the corpses, while a third seemed to be hiding in the back of the cellar. Drothspar took a step closer to the moving darkness, and they appeared to cringe away from him.

  The shadows were afraid of him! Somehow, on some level, they were aware of his presence. Could these be the spirits of the Ferns? Were these shades what he had been until the moment he had been awakened? Were they trapped in some unending dream, a nightmare of existence between life and death? He tried to speak some words of comfort, but speech eluded him. He could think of little else that might comfort these restless beings. He remembered his conversation with the girl in his cottage, unable to speak, he had written.

  He knelt in the dirt and carved a symbol into the ground. The symbol looked like two triangles balanced on the tip of another triangle to form a sort of “Y” shape. It represented the twin hammers of the Maker, Faith and Hope, supported on the Forge of the Maker, known as Love. Beneath the symbol, he wrote the words of a child’s prayer for the dead.

  Gracious Maker, high above,

  You gave us Life,

  You gave us Love.

  What we have lost,

  Please hold dear,

  ‘Til in your arms all are near.

  Drothspar knew other, more elegant prayers for the dead. What he wrote in the dirt of the cellar was the prayer his mother had taught him when his grandfather had died. He traced and retraced the words in the dirt and thought back to his first real memory of sadness. He remembered crying for what seemed hours after he had been told of his grandfather’s death. His mother had come to tell him and, after doing so, had held him very close. Her own eyes, he remembered were so very red. His grandfather, this grandfather, had been her father.

  She tried for quite some time to comfort him, but nothing had worked to stop his tears. She held him. She rocked him softly as if he were still an infant. Finally, she asked him gently, “Son, why do you still cry?”

  “I’m sorry, Mother,” he had told her haltingly, “but I don’t know what else to do.”

  “If there was something,” she asked him, “something you could do for your grandfather, would you do it?”

  “Yes,” he answered quickly, his eyes lifting in hope. This was his mother, he knew, and she, of all people, could fix all things. “What, Mother? What can I do?”

  “You know that the Maker watches over us, don’t you?”

  “Yes, Mother,” he answered brokenly, but with hope in his voice.

  “There is a prayer I know, to ask Him to watch over those we have lost. If you say this prayer, and ask him with all your heart and all your soul,” she said, “I’m certain He will hear you.” She put her arm around his shoulder and kissed his forehead warmly.

  “Really, Mother?” he asked, his voice eager, and his hand smearing his tears across his cheeks.

  “Really, my son. I will teach you and say it with you. The Maker listens to all prayers,” she had told him, “but He listens closely to those said by a mother and her son.” Her own eyes began to well with water, and she squeezed her son to her breast. Her tears had fallen into his hair; he could remember them, cold and wet.

  His mother quickly taught him the sing-song words of the prayer, and they repeated the words with all of their heart and soul. Eventually, Drothspar became drowsy, and his mother tucked him into bed.

  “Do you feel better, my Love?” she asked him.

  “Yes, Mommy,” he replied.

  “That’s good. You sleep well. God and his Faithful will watch over you.” She turned to leave his room.

  “Mommy,” he called out to her, his voice on the edge of sleep.

  “Yes?”

  “He heard us, Mommy. He heard us.” Though he was falling asleep, his voice filled with such conviction that she forgot her own pain for a moment, and dared to believe.

  Drothspar continued to trace the words he had written for quite some time. The little prayer brought him back to the simple faith of a child. Even in his shared shadow of death, he felt hope for these souls. He didn’t know how much time had passed, and he had not counted the number of times he had traced out his silent prayer. He continued to trace until something inside him told him it was right. He looked once at the shadows he left behind, hoping they were more at ease.

  He repeated the little ritual in the dirt of the barn. Once more, he traced out the words without thought to time or repetition. He did what he felt was right. When he finished, he could see the pale light of morning sliding through the planks of the wall. The diffuse steel light spread like a blanket over the floor of the barn. Drothspar looked at the shadows, pleased to see them less turbulent, hoping they had found some small peace.

  Daylight carried with it the suggestion of returning to the cottage. His night of simple prayer with the dead suggested he needed something to do, something that would help with his loss now, as it had helped when he was a child. As he began to walk slowly back to the cottage, he thought about what he had, what he needed, and what he could do.

  His body was both an asset and an obstacle. Since he had form and substance, he could affect the physical world. He was, however, only a collection of bones, and most people would probably react rather poorly to his presence. He was very certain that most people would not be as open minded as the young girl who had stumbled unsuspecting into his cottage. She, herself, might have been less open-minded had he not caught her and knocked her unconscious. The memory of the incident gave him mixed feelings of small guilt and guilty amusement. Once he was certain he hadn’t hurt her, he found the thought of being caught by a pile of bones on the floor slightly amusing.

  He was fairly certain few other people would find a moving pile of bones funny, and that some industrious individual would build a fire hot enough to burn him to ashes if he were caught. He would have to cover his form to move about in occupied places, but that could be done, his robe had proven that to some degree. With more complete clothing and some padding, and a deeply cowled hood, he was certain he could move about the world. It would probably be easier in the
dark, he thought to himself.

  He would need a better outfit, but he would also need information. He needed to know what had happened to his life and his death. Most of all, he needed to know what had happened to Li. He had left her that night, more than seven years ago, just to make this walk for honey. He had never returned. Had she died in the cottage? Was the blood on the floor hers? Had she managed to hide or flee? Could the blood be someone else’s? Petreus had told the girl, Chance, little about the couple. Still, there was a strong possibility that he might know more of what had become of Li.

  Petreus might also have some knowledge of just what Drothspar had become. There were priests who handled exorcisms and the driving out of unclean spirits. Certainly these priests had to be aware of happenings that were outside the normal realms of life and death. Even if Petreus didn’t have first-hand experience with such knowledge, he would probably be able to find someone who did. For the moment, Petreus held the answers to many questions. He had to go and talk to the old priest.

  Chance had come to his cottage seeking a place to hide. He appreciated her need to establish her position with her family, but he would need help to get to Petreus. He could not speak, for one thing, and that would be a problem. Any citizen who saw a fistful of bones clutching a stick to write out a question would have him burning before a mob in no time. The girl, however, was known to Petreus. She knew her way to and from the cottage, and she seemed to have a very sharp mind. She could be his path to information—if she were willing.

  He walked near the cottage but heard nothing stirring. He fought back the urge to peek in the window and walked out on to the dock. He shook his head, imaging how it would look to wake up and see a skull peeking in the window at you. He chuckled silently at the absurdity of it and sat at the very edge of the pier. He let his feet dangle into the water and watched as the water played in and around his bones.

  He wondered how long it might take the girl inside to wake up. A quick, sharp fear stabbed into his thoughts. What if she’d already left? What if she’d taken the opportunity to leave right after he had? She could be almost halfway to Æostemark by now. His feet came up out of the water, and he turned to go back to the cottage. Slowly, however, he caught hold of himself, and eased back down into his place. If she was gone, she was gone. He certainly wasn’t going to haunt the girl throughout the world and force her to help him. Enough people were chasing her already, according to her. If she were going to help him, he decided, it definitely would have to be of her own free will.

  Drothspar sat on the edge of the pier, watching the clouds spreading thin across the sky. The light of morning began to appear in patches, wrestling with the remnants of clouds. Rain fell sporadically, deprived of the force which had allowed it to lash repeated across the water. The rain fell gently, performing an interpretive dance, telling, in its choreography, of the power its predecessors had possessed.

  The wind rippled the surface of the lake, scattering the reflection of the tattered sky above. The sound of the rain, of the world in general, was less threatening than it had been in days. Rain padded down on the wood of the pier and hissed softly in the waters of the lake. The lake sighed along the shore as it washed against the stones and sand.

  Drothspar continued to wait for the girl to awaken. The thought that she might have left occurred to him time and again, but he tried to remain as calm as he could. He decided that he would check the cottage at nightfall—if the girl hadn’t emerged by then. He began to wonder if her own wounds might have been enough to keep her unconscious, but he couldn’t really see how that might have been possible. He was certainly no physician, but the bump to her head didn’t seem that severe.

  The waiting, he supposed, was made easier by the fact that he had no concept of time. He could tell that it was day time, but that was about all. He looked around and noticed a cluster of flat, round stones. He got up off the pier and walked down to the shore. He started picking up the stones and setting them on the edge of the little dock. After he’d gathered up a fair sized pile, he walked back out on the pier. He took up one of the stones, holding it in the curve between his first finger and thumb on his left hand. He drew back his arm and tossed it straight into the water. The stone slipped into the surface as smoothly as an arrow.

  Undiscouraged, he took up another stone and again tried to skip it across the water. The stone skipped a single time, then sank with a gulping splash. He picked up another stone, and tried again. It had been a long time since he’d tried to skip a stone, he thought to himself. At least seven years, a wry part of his mind agreed. He remembered skipping stones as a child; there was a sort of magic to the practice.

  Stones were hard, simple objects. They had no ability to float on their own. If you could throw them just right, however, you could make them bounce across the water as if it were something solid. He’d known children who could skip stones multiple times, and others who could hardly succeed at all. He didn’t remember anyone who had never given it a try. Give a child some water and some stones, and the basic knowledge that it could be done, and you’d have an instant contest. Even if they were alone, children just had to know if they could do it.

  As he grew older, the opportunities to skip stones seemed to diminish, but never completely disappear. It was a part of childhood that no adult seemed to be able to completely put aside. It was one simple form of magic that anyone could perform. He had seen dignified and reserved priests take up stones at the edge of a pond, peek around to make sure no one was watching, and skip rocks out into the water. Once, he had seen an older priest hop into the air at each skip of his stone.

  Standing on the pier throwing rocks, he didn’t notice the young woman emerge from the cottage. She stood some distance away, walking quietly, watching what he was doing. She watched him bend down to pick up a stone, lean back, and throw it at the water. The first several attempts that she observed plunged directly into the lake. One, however, bounced off of the water and several feet out onto the lake before it splashed down into the surface. Fascinated, she watched as he tried again. On his next attempt, the stone actually bounced twice before sinking.

  In Drothspar’s defense, the water was not ideal for skipping. The surface of the lake was broken by the coughing winds and faltering rain of the dying storm. He refused, however, to let the minor setback of uncooperative water impede his skipping. He skipped all the stones that he had collected, and eagerly turned to get some more. As he turned, he noticed the young woman watching. He imagined he knew how the old priests would have felt if they had noticed him in his cell window.

  He stood frozen, unable to say a word. He felt embarrassed that he had been watched by someone he hadn’t seen. He also felt a twinge of regret at being interrupted in his play. Chance stood there watching him, frozen as well. They stood quietly, each having surprised the other. Drothspar stepped off of the pier and knelt on the ground.

  “Hi,” he wrote simply in the sand. Chance stirred to life and read his message.

  “Hi,” she replied. “You weren’t a dream,” she told him, as if he might not be sure.

  “No,” he wrote and shook his head.

  “Um,” she said, curiosity burning in her head, “what were you doing?”

  “Skipping rocks,” he wrote, realizing how much noise he must have been making. “I’m sorry, did I wake you?”

  “No,” she replied, “well, yeah, but that’s okay. How were you doing that?”

  Drothspar looked at her and erased what he had written in the sand. “You’ve never skipped stones?” he asked.

  “No, is it hard?”

  “Not at all,” he wrote, “I’ll be happy to show you.”

  “Really?” her voice was filled with enthusiastic excitement.

  Drothspar nodded and stood up. He beckoned with his arm for her to follow. Walking closer to the shore, he knelt down by the rocks and picked up one that was round and flat. He held it up to her. There were too many stones around for him to write anyth
ing out, so he had to draw out ideas in the air. He pointed to the stone and made a circle in the air with his finger.

  “Round,” she asked, like this?” She held up a rock that was completely rounded, not at all flat.

  Drothspar shook his head and turned his stone to the side. He made the circle in the air again, then pointed at the side of the rock, indicating the flat of the stone. He squeezed his fingers together as if her were pinching a grape.

  “Round and thin,” she said, with a bit more confidence.

  Drothspar nodded his head hesitantly. He turned the stone so that it was horizontal. He drew his hand across the flat edge of the stone as if he were slowly dusting it off. He repeated the action a few times.

  “Round, thin,” she said, “and flat!”

  Drothspar nodded enthusiastically. He gathered up a few more stones that met the criteria and showed them to her in his hands. She nodded her understanding, and he deposited his collection on the pier. Chance had become so involved in finding the stones that she appeared to be oblivious to the fact that she was kneeling in rocks with a skeletal companion.

  When they had collected enough, Drothspar motioned for her to follow him onto the pier. They walked out a ways, and he picked up two stones, one for himself, and one for her. He showed her how he held the stone in the curve between his thumb and forefinger. He traced the curve with the finger of his right hand. He leaned back as if he were going to throw, then leaned forward, showing how he tried to keep the stone flat as he would throw it. He leaned forward, as if the stone were about to leave his hand. He reached with his right hand and held the stone in the center top and bottom. Slowly, he let his right hand take the stone as if it had been thrown. His left forefinger trailed on the edge of the stone, making it spin slowly in his right hand. He repeated the whole display several time, then looked at the young girl’s face.