by Evren, S. K.
Chapter 16 – Touch
Drothspar looked down at the smiling young woman. He watched the light rain fall across her face. He felt it tapping at his own head and hand, but that didn’t really matter.
Chance was smiling.
In the days since he’d awakened, he’d worried about his wife, he’d worried about what he’d become, he’d worried about what to do with his new life. Looking down into grateful, bloodshot eyes, he stopped worrying. He knew the moment wouldn’t last, it never did. Time moved on and worries caught up. He always wondered why.
Chance struggled to rise to a sitting position, and he reached down to help her. He drew out his tablet and tried to shield it from the falling rain.
“How are you?” he wrote.
“I’m—,” she coughed, struggling to speak. “I’m going to be okay.” She paused, taking air in deep breaths. “I think.”
“I was worried.”
“So was I,” she laughed weakly. “Don’t make me laugh,” she begged him.
“I wasn’t trying to,” he wrote.
“I know,” she said, laying her hand on his.
She found it easier to touch his hand the second time. It was hard and rough, cool as the autumn air, and wet from the falling rain. She had been afraid to touch him since they had met. She was intellectually and instinctively repulsed by the idea of touching something dead. She intuitively felt he was self-conscious about what he was.
Still, words were not enough. She could feel the smoke in her nose, throat, and lungs. He had brought her out into fresher, cooler air. He had carried her when her own legs had failed. He had stayed with her when she needed him.
She hoped he wouldn’t be offended by her touch. He had risked himself for her sake. She felt that she could take the chance of offending him. Sometimes, chances were what it was all about. If you don’t take the chance, you’ll never know the answer. That’s what she’d told her friends at school, anyway.
Drothspar didn’t recoil from her touch. He appreciated how much it must have taken on her behalf. Once again he marveled at her courage. He smiled a phantom smile back at her, remembering a moment later that she couldn’t see it, even if she could see his face.
“Thank you,” he wrote simply.
“You’re welcome,” she rasped in reply, squeezing his hand gently.
The rain began to fall more heavily, soaking deep into their clothes. Drothspar’s tablet ran with water, making it impossible to mark with his charred stick. He looked at Chance and made two different gestures. First he straightened his hand horizontally, then pushed it down, as if making something flat. Chance watched him curiously. Next he pointed off to the west, then switched back and forth between the two.
“Do I want to stay or leave?” she asked.
He nodded.
“I don’t want to go back into the city, that’s certain.” She looked at the muddy field around her. “Staying here won’t help. I suppose we should start heading back.” She tried to get to her feet but her hands slipped out from under her. Drothspar reached down and helped her to stand. As she stood, she noticed the large open pit behind her.
“What’s that?” she asked, shielding her eyes from the rain with her hand.
Drothspar shook his head from side to side.
Slowly, Chance walked to the edge, stepping carefully to avoid falling. She turned her head quickly from the sight and walked several steps away. Drothspar approached the edge. He saw the outlines of countless bodies impressed into the earth. Even the heavy rains had not been enough to wash the hard packed dirt smooth. Puddles had formed in the casts of bodies, creating liquid representations of the long-dead. Tattered bits of clothes and an odd assortment of broken bones littered the visible dirt. Not one complete corpse remained. Drothspar looked out at the length and breadth of the pit. He was certain he could have fit four of his cottages side-by-side, with room to spare. He could probably have added another if it weren’t for the large, old, building stones deep in the far end. Why bury blocks?
Chance was looking at the woods with a worried eye and shivering. Drothspar backed away from the pit and joined her several feet away. He pointed toward the west and she nodded her head.
The sun had hidden itself behind the clouds and rain swept down over the muddy plains of Æostemark. The city smoldered in ruins behind them, coughing black smoke into the lead-gray sky. Their original purpose for visiting Æostemark sank down into its streets in mud and sodden ashes.
Before nightfall, they reached the edge of the forest. They walked as far as they could in the remaining light. Drothspar found a semi-dry spot for Chance to rest. As she settled in to sleep, he took the bottle she used for water and filled it with the run off of leaves. He spent the night harvesting water and wondering about the destruction of Æostemark.
Someone had used the city. They had looted it of its dead—but not all of them. Why leave anything behind? Why run off with any at all? He was sure of one thing—his awakening was not an accident. Somehow, he’d been affected by the ritual in Æostemark. Who could do that? Who would—?
Cool water ran down the back of his hand. The bottle had filled to overflowing and refused hold any more. He poured out enough to tap the cork into place. Worrying wouldn’t answer his questions. He had done all that he could for the moment. This day, he thought, was over. It was time to lay it to rest.
The next day dawned cold. Rain fell as a mist through the bare limbs of the forest. Drothspar waited for Chance to wake up and presented her with the bottle he had filled. She drank gratefully, still parched from the smoke and heat of Æostemark. Having brought little with them, there was little to pack as they left their night’s encampment.
Although she never mentioned it, Drothspar was almost certain that the young woman’s food had run out. He tried a couple of times to ask her, but she waved him off nonchalantly. She told him she was fine and that her stores would hold out for a little while longer.
They made time as best they could, weaving their way among the trees. After several hours, they came upon the eastern shore of the lake. Chance took in a great breath of the humid air. Her mood improved as she looked out over the water, grateful for the vast open space. Drothspar felt better at the lake, as well. He had many good memories of his life there, and he, also, found comfort in the open views around them. Their passage through the forest had been nervous. Shadows, real and imagined, had lingered behind every bare tree. The dead of Æostemark had gone somewhere. The question was, where?
Drothspar and Chance reached the cottage shortly after nightfall. They stumbled along in the darkness, eager to reach the sturdy little home. The cottage was exactly as they had left it, aside from a collection of leaves that had blown in through the broken windows. Drothspar set to work building a fire while Chance hung her cloak up to dry.
“How are you feeling?” he asked her once they had settled.
“Better,” she replied hesitantly. The flush had disappeared from her checks and her voice had lost its rasp. Drothspar looked at her closely. Her eyes had a slightly vacant cast and it had taken her a moment to answer his written question. He had seen that look many times.
“How long have you been out of food?” he wrote. Her eyes flashed involuntarily to his face before she casually moved them away. A look of consternation creased her brow as she felt her own eyes give her away.
“Since the night before last,” she admitted, “the night before we reached Æostemark.”
Drothspar nodded slowly.
“I didn’t think it would matter at first,” she explained, “we were so close to Æostemark. I thought we’d just find food there.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked her.
“At first, like I said, I didn’t think it would matter. After we got out of the city, it really didn’t matter to me for a while. Once I started to cough all that smoke out of my lungs, I wasn’t all that hungry. By the time we settled in for the night, I didn’t think there was much we could
do about it.”
Drothspar nodded again. “Why didn’t you tell me today?”
“I’m okay,” she insisted with a hint of steel in her voice. “I didn’t want you to worry, and besides, I can take care of myself.” Her eyes narrowed and her brow creased slightly. “I got here by myself,” she pointed out. She paused seeming to consider something, something that remained just out of focus. “You’ve done so much for me already,” she continued, “I didn’t want you running off like some kind of servant to try and fetch me food. You’re your own person, and you have things you need to worry about, and they don’t always have to be me.” She looked at him seriously. “Like I said, I can take care of myself, too. I really don’t even feel all that hungry just now.” She started rubbing her temples and leaned forward in her chair. “This is really annoying,” she said mostly to herself.
“What is?” he asked, hoping she didn’t mean his questions.
“I know I’ve already said enough,” she explained, “too much, more than likely. But I still keep talking. I feel like I’ve been drinking or something.”
“It’s from the hunger,” he wrote. “When the priests where I studied would go into fasting, the first couple of days were filled with chatter. At first I thought it was simply to keep their minds off the hunger. When I started fasting, I felt the same way, though. I would talk or listen to anyone. Shortly after that, I remember, I started sleeping less and less. I think my body was trying to encourage me to find something to eat instead of staying asleep.”
“Really,” she said with interest, “what else happens?”
“Well,” he started, “after about three days, at least for me, the call of nature became quite urgent.”
“I’m not sure I understand…”
“My body purged itself,” he explained delicately. “Whatever had remained in me decided it really needed to get out… fast.” He was momentarily grateful that he couldn’t blush.”
“Oh my,” she said, comprehending. “Three days, you say?”
“For me, I’m not sure about the others.”
“How long did you fast for?”
“I think the longest I managed was about seven days,” he wrote.
“What was it like?” she asked.
“In the last couple of days,” he explained, “the shadows started to move. I was anxious, but I didn’t have the energy to be nervous. I was tired.”
“And you didn’t eat anything that whole time?”
“No food,” he wrote, “only water and tea. Some of the older priests took bread after sundown, but I was young. I suppose I was curious, too, to see if I could actually do it.”
“Did you fast often?”
“There are smaller fasts in the church year, a day or so here or there. Fasting for extended periods of time can be very dangerous, so it was usually reserved for personal purity, or the occasional challenge.”
“What do you mean by ‘challenge?’” she asked.
“Unmarried priests usually live on church grounds, in what we call ‘chapter houses.’ It’s not uncommon for one priest to go into fasting in the house and be joined by several others. The ‘challenge’ is unspoken, and it’s never formal. In truth, it’s frowned upon by the archpriests. It isn’t very useful to have your entire staff of priests wandering around with vacant eyes.
“Many priests,” he continued, “do their best to tempt each other with foods while they’re fasting. Some will slip bits of bread or crackers under doors. Others, if they have the chance, will go so far as to cook something savory and parade it past a competitor’s prayer cell. They cook often for the hungry of the city, but it’s only during fasting that the meals take detours through the living quarters.”
“What a very strange thing,” she exclaimed.
“Probably,” he admitted, “it’s fun to watch though.”
“Did you ever do those things?”
“No,” he replied. “I think I took myself too seriously when I was still at the chapter. The Good Maker knows I’ve had parades of dishes outside my cell, though.”
“They tempted you a lot, did they?”
Drothspar nodded. “There were plenty of priests who… well, they didn’t really like me. They actually said some pretty scandalous things about me, or so I’m told. I wasn’t very happy about that, but I suppose I understood. We were taught to keep forgiveness ever present in our thoughts. It wasn’t always easy, I admit. I had some great daydreams about going into town to buy up sweet pastries in retaliation. I never did, though.” He paused and looked at his sleeve, blackened by all the words he’d wiped from his slate. “I suppose I did take it out on some of them,” he admitted.
“How?” she asked.
“We would have martial training sessions in the common area. The older, more experienced priests would instruct us in the use of swords and other weapons. They never gave us real ones for practice. Probably because they were afraid we’d hack each other to bits. Instead, they gave us wooden swords. I was young and agile, strong and eager. I had also been a member of the city guard prior to being a novice. I wouldn’t say I had received the training of a soldier, mind you, but I had a fair amount of experience with weapons. I sent many of my brother novices and priests limping and moaning to their beds.”
“Drothspar,” she exclaimed in mock exasperation.
“I know,” he wrote, “it was wrong and unforgiving, and selfish.” He turned his head from side to side as if looking for someone who might be hiding. “It still felt really good though.” He added his hand drawn smile at the end.
Chance laughed at his admission and his little smile. Drothspar hung his head feeling slightly embarrassed. He’d never admitted to anyone that his exuberance during his field lessons was simply masked revenge. He looked up and noticed that Chance was still looking at him, as if trying to make up her mind.
“I am a little hungry,” she said finally. “Do you have any ideas?”
“I can try to set some traps for rabbits in the woods,” he suggested. We could try our hand at fishing, but…”
“But?”
“It’s not a good time of year for trapping,” he wrote, “and it’s been some time since I’ve tried to fish here. I’m worried about what might happen to you if we don’t succeed quickly.” She read his slate and looked at him thoughtfully.
“Why don’t we ‘try our hand’ at fishing tomorrow,” she said. “I’ve never done it before, but you know, I’ve always wanted to try. We’ll let the fish decide. If we catch more fish than we can handle, I’ll have food and we’ll be safe for a while. If we fail miserably, we can put our heads together and think about alternatives. Sound like a deal?”
“Yes it does.”
“Excellent,” she said, clapping her hands together once. “Now, if you don’t mind, I really need to sleep.”
Drothspar nodded and got up to leave the cottage.
“You don’t have to leave,” she called after him, surprising herself with the urgency in her voice. “I mean, I’m not afraid anymore.” She furrowed her brow wondering why she’d just said that. Drothspar looked at her, enigmatic as always. She felt she had to say something else, something to cover her surprise. “If you can’t sleep, though, just please try not to make too much noise.”
Drothspar nodded his head slowly. He moved away from the fire and leaned his back against the northern wall. He watched the young woman settle herself down to sleep. He smiled internally, happy she hadn’t asked him to wait the night outside again. He didn’t mind the cold, he didn’t mind not sleeping. He admitted to himself, however, that it had hurt him to be turned away because he was different. He wondered if he’d have felt something else if he’d have been a normal, living man. It could be considered inappropriate to spend the night in such close quarters to a stranger. Yet, he wasn’t normal or living, and he was grateful to not be cast away again.
Chapter 17 – Fishing
The next day dawned bright and cool. Before the sun cleared the hor
izon, Drothspar decided to slip as quietly as he could from the cottage. His cloth wrapped feet made little noise as he padded to the door. He paused briefly to pick up a cracked wooden bowl. He opened the door slowly, watching Chance to make sure she was still sleeping. Stepping out into the brisk, humid air, he closed the door softly behind him.
He had done a fair amount of fishing when he’d been alive, and he knew they were going to need some good bait. Once he was off the wooden porch, he moved away from the cottage to avoid making any unintended noise. He walked into the shadows of the forest and started rooting around under fallen branches, rotten logs, and larger rocks. He collected a goodly number of night crawlers in his bowl and walked it back to the porch.
He returned to the woods to find a pair of long, springy branches to use for fishing poles. He knew he wouldn’t be able to use deadfall branches, they could snap if the fish were large enough. He found two sturdy branches he thought would make good poles and hacked them away from their trees. He shook his head. He was hacking at branches with the dagger that had killed him. Of course, he thought, how much more strange was it for the skeletal remains of a defrocked priest to be looking for fishing poles? He shrugged and tucked the dagger back under his cloak. Either way, he was glad he’d stolen it from his killer.
Walking back to the cottage he realized he’d forgotten the line inside. He had always kept a supply of waxed fishing cord in a cabinet near the door. He had some fish hooks there as well, but he hadn’t checked for either since he had returned. He’d have to wait for Chance to wake up before he could go looking for them. He seated himself on the edge of the porch and examined his collection of worms. They squirmed about in confusion, unaccustomed to the chill, moving air. Their day was about to get worse, but that was the nature of fishing.
The sun was much higher in the sky when he finally heard evidence that Chance was stirring. He listened closely to make sure she was actually moving and not just tossing and turning. Convinced by shuffles and scrapes and a series of coughs, he knocked softly on the door.