#theme: burial

[larissa-the-scribe]

Terrarium Lights

Part 1 of 3 for @inklings-challenge

An older lady befriends and adopts a ghost she found in her garden

Next part >>here

Michael Goffrey bid his wife farewell as he left for his next shipping job, and Gail Goffrey was once again faced with the fact that her house was cavernously empty.

She had expected the house to feel empty after her children grew up and moved on with their lives; that was the sort of thing one always heard about from the mothers and wives left behind. However, everyone seemed to stress the loneliness—not the rather more intense boredom.

Gail had always preferred quiet and alone time, so she did not take issue with the solitude. However, though she still had to cook and mend and clean and tidy and all the other tasks, it was one thing to do so for six people and quite another, shorter thing to do so for two. It was even less of a thing to do so for one, since Michael had been promoted to first mate and now had to accompany the airships personally, no longer simply loading and unloading at the cloudends as he once did.

Empty and meaningless. That’s what it felt like. With her family, she had people to help and care for. With just herself, she felt as though she were wasting time walking in circles for no other purpose than to exist.

She made it to the second day without any significant issue.

She was out tending to the herb garden when it happened—a bug wandered in front of her. That shouldn’t have been a problem. Bugs were some of her favorite creatures. But after the first smile, it hit her that she hadn't seen a new kind of one in months—this one already had three sketches in her notebook.

She’d run out of garden bugs to document.

Bugs, of all things. Bugs were everywhere, bugs had never-ending variations, bugs were constant. And she’d run out of them.

Stabbing the trowel into the earth perilously close to the offending bug, she sat back on her heels and looked up at the sky.

"Well, Lord, I reckon you put me on your good Earth for a reason. And I don't think it was just to sketch bugs." She smoothed her apron out, flicking bits of dirt off of it. "I also doubt I'm done with what I'm supposed to do down here, otherwise I wouldn't be here. But if you don't mind me saying, I'm awfully bored of where I am, though I do love my house and my husband and my town quite fierce. But I have all the time in the world, and I'd like to do good with it, if I could. So if you could show me what to do where I can—give me eyes to see as who I can do good towards—then I would appreciate it mightily."

Gail had prayed similar prayers before, with varying regularity. She knew the good Lord had heard her, as he always did. And if he answered with more solitude and time and boredom, then she supposed that was where she was meant to be for the moment. But she dearly hoped there might be something new this time.

So, really, she shouldn't have been surprised to see someone under the loquat tree. But then again, it had been raining since before dawn, so no one in their right mind would have been outdoors. She should know, since she herself had been out gathering moss for terrariums and hadn't heard a breath from anyone all day, even near the city.

Her first impression was that the lad was quite young. Younger than her youngest, in fact, who had not too long ago started her career as a professor at the nearby university. Looked perhaps like he could be one of her students. Very slight of build, as though he needed to eat more, and small looking as he sat hunched in the rain and letting the wet drip down his messy hair, full of loose ends that had gotten free from his ponytail.

Gail stood at the edge of her garden for a moment, resting her pail of moss against the stone border as she observed him.

He didn't move, just sat there with his face turned towards the soil, and didn't seem to see her. Part of his shoulder seemed stained, perhaps with mud. With the house not a few feet to the left, she wondered if he'd tried to knock and not gotten an answer, what with her out and about.

Well, unexpected or not, there was really only one thing to do.

Gripping her pail handle resolutely, Gail marched her way through the garden paths and stood in front of him. He shifted at the sound of her approach, turning his face up towards her—his eyes were pale, as if someone had sketched them on and not bothered with paint. What's more, up closer, the brownish stain on his shoulder looked rather like dried blood.

He tilted his head, as if trying to tell where the sound had come from.

"Well then," she said after a long moment of trying to figure out what to say, "who might you be?"

"Oh." He looked more directly at her, and somehow the eyes looked a bit more colored in, like they remembered they could be brown. "Dreadfully sorry, ma'am. I seem to have gotten lost in the rain. I hope you don't mind me taking a few moments here under your tree?"

He hadn't answered the question, but he seemed more surprised than shifty. "Not at all. Unpleasant weather to be lost in, for sure. If you'd like, you can wait it out under a roof."

"Oh," he said again, and looked to his left; this time it seemed like he understood what he was seeing. "I suppose that would be nicer."

"Well, you're welcome to my roof, if you’d like," she said. She wondered how long he would take her up on that.

He awkwardly stumbled to his feet before she could offer her hand. "That's very kind of you, ma'am."

"Would you like anything to eat?" She went ahead and led the way to the kitchen door.

He hummed thoughtfully. "Thank you ma’am, but I don't think I'm hungry."

She didn't think he would be, but, well, it wasn't like she had experience with this. Which concerned her—she had no idea what she was supposed to be doing. At least he didn't seem to be wicked. She supposed he must need a helping hand and, while she needed to figure out what that help was, he was still just a boy; she would do him the courtesy of treating him accordingly.

The porch and floors, old and creaky since long before she and her husband and infant son had moved in decades ago, greeted them with typical fanfare as they trudged over the threshold. She dripped her way over to the stove, where she put the kettle on; it was unlikely that her visitor would want any, but she most certainly did. Setting her pail of moss by the stove to deal with later, she glanced back to see the lad standing in the middle of the space, staring up at the roof.

Gail wondered if he noticed that he wasn't wet.

"Say," she said, carefully pulling teacups out of the cupboard, "what did you say your name was?"

He looked at her sharply. "I… I don't think I did."

"Hmmmm. Well, how should I call you, then?"

He stared at her.

In the background, the rain continued on.

"Should I just call you ma'am, then?" He said, smiling faintly.

Gail squinted at him. "Now then, young man, are you dodging the question deliberately, or do you just not have an answer?"

"Oh." He glanced around the kitchen, then back to her, and blanked. "Sorry, what was the question?"

Gail rested back against the counter. She picked up her glasses from where she'd left them this morning, and stuck them on, pushing the temples through her sodden mess of hair. "I was just asking what your name was."

His eyes widened. "I… don't… Didn't I answer that?"

"Not as I can recall."

"That… that was rude of me, then, wasn't it?" His eyes were still wide, and the brown was fading.

Maybe it was rude of her to keep pressing the matter. He seemed not to know. Gail pressed her glasses firmer on her nose, trying to reach some kind of decision—but whatever was going on with her guest had been set in motion.

"What is my name?" He asked, his voice rising. "I can't remember my name."

"That's alright, dear," she said, trying to distract him, calm him down. "Do you remember where you were before my garden?"

It had the opposite effect.

He stepped back, towards the door, and glanced around with eyes that no longer understood where he was. "No… I-I can't remember… where am I? Do you know my name?"

"I'm afraid I—"

The kettle shrieked into the space between them with a rush of steam.

The lad cast a wild glance in its direction, stepped backwards. Gail, startled into motion, scrambled to shut the thing off.

When she turned back, the space where he had stood was dry and empty. She and the rain and her pail of terrarium moss had been left alone again.

#inklingschallenge #inklings 2023 #team lewis #genre: portal fantasy #theme: burial #theme: visiting the sick #story: unfinished #the santa juliana files #terrarium lights #original fiction #scribe does inklings

[allisonreader]

@inklings-challenge Here’s my challenge story for this year.

Grandfather's Story

(Not a true story.)

There’s a story that my grandfather always liked to tell about his days working in a coal mine. He would always tell it to his kids and then us grandkids. Most of us weren’t sure whether to believe it, but he swears that it’s true.

His story starts with a tragedy.

A tunnel had collapsed and miners had died. Others were injured and managed to get out of the mine.

My grandfather had been one of the men tasked with shoring up the tunnel so that the dead could be safely removed to be given to their families for proper burials.

He and the other men took a canary in with them. An important alarm system for them even though they weren’t actively mining.

They had been working for several hours and had managed to bring all but one of the dead up. This particular gentleman had been buried in the wall collapse more than any of the others had been. As soon as they had managed to recover him, my grandfather and the other miners swear on their lives that the canary spoke. Telling them that they needed to leave before the tunnel collapsed further, before the bird fell completely silent.

Not a single man my grandfather worked with hesitated. They grabbed the dead man and booked it out of the mine as quickly as they could. Just making it out before the tunnel did indeed collapse behind them.

The canary returned to its regular singing once out of the mine.

Not a single one of those miners; my grandfather included, heard that canary or any other, speak like that again. My grandfather was certain that if the canary hadn’t spoken that all of them working to retrieve that last man would have been buried and died.

When that canary died, he was buried with all the dignity of a human and was given his own highly attended funeral. All the miners who were there that day, came to honour the bird that not only saved their lives but allowed families to bury their loved ones as they wanted to.

I still find it hard to believe that the canary spoke, but it’s also hard to argue with the amount of witnesses. Plus my grandfather loves to tell the story and I won’t tell him what to believe when he was the one who was there.

🐦‍⬛🐦🐦‍⬛🪹🪺🐦‍⬛🐦🐦‍⬛

So fun fact. I wrote this fairly short story during the duration of a one of the sprints that I've held this year. It came from out of nearly nowhere where, as I certainly never had anything planned like this for Team Chesterton, either this year or previous. I also have only given it a basic once over before posting it. (Mostly out of fear of not deciding to not post it if I leave it too long.) I'm still not super confident about it. Part of that is because of how I wrote it feels very much like a post that you would come across in the wild on this site in some ways. By which I mean I feel like it's more written like a post telling a story than how I typically write stories. Anyways I think I should stop over explaining before this becomes more of a mess than this note might already be.

(Three days after originally posting; post note. I'm pretty sure the nerves about sharing this were more just typical new posting than actually about the style. Because the story does exactly what I intended it to do. Be a quick story told in a way like I'm telling friends/explaining this story that is passed down by family. So I mean it's definitely not that I don't like it, it's just generally not how I write fictional stories. Anyways this is to say that while I might not have been confident, doesn't mean that I don't feel accomplished in what I have written. Now I probably really have over explained at this point.)

#inklingschallenge #team chesterton #genre: intrusive fantasy #theme: burial

[on-noon]

@inklings-challenge

Adreif recited a poem she did not understand at the graves of people she had not met. The sole human alive on the island, she felt obliged to deliver the send-off they couldn't give each other.

Adreif left the freshly dug graves to the isle of ash and shut herself into her box of a time machine. The sides pressed against Adreif's shoulders and vibrated as the box traveled perpendicular to time and space.

The vibrations stopped and the door latch fell. Adreif walked out into a thick, familiar forest. She walk through the sticks, unburdened by the leaves, as those lined the ground.

Adreif approached town cautiously.

A child called out, "Adreif is here!"

Adreif smiled, waved, and strolled into town. She greeted all the people in town. She knew half of the names. The people recognized her. To the small town of Calsand, she was "The Traveler," although she never told any of her travels.

Adreif stayed with Therin, in her small, cozy house. Besides the time machine, that house was the place she had spent the most of her time in.

Adreif stayed in Calsand a week. In that time, she attended a wedding and a coming of age ceremony. She played many games of dice. When Adreif left, the town came to see her off.

Back in her box, Adreif felt she could not stay– she needed to be an outsider to Calsand, otherwise she would not be able to hide the secret of the time machine. But she was glad the town welcomed her and knew her.

Adreif's time machine dropped her in a field after a war. Frozen corpses littered the ground.

Unable to dig into the frozen earth, she looked around for wood to build a pyre.

She could only find a log, weakened by years of rot. Adreif walked back to the field.

"Make sure to collect any metal as well," a uniformed Time Agent called to their partner.

Adreif froze. She wasn't a registered time traveler. There was no place to hide in the field. A terrible site for a battle.

Neither agent had noticed her or her time machine, although they would not recognize the box as capable of travel through time.

Adreif watched the Time Agents. Both knelt down to inspect a corpse. Adreif ran to her time machine, and traveled away.

While outside of time, she said the death poem she learned when watching her mother's funeral.

Adreif landed in a time with no sign of people. She spent some time there, eating the food she could forage. But once she ran through the easily available food, she left and found herself in a bustling city. Adreif wandered around for the day, watching the hustle-bustle of people strangers to one another.

Adreif left the time, as she was hungry and had no currency to buy food.

She arrived in the forest by Calsand. Her feet sunk into the the mud.

Once the forest thinned enough to catch a glimpse of Calsand, Adreif gasped. The town had been destroyed.

Every building had a mark, a broken door or window, timber from the wall missing, or a broken roof. Some houses had only a single corner left.

Adreif made her way to the center of town, investigating the damage.

She didn't see anyone until the field behind the church, which usually grew food for anyone whose harvest failed that year, or who couldn't work a farm.

Although it was spring, the people working in the field were not planting crops but burying bodies.

Therin greeted Adreif, "Hello, I'm sorry I don't have much to greet you with, my house needs repairs."

Therin leaned against her shovel, no longer as spry with the passing of the years.

"I'll help you with that work," Adreif said.

"It's no work for a guest."

"You've welcomed me into your town. Let me help."

Adreif joined in with the ten people from the town, digging graves and filling them.

Adreif said the mourning poem over every grave they dug. She stood by as the others mourned their friends, children, parents.

She stayed around for the entire ceremony, and left as it finished.

Epilogue:

As Adreif grew older, she was more selective of which times she remained in. She didn't want to forage for food when she wasn't sure if she'd find anything.

She traveled through time after time, not feeling anywhere right to settle down, but tired of her constant traveling.

Once she arrived at Calsand, she stayed. She thought of the town as her home, they welcomed her in again. As she lived there, she wondered why the town had never questioned the strange manner in which they must see her age.

When Adreif was younger, she had been careful, trying to only come to Calsand within a few years span, so they couldn't tell she hadn't aged. But after she buried half the town, she cared less.

Adreif died in Calsand. Therin buried her, years before Adreif would help Therin bury her daughter.

#inklings challenge #team tolkien #theme: burial #genre: time travel #story: complete

[swinging-stars-from-satellites]

Bury the Dead (with a Stitch Through the Stars)

@inklings-challenge

1.

though my soul may set in darkness, it will rise in perfect light

i have loved the stars too fondly to be fearful of the night

[The Old Astronomer To His Pupil, Sarah Williams]

Thirsty.

It’s the only thing she can think. It’s all dark and her eyes are sticky shut and she’s so thirsty. It isn’t supposed to make a sound.

Her eyes flicker open to the weak barking whine that come out of her without meaning to. “Thirsty,” she whines, though it’s not supposed to sound like that. When she blinks the stickiness from her eyes a person comes into view, blurry at first. It isn’t one she recognizes. She hopes this one won’t hurt her. She hopes this one will help her.

“Ah, there you are,” says the person in a soft rumbly voice. It’s a man with strangely colored eyes and a wiry beard speckled and striped with white around his mouth. He presses a hand to her back, making her shiver, and she sits up almost surprised to have been lying like that. 

“Alright, there you go,” says this careful man. He tips his head in a question she cannot answer, then quickly walks away. She wants to follow him, instinctively, but thinks she does not have the strength. So she just whimpers. There is no one else to hear her. But it’s as if that calls the man back, because he returns with a worried look and holding a small clear cup. She can nearly smell the liquid inside it, can taste it already, and finds her limbs flailing as she reaches for it. 

The strange man holds up a finger. She knows that that means wait. She forces herself to still and the man smiles behind his beard. That’s good, isn’t it? 

“Drink it slowly,” he says. “Don’t shock your system. You’ll feel very thirsty for a while, but you had an IV the entire time to keep you hydrated.”

She isn’t sure what most of that means, but she tries to drink the cool, sweet water slowly like he said. She wants this man to be happy with her. She dips her tongue into the cup first, as if to lap it up, and ends up spilling much of it when her hands fumble. 

“Careful, now,” chuckles the man. He has a familiar rolling accent, and she both knows and does not know the language he speaks in. “You were a part of the younger batch, but your charts didn’t show a name,” he says once she has sipped down all of the water. “You can call me Daniel,” he continues. “and you are?”

She tips her head sideways. There is only a piece of something she thinks may have been a name, once. “I don’t know,” she tries to say, her voice raspy from dis- and mis-use. 

The man, Daniel, nods. He turns and writes something down somewhere. She tenses at this. This is familiar. She doesn’t think this is good. “That’s perfectly alright,” Daniel reassures her, though. “Amnesia is a noted side effect of this type of cryogenic inducement, especially at these rates.”

She tries to clear her throat. It sounds like a growl. “Is it… forever?” She asks. It does not bother her. She would just like to know, since it seems that she can ask. 

Daniel hesitates, tipping first one shoulder up and then the other, one side and then the next, like swaying back and forth. “Most often, no. It can be permanent in some cases, but usually it’s a case of time and patience. You’ll be fine,” he says kindly. “Do you have a name you would like me to call you in the meantime?” 

She thinks of the last warm voice she remembers. It fades in and out of her memory, black and white. “I think…” she licks her lips. “Lai?” And watches for a reaction. 

Daniel nods. He writes another thing down, maybe her name? And smiles. “It’s good to meet you, Lai. I’ve already told you my name. I’m this vessel’s generational medic. If you have any health concerns, you may come to me anytime. And since you seem to be suffering from post-cryosleep memory loss, let me explain:

“We are aboard the mid-journey ship Aleya, en route to an experimental colony on the upper edges of the star Earendel’s solar range. As you likely learned in school before your boarding, if you remember that, humans can only stay in a cryogenized state for so long before bodily systems begin to break down, so this journey has been planned in stages. You and I will not see the light of Earendel in our lifetimes.” His voice quietens at this, a wry smile faintly visible in his eyes if not his mouth. “This generation will grow old and reproduce and raise each other so that when they are of a safe age, the next can go to sleep knowing they will wake in their new home.” 

Lai sits very still, watching Daniel intently. All of what he is saying sounds very big. Big words she does not know, big ideas she can’t understand, but what she does hear is that what they are doing is big, very big, bigger than anything she’s done before. “I’m… important?” She hears herself say, strange raspy high voice she isn’t used to. 

Daniel nods, smiles again. She likes that. The smile directed at her, mostly, but also the being important. She thinks she’s been told that before. She thinks it’s nice. She tips her head. “So what now?” She questions. There must be more beyond this space they’re in. How much is there she can’t see? From what Daniel said, everything seems very vast. She isn’t sure about that.

Daniel breathes out thoughtfully. “There are semi-private living quarters enough for everyone onboard this craft. You were the last of the batch to come out of cryo, so I will escort you to re-meet the rest of them, so you won’t run the risk of getting lost. Do you feel strong enough to walk a slight distance?” 

She hesitates, then nods. She believes she can manage, but Daniel still has to steady her for a moment when she slides from the cot she was on. Standing on two feet feels strange. She looks up at Daniel, nervously licking her lips. She sneezes.

“будь здоро́ва,” Daniel chuckles as Lai stares at him, wide-eyed. She feels her face form into a grin, teeth showing and all.

“мой родной язык,” She exclaims in kind. My mother tongue! 

Daniel nods thoughtfully. “I thought as much. It’s mine as well, ancestrally at least.” He says the last as an aside, half quietly and looking off as it at nothing before his gaze fixes back onto Lai. “Shall we go?” He holds out his hand in beckoning and from instinct, Lai reaches out and takes it. Daniel watches this, puzzled, but does not pull his hand away and she is grateful. 

He leads her into a long, high-roofed hallway, walking slowly as if he worries she cannot keep up. But she does. She follows him by the hand through the tall white halls, head turned wonderingly up to see the ceiling, tiled in reflective blue. “What is that?” She asks softly. 

Daniel follows her gaze up. “Ah. Stained glass,” he says. “This hall ends in the chapel, if you were to return the way we’ve just come,” he explains. “The stained glass lights the way. I like to think it offers some semblance of hope, as well. The rest of the Aleya is not so artful.” 

The blue-ceilinged hall opens into a wide, vast place that immediately dizzies her when she reaches it, and she grasps onto Daniel’s hand harder. There are platforms at all levels around the edges of the tall, too tall walls, some wrapping all the way as far as she can see and disappearing into halls that must be similar to the one they’ve just emerged from. She gasps softly taking it all in, layers upon layers of floors and platforms, small forms moving around atop them and at the bottom, maybe a real floor. There are dozens of enormous glass windows, filled with inky blackness broken up by specks and swirls of light. It’s familiar. It scares her. It’s all she can see. 

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Asks Daniel softly. She looks up at him again, eyes pleading, don’t leave me, keep me safe. “Are you okay?”

Lai shudders. “это огромно,” She whispers. It’s vast.

Daniel hums and nods. “действительно.” Indeed, he tells her. “It’s our whole world.” 

He leads her across the platforms in a complicated thread where her feet stutter and hesitate at times. She follows blindly, still staring around at this place, so big, so cold. She can hardly wrap her head around it. The sky outside is so dark, but is it still the sky with them in it? She doesn’t know. She isn’t sure she wants to know. The sky is their whole world, it seems.

They turn down another hall, plain ceiling tiles above them instead of stained glass. She follows them with her eyes, losing count every few, and follows Daniel by sound. His footsteps are steady, steady, then stop and Lai finds herself in a more shadowy room, where there’s a rustle of blended sounds and smaller doors that lead off into who knows where.

There are more people in there, in varying states of motion. A man with dark skin sits on a rounded, cushioned bench frowning and squinting at a flat, glowing object in his hand. Two children hover behind a different man who stands in a corner speaking to a woman with green eyes. In a chair near a doorway there is a girl with curly hair holding a book, turned sideways with her legs thrown over the arm of the chair. Scattered all about the room are little metal bottles that she is sure are full of water. 

“Last one?” Asks the dark skinned man, looking up. He sets down the glowing thing and stands. “Took a while, didn’t it?” 

“She did,” Daniel agrees, lightly squeezing Lai’s hand before letting go. She tries to not be upset at that. But then he puts his hand on her shoulder and it warms her. “This is Lai. She’s suffering from a touch of post-freeze memory loss, so if someone would like to help her settle in…” 

The girl with the book unfolds herself from the chair. “I’ve got her, doctor,” She says in a lilting accent. “There is a bed in our cabin anyway, with Marla and her sister as well.” She offers Lai a smile. “I’m Esperanza.” 

“Hello,” Lai says. This girl is taller than her, moves strangely. Her hair is long and curly. Lai thinks she is interesting. 

“I will leave you to settle in,” says Daniel. Lai turns to watch him go and wishes he wouldn’t leave. “Желаю вам удачи,” He says in their shared first language. I wish you good luck. 

#I HAVE THE SECOND CHAPTER FULLY WRITTEN AS WELL I JUST WANTED TO HAVE SOMETHING TO POST BEFORE DEADLINE DAY IS OVER #also i hope the russian is ok i had to source all my translations from the internet :( #anyway. yeah #the title is soooo weird to me idk if i like it but. parentheses. #it was going to be a reference to afterlife of the party but i already have two FOB references as chapter heading quotes so dsjkhdsjghkshg #figured i’d rein it in a little #Lu writes #inklings challenge #team lewis #genre: space travel #theme: burial #daniel is loosely inspired by prof. bhaer btw. just so you know #ok i’m done talking #it is 11:25pm on october 21st as i post this hopefully i made it under the deadline

[inklings-challenge]

2023 Inklings Challenge Stories By Theme

Feed the hungry

Give drink to the thirsty

Clothe the naked

Shelter the homeless

Visit the sick

Visit the imprisoned

Bury the dead

#inklingschallenge #inklings challenge 2023 #theme: food #theme: drink #theme: clothing #theme: shelter #theme: visit the sick #theme: visit the imprisoned #theme: burial

[icwasher]

THE DRAGONS WE SLAY

My entry for this year's @inklings-challenge on Team Chesterson! This was my first year doing this challenge, and though I don't usually write intrusive fantasy, I'm very glad I got put on team Chesterson because it made me step outside my comfort zone.

The story is set in 1895, and is loosely based on the Dragonology Book. It follows seven young Dragonologists as they are assigned to travel to the United States to investigate a disturbance in the world of dragons. The story can be read after the "read more" line.

Word Count: 3625

Nora rubbed her forehead, squinting at the figures Tomas had drawn up. “Explain it again, will you?”

Tomas nodded and pointed to a long number. “This represents the number of dragons counted in North America in 1885. And here–” he moved his finger down “is the number counted this year. The amount has dropped significantly in the past ten years, and we suspect it’s connected to the romanticization of dragon-slaying that has surfaced recently. And here are the numbers compared to the population of dragons in China, England, and South America.” His finger moved in a circular direction around the numbers. “The Dragonologists are worried this ideal will spread to other countries and result in a mass murder of dragons, and eventually several of the species will go extinct from such killings.”

Saanvi frowned from her position sprawled on the chaise longue, her thick black hair tumbling over the armrest. “What’s romantic about killing dragons?” she asked. “If a man wanted my devotion, the worst way to receive it would be to kill a dragon.”

“There are many stories centered around young knights receiving a princess’s hand by slaying a dragon,” said Tomas. “Such stories are often told to children, and those ideas could have set off a chain reaction resulting in an idea that killing a dragon would result in fame and riches. And, unfortunately, the people of the United States have only supported such delusions.”

“Does Theo know all of this?” asked Nora.

Tomas nodded. “I informed him of it before this meeting.”

Saanvi sat up. “Where is Theo? Didn’t he say the meeting would begin at seven?”

“Did he?” asked Nicolas, who had been uncharacteristically quiet throughout the whole conversation. “I wasn’t paying attention.”

“You’re here, though,” said Tomas. “You must have known when to come.”

“Saanvi got me right before it started,” Nicolas said with a raised-brow smile, his hands pressed in a steeple. 

Nora rolled her eyes and settled into her chair, watching the door carefully. It wasn’t like Theo to be late, especially for a meeting he had said was “vitally important”. He had probably been held up by someone at the headquarters, but there was always a chance that something else could have happened.

Thankfully, the door opened and Theo walked in only moments later, his suit unbuttoned and hat placed crookedly on his head. He smiled at the room and dropped a stack of books onto his desk. Tomas perked up, shutting the journal he had so carefully recorded the dragon population in, and sized up the titles of the books Theo had brought in. “Children’s stories?”

Theo nodded. “All about dragons. Almost impossible to get my hands on too. The librarian didn’t want a grown man taking away what could be used for curious children.”

He took off his hat and suit coat, hooking them gently on the coat rack. Underneath the black wool of his suit, he wore a gray and blue waistcoat in paisley designs, subtle enough not to distract the eye. “Did you discuss anything important before I arrived?” he asked as he lowered himself onto the desktop, bracing his hands against the dark lacquered wood. 

Tomas shook his head. “I filled them in on the current situation, but otherwise we spoke of nothing important.”

Theo nodded thoughtfully. “And Khepria isn’t here?”

“Khepria isn’t here?” asked Nicolas from the floor where he had been painstakingly sketching the grandfather clock in the corner. “I hadn’t noticed.”

Theo gave him a raised eyebrow and turned back to Tomas. “Did she tell you why she isn’t coming?”

“She said nothing to me,” said Tomas. “Nora?”

Nora wished she had an answer to give, but she didn’t, and her head shake was met with a sigh. “Does anyone know where Khepria is?”

Just as Saanvi opened her mouth as if to answer, the door opened and Khepria entered, her many braids swinging over her shoulders as she not-so-gracefully set down the parcel she had been carrying. “Next time you tell me to pick up your orders, Saanvi, don’t neglect to mention that your two pickups are ten miles apart.”

Saanvi smiled nervously. “Sorry?”

Khepria pressed her lips in a thin line. “You owe me a drink at the bar.”

“Deal.” Saanvi picked up the parcels and flashed a smile in Khepria’s direction. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

Khepria sat down in her usual seat, the green wool chair right next to the fireplace. When Nora had asked her why she didn’t get hot sitting so close to the fire, Khepria had just said with an annoyed sneer that it reminded her of Egypt, where she had grown up. Nora supposed it made sense; England and Egypt had very different climates, though she had never been to Africa.

Theo clapped his hands together, snapping everyone’s attention to him. “Dr. Drake has asked us to do something for him,” he said. 

“I don’t like where this is going,” whined Nicolas.

Saanvi slapped him on the shoulder. “Hush!”

Theo smiled appreciatively. “Thank you, Saanvi. Now, as I was saying, Dr. Drake has proposed something to me, which is partially the reason I was late. As you probably know, the people in the United States have recently been very eager to kill the dragons there, as it has become a symbol of heroism to slay a beast that–though it has little effect on the villages nearby–is in an area close to a town or a heavily populated working site.” He paused to take a breath. “Of course, the Society is horrified by these actions, and they wish for someone to travel to the United States and take care of this problem.”

“And you volunteered us, didn’t you,” said Khepria flatly. 

Theo took a deep breath. “Well, yes–”

“Oh, come on!” cried Saanvi. She threw up her hands and gave Theo an impressive glare. “We’ve gone on two missions in the past three months. And all of them have been overseas! Couldn’t you have gotten us an assignment a little closer to home?”

“This mission is more important than patrolling the woods for knuckers,” Theo said, his eyes boring into Saanvi’s. “Dr. Drake even has reason to think that the division of the society in the United States has been corrupted, or that there are spies working for the Dragonologists and using classified information to kill dragons. The implications of this are horrendous. Just imagine if the children here grow up thinking that dragons are creatures to be slain. Would you want that?”

Nora felt Theo’s words sink in. He had a way of making others’ arguments feel petty, though Nora knew that wasn’t what he intended. Saanvi flushed and turned away. “When do we leave?” she asked.

Theo smiled. “Ten days,” he said, clasping his hands together. “We just have to wait for Nikandr to arrive.”

Nora felt her head turn sharply to give him an expression of shock and anger she didn’t think was possible, and in her peripheral vision saw the others do the same. Khepria was the first one to speak.

“Are you out of your mind!” she shouted, her hand flying in the air so fast it looked like a blur. “Nikandr is the worst possible addition to this expedition.”

“As if it wasn’t already bad enough,” Saanvi added.

Nicolas crossed his arms, all of his limbs in roughly the same position. “Really Theo?”

Nora felt an obligation to speak as well, though she tried to fashion her question with a bit more tact than the others had shown. “Are you sure this is the best idea?” she asked quietly. “Nikandr may be smart, but it hasn’t gone well when we’ve had him join us in the past.”

Theo looked at the ground. “It wasn’t my idea. Dr. Drake would like Nikandr to have some practice working in a group he himself is not in charge of. Submitting to authority isn’t his strong suit, apparently.”

“I think we all knew that already,” said Khepria, and Nora had to nod. 

“Nevertheless,” said Theo optimistically, seemingly ignoring Khepria’s comment and Nora’s agreement, “he will be joining us and we will treat him with respect, no matter what he does. Understood?”

The group nodded, and Theo pressed his hands together excitedly. “I suppose that’s all for today,” he said. “I’ll purchase our tickets. Prepare to leave for the United States!” 

It took them a little over a week to arrive, and by the time they made it to Virginia, Theo had just about lost all patience with Nikandr. 

It wasn’t that the man didn’t have manners, or didn’t know how to conduct himself in public. He was a polite fellow when he desired. Unfortunately, those wishes did not seem to appear often. 

Nikandr stood a few feet away now, his blonde hair framing his lightly tanned face. Tomas was next to him, and they were arguing about something. Tomas seemed to be losing.

Theo winced as Nikandr made what Theo assumed to be a rather clever jab and Tomas flushed. Tomas may be the smartest person Theo had ever met, but he tended to be rather unpracticed in the art of insulting others. Which, Theo supposed, was a good thing to be bad at, but insults were Nikandr’s specialty, and Theo knew that such wordplay would leave Tomas feeling unintelligent. He felt for his friend, and if he thought he’d be able to keep Nikandr from being so unkind, he would walk over right now and pull the man aside for a talk, preferably one that would leave Nikandr blushing as hard as Tomas.

Theo shook the thoughts from his head. No, that wasn’t the way to do things. He would continue his method, one he had assured Nora would work the night before when she had stomped into Theo’s room and issued a loud complaint about Nikandr’s behavior. Theo had been confident then, assuring her that all things would work out. But now, seeing how Nikandr squashed Tomas with just his little finger, he wasn’t so sure. 

As Tomas hurried away from Nikandr’s presence Theo got closer, until both young men stood next to each other at the railing. Theo glanced carefully at Nikandr. “What were you and Tomas talking about.”

He tried to keep his tone jovial, but Nikandr must have sensed that Theo was pretending because he laughed and said, “I’m sure it won’t take you long to figure out.”

Theo frowned. “You know, the rest of the team is petitioning to have you sent back to England.” 

They weren’t. Theo had made it clear that Nikandr was staying through the whole mission. But a little intimidation couldn’t hurt.

Nikandr shrugged. “Then send me back.”

“I’m not going to do that.”

This made Nikandr laugh. “And why is that?”

Theo faced the water, watching the port grow closer. He squinted his eyes against the wind and said, “I believe that you can learn to work with the others. Stay long, and you’ll learn that we’re in need of fresh perspectives.”

“You’re just reaching for words.”

“Maybe.” Theo shrugged. “I just want you to know that you’ll have a place in this crew no matter what. Don’t forget it.” He clapped Nikandr on the back and made his way to the other side of the boat, where he could see Nicolas’s tall frame dancing to the band on the deck. 

Theo made his rounds, engaging in short conversations with his entire crew until he finally came to Nora, who leaned against the rail, her chestnut curls pinned back in a loose twist at the nape of her neck. A few strands of hair had escaped, and they blew in the wind, dancing with the currents. Theo settled himself next to her, watching her eyes roam the tops of the waves.

“Are you looking for something in particular?” he asked, and Nora shook her head. “I’m just watching,” she said, turning to smile at Theo. “Watching and waiting.”

“Aren’t we all,” murmured Theo as Nora turned back to the ocean, her brow furrowing in concentration. The sudden urge to reach out and smooth the wrinkles between Nora’s brow came over Theo’s body, and his hand twitched. He smiled to disguise the movement. “The captain says we’ll reach port in about half an hour. When we do, be ready to leave. I’ve already told the others, but if you would make sure Nicolas is prepared . . .”

Nora laughed. “I can do that.”

Theo smiled. “Thank you.”

Saanvi kept next to Nicolas as Theo asked around about areas heavy with dragons. A few sailors laughed at him and said that lads who went looking for a kill would be roasted, but several people gave helpful advice and pointed the group towards a town in the rural parts of the state. Theo bought train tickets, and they all crammed into a train compartment.

The ride began in silence. Tomas pulled out a book, Nora went through her bag, and Khepria spent the first thirty minutes with her eyes pressed closed. Then Theo turned to Nikandr and asked, “Do you miss Russia?”

Saanvi relished the momentary look of shock that crossed Nikandr’s face, but the boy shook himself off only a second later. “A bit,” he said, shrugging. The display of indifference was convincing, but Saanvi could see through the show. He did miss his home, a feeling Saanvi herself understood very deeply. She had lived in London for the past five years, but almost every day she wished she was back in India, wrapped in jewel-toned silks with her mother and father and siblings. But she had left them for a different life, and though she missed home, she didn’t regret her decision to come to London.

“What is Russia like?” asked Nicolas. He shook his light brown hair. “I hear it’s cold.”

“It is,” said Nikandr. “You get used to it after a while, though.”

“Why did you leave?” asked Nora. She seemed genuinely interested, and Saanvi thought she saw Theo glance over with approval. Saanvi recalled that Nora and Khepria had been the most resistant to Theo’s plan to include Nikandr in their group. Nora had told Saanvi that Theo had been insistent, even after the voyage on the ship, during which Nikandr had been rather horrible. 

Nikandr tapped his fingers on the armrest of his chair. His blue eyes were pointed at the floor, seemingly intent on the interlocking pattern of the rug. Then he said, “Russians aren’t too keen on the whole Dragonology venture. Tsar Nicholas is vehement that the sciences be kept strictly to the government, and that common folk shouldn’t dabble in them.”

Saanvi got the sense that such a statement was an oddity coming from Nikandr. She smiled kindly, and for a moment, Nikandr seemed to give her a similar expression. Then he turned to the window, his pointed nose facing the glass. 

Nicolas sighed deeply. “Will we arrive soon?” he asked, his voice almost a whine. Saanvi laughed and elbowed him. “We only just got on the train,” she said. “Distract yourself or something.”

“Distracting myself is a feat I don’t think I’ve managed to accomplish yet.”

Khepria opened one eye and raised the corresponding brow. “Yet you always seem to get distracted.”

Even Nikandr laughed, though it was quiet, and he continued to look away. But Theo seemed to brighten, and even Tomas looked up from his book. Perhaps Theo has been right. Perhaps including Nikandr was the right decision.

Nora wished she hadn’t packed so many things as she carried her bag through the station. It had been a horrible decision to bring all her equipment, and Theo had told her that she should pack light. But she had insisted that she would need everything and was regretting that decision now as her shoulder began to ache.

“They’re saying that the dragons have been attacking,” said Theo as they made their way across the fields. “I have a hard time believing that, and if there have been dragon attacks, they must have been provoked.”

Nikandr raised an eyebrow. “You have a hard time believing there have been dragon attacks?”

Theo nodded. 

Nikandr laughed derisively. “Then that smoke must be from a bonfire.”

Theo’s head snapped in the direction Nikandr pointed. Indeed, a column of black smoke rose from the fields nearby, drifting through the wind. Nora was surprised she hadn’t picked up the scent before. It was one she had smelled more often than she wished to admit. 

“Tomas?” asked Theo.

Tomas cocked his head. “It certainly looks like dragon smoke. The color is too dark to be from a typical campfire, and it has the proper scent. We can only be certain if we check.”

Theo gestured to Nikandr. “Lead the way.”

Nikandr bowed in Theo’s direction. “Nothing would please me more.”

Nora sighed as they turned to the smoke, groaning as she anticipated the ache in her shoulder and back. 

By the time they arrived, Khepria’s shirtsleeves were stuck to her arms with sweat and her face dripped with the liquid. She flipped her braids from one shoulder to the net for the millionth time, feeling a faint breeze on her skin from the lack of weight. Then the heat pressed back down on her.

She may have said she enjoyed the heat of Africa, but she had grown far too accustomed to the coolness of London. The others looked worse off, especially Nikandr, who had shed his red wool coat and had rolled his shirtsleeves up. Nicolas had taken off his teal waistcoat, and Nora’s face was flushed deep red. She grunted as she let her bag drop to the ground. Khepria decided she didn’t want to know how heavy the thing was.

“This is definitely the work of a dragon,” said Tomas. He was the only one who looked unaffected by the heat, but that may have been because he was only dressed in a thin white shirt and trousers instead of the suits the other boys wore, and the vests and skirts the girls had donned. 

In front of them lay a scar, a village burnt to the ground. The grass around the village was scorched and gone. Khepria saw Nora crouch down and take a vial from her bag. She filled it with ash and set a cork in the top before sticking it back with her supplies. 

Theo looked the most mournful of them all. He did have the strongest ideals, and Khepria figured that the broiled bodies strewn about the ground pained him. Saanvi had her head turned away, and Nicolas looked serious for once. Even Nikandr had lost his usual cockiness. 

Theo stepped forward and kneeled next to the burnt body of a little girl. He touched one of the intact fingers. “We should bury them,” he said in a whisper, his voice lifted by the bitter wind. Nicolas nodded, a sharp movement that Saanvi copied. Tomas, who had been pulling the handcart with their bags, set down the handles and began searching the carnage.

Khepria joined them a moment later. She assumed they were looking for a shovel or something similar, and when Nora held up a slightly charred shovel her suspicions were confirmed. Theo took the shovel and began to dig a grave. Soon, the others joined with their own shovels. Those who didn’t have any gathered the bodies, dragging them to the newly dug graves. 

Khepria’s hands had never felt dirtier, yet some invisible force made her continue. She didn’t know if it was Nicolas’s smile or Tomas’s constant badgering or Theo’s unwavering energy, but whatever it was gave her strength until the final bit of dirt was laid on the final grave. Khepria heaved a deep sigh and felt whatever had kept her going wither away until she was an empty husk of herself. 

They had spent all night burying the village, and the sun had just begun to paint brushstrokes of orange and pink on the horizon. Theo turned to Tomas. “Is there a prayer for the dead?” he asked, his voice soft in the stillness of the cool morning air. 

Without answering, Tomas stepped forward and bowed his head, his close-cut dark hair damp with sweat, his golden skin glimmering with little beads of the liquid. He faced the plain white stones they had used to mark the graves and began his prayer. 

“In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit, Amen. 

I commend you, my dear brothers and sisters, to Almighty God, and entrust you to your Creator. 

May you return to him who formed you from the dust of the earth.

 May holy Mary, the angels, and all the saints come to meet you as you go forth from this life. 

May Christ who was crucified for you bring you freedom and peace. 

May Christ who died for you admit you into his garden of paradise.

 May Christ, the true Shepherd, acknowledge you as one of his flock. 

May he forgive all your sins, and set you among those he has chosen. Amen.”

The final vestiges of the prayer drifted away. Khepria wasn’t keen on Catholic prayers. There were too many words, too little action. Though she didn’t believe in the Egyptian gods, she preferred their method. Sacrifices, a few simple words, then indifference until the next day. 

Theo placed a hand on Tomas’s shoulder. “Thank you,” he said softly.

They stood silently for a few more minutes, watching the sun bathe the fresh graves in golden light, the carnage of the village resplendent in the glowing sunshine. The wind picked up, and for a moment, Khepria thought she could hear laughter from the graves. Perhaps the Catholic saints had come.

#genre: intrusive fantasy #inklingschallenge #team chesterton #theme: burial #story: complete #original work #short story #dragonology

[rachellesedai]

The Lasting Memory

Here is part two of my story for the @inklings-challenge 2023!

Team: Tolkien Genre: Secondary World Fantasy/Time Travel Themes: Burial/Visit the Sick Word Count: 5,621 [PART 1] | 4,467 [PART 2]

―

PART 2

Treasa mounted the steps to the grand pavilion. Its moonstone columns shimmered in the glow of the setting sun. Detailed glyphs in the lost language of the ancients covered the round pillars from top to bottom. Her eyes ran up the rows upon rows of carved symbols. They were said to be an explanation of how the stones worked, or perhaps computations showing the movements of the stars. Scholars had spent lifetimes arguing over the possible meanings of the glyphs and the ancients who had created them.

The Order had grown up around these scattered pavilions, studying them, learning their secrets, and eventually using them for their own purposes. What the ancients had intended them for no one knew for certain. Traveling back in time, if only as an observer, was useful to be sure. It seemed to Treasa, however, that there had to have been more to the mystical structures. Why were they the only remnants of a clearly advanced civilization? She couldn’t help wondering if the pavilions had taken the ancients to the far future or even to other worlds.

Treasa took a deep breath. Now was not the time to ponder such things. She was only putting off the inevitable. Clutching the moonstone medallion hanging around her neck, Treasa walked to the center of the structure. A cool breeze whispered through the columns. She patted the leather scrip at her side, ignoring the heat creeping up the back of her neck. No one was here to check how many crystals were in her bag. She wasn’t sure if she’d packed Timon’s extra crystals because she still doubted herself or because his threats had intimidated her more than she was willing to admit. Either way, it was time.         

Carefully positioning herself, Treasa planted her feet within the crossing lines of the star mosaic at the very center of the pavilion. She cupped the amulet in both hands and gazed into its milky depths, building the picture she wanted in her mind’s eye. Her stomach lurched and everything wobbled as if the ground were falling out from under her. She tensed, reminding herself this was a normal part of traveling. Treasa took a slow breath and closed her eyes. Her fingers curled around the amulet and she focused on the image in her mind, the Battle of Kareth. Silent winds buffeted her. She was at the eye of a great storm, and then nothing. A moment of suspended silence stretched out around her before reality snapped back into place.

Treasa stumbled, her boots ankle deep in mud. Men swarmed around her, officers shouting orders, soldiers caring for horses and readying weapons. Her eyes scanned the men’s faces, searching for the First Guardian. She shook her head. General Valleth. He would be young here, blond hair instead of gray. Treasa trudged forward, glad to be wearing breeches and a woolen tunic covered with a serviceable half-cloak in the midnight blue of the Order. People flowed around her, rarely even glancing in her direction. She approached an officer taking reports from various regiment leaders and sending them hurrying off in different directions.

“Excuse me, Commander.” The man glanced up, squinting with that slightly confused look people always gave.

“Yes, scholar?” he said, looking back down at the papers in his hand.

“Could you direct me to General Valleth?”

He frowned, eyeing the crest that caught her cloak up on her right shoulder. With a sigh, he jerked his head toward a collection of tents near the southern end of the encampment. “Try the officers’ mess.”

“Thank you,” Treasa replied, even knowing he would soon forget the entire interaction. She turned and trudged along the muddy path. The way the past flowed around intruders such as herself still made Treasa uneasy. She was alien here and the whole world seemed to pull away, refusing to acknowledge her presence. It was better, the scholars said, that people forgot you the moment they looked away and that their eyes slid right past you unless you called attention to yourself.

As Treasa approached the crowded row of makeshift tables, her eyes were immediately drawn to Valleth. He should not have stood out, having discarded his uniform jacket with its golden braid and tassels. His shirtsleeves were rolled up and his neck cloth loosened like the other men at the table. His presence, however, was undeniable. His fellow officers at the table, passing soldiers, even the aides serving the food, hung on his every word, laughing as he came to the end of a humorous story.

Treasa smiled to herself. She remembered the tale. It was the first one he’d told her on a stormy night when the candles had guttered low and they had seemed to be the only two awake in the tower. She slipped in among the onlookers and listened carefully for any clue that would tell her how close to the battle she had arrived. Briefly, she was tempted to record this exact moment. Valleth was happy and confident, laughing with his friends and comrades. Most of these men would be dead in a few days’ time. The Battle of Kareth would be a victory snatched from the jaws of defeat. A turning point in Damaria’s history, without a doubt, but a victory won at a steep price, hundreds giving their lives to push out the foreign invaders once, and for all. She sighed. Timon would undoubtedly choose his father’s glorious victory over a moment with his men.  

A courier sprinted up and handed the general a sealed letter. Valleth called for food and drink for the man while he scanned the contents of the missive. He straightened, his eyes snapping. “The Rethans have crossed the river at Drytos,” he said. The men fell silent, a few blanching at the news, but all looking confidently to their leader. “Ready the men,” Valleth said and the camp exploded into a frenzy of activity.

Treasa sighed. Tonight, then, would be the famous midnight ride to outflank the barbarians and drive them south, forcing them to fight with the cliffs at their back instead of on the open plains where their greater numbers would have the advantage. She slipped in among the scurrying soldiers and secured a mount. She rode until evening melted away and the sky became a vast black dome with stars scattered across it like spilled diamonds. Her view from the vantage point she and Sir Damerel had discussed was spectacular. She pulled the recording crystal from her pouch and prepared it with a few chanted words and the pressure of her thumb in the right spot. Then she waited.

Horsemen pounded into view as the first streaks of dawn colored the sky. One force harassed by the other, gaining ground inch by inch. The clash of weapons, the cries of the fallen, and the shouts of victory rode the wind, swirling around her. The moment Treasa’s eyes landed on General Valleth astride his silver gray horse, saber raised, she activated the crystal. It caught everything, Valleth’s victory, the stunned rejoicing of the survivors, and his grief over the fallen. It was beautiful and stirring in its way. But it seemed too simple and the young general with a stricken expression in his eyes was not the man she had come to know.

Sighing, Treasa reviewed the recording. It felt both too removed from the action of the moment and too intimate in the emotions it had captured. She doubted if even Timon would find the recording acceptable. Tucking it safely into her scrip, Treasa trudged over to a copse of trees around a muddy stream, well out of sight of any sharp-eyed soldiers. She chanted under her breath and stared into the medallion, willing herself to the second location on Lord Timon’s list.

―

Silent winds swirled and Treasa opened her eyes to a shadowed alcove. She waited a moment for her breathing to return to normal and peered out into the street. The position of the sun put the time around late morning. Venturing out, she heaved a sigh of relief to find herself on the familiar streets of the capital. There was no need to hunt for clues with the Order’s Central House so close. She slipped among the bustling populous, her feet almost tripping over themselves in her haste.

Treasa pulled the bell string at a nondescript gate tucked around the far end of the east tower of the Central House. A young cleric answered, her eyes widening at the sight of Treasa in her muddied boots and travel stained cloak. Treasa held up her moonstone medallion and the girl bobbed a courtesy. She hurriedly unlocked the gate and waved Treasa in with a furtive glance up and down the path.

“How may I serve you, scholar?” The cleric asked as soon as they had crossed the small courtyard and closed the wooden door behind them.

“Is the First Guardian’s installment ceremony soon?” Treasa asked.

“Yes. It is set for tomorrow evening.”

Treasa’s shoulders relaxed and she peeled off her cloak. “Good. I’ll need something appropriate to wear to the event and some food and drink in the meantime. And I’m not a scholar yet. Cleric will do.”

“Of course, cleric.” The girl smiled, diligently recording Treasa’s requests in a large leather bound book with the date neatly inscribed at the top of the page. “Would you check to see if I have listed everything you require.”

Treasa leaned over to examine the list, seeing that the girl had noted her size correctly, even adding a few details about her coloring for whoever ended up with the job of locating a last minute dress for the biggest event of the year. “Thank you. It looks perfect.”

“I am happy to serve,” the girl said, “The log is checked every half hour. All items requested will be put in the anteroom there.” She pointed to a door to their left. “The library is down the hall. The most current publications and public communications are on the table in the center.”

“Thank you,” Treasa said, “You have made my task much easier. I am sorry you will not remember my gratitude.”

The girl shrugged, a smile in her eyes. “It is part of serving in the Order.”

Treasa nodded in agreement. “Blessings on you, sister.”

“And you,” the girl responded, “Good luck on your endeavor.”

Treasa nodded and wandered down to the library. She confirmed the date on the latest public notices and settled down on a comfortable settee. Kicking off her boots, she pulled her knees up to her chest. Her stomach growled and she hoped the book would be checked soon so she could get something to eat.

Sighing, she pulled her braid around and began undoing it, her fingers pulling at the tangles. She was acutely aware of the extra crystals in her pouch. Soon she would have to decide whether to use them or not. Normally, she would record over her previous attempt or, if there was enough room, fill up the rest of the space on the crystal with this second event. She was expected to present one recording for the Lasting Memory, though how she went about recording and choosing was up to her.

―

Treasa stared into the mirror, not quite recognizing herself. The dress that had been delivered was precisely what she had expected. It was stylish enough to blend in, but not so stunning that it would attract undo attention. Even so, it was the nicest thing she had ever worn. The underdress was a silk the color of burnished gold with voluminous skirts that swished when she walked. Over that, was a robe of dark green chiffon trimmed with a tasteful amount of golden embroidery and fastened at the waist with a wide sash. She smoothed her hands over the dress and slipped them into the deep pockets, checking for the tenth time that the crystals were secure. She patted her hair, which hung loose around her shoulders in accordance with the fashion of the day. It felt strange not to have it up. At least the front was swept up in a gold comb that kept it out of her face. She sighed. It was time to go.

The town-coach she had arranged dropped her off at the entrance to the basilica and she joined the throng of attendees. The atmosphere was jubilant and the crowd laughed and chattered as they squeezed themselves into the lofty space, filling the anterooms and hallways to bursting. Navigating through the crowd was a surreal experience. No one paid any attention to her unless she bumped into them. In some ways, it made it easier to slip between the knots of exquisitely dressed dignitaries and solemn elders in their formal robes. However, no one stood aside for her either, and as remaining unremarkable was her goal, she found herself stuck more than once, hemmed in on all sides, unable to move.

Finally crossing the wide antechamber, Treasa showed her medallion to a guard at the foot of a staircase roped off with a thick golden chord. She was allowed in with a nod and a formal, “Blessings on you, scholar.”

She made her way up the curved stairs, holding her skirts to avoid tripping over them. At the top was a balcony, overlooking the sanctuary. She glanced down to where she had been standing among the clerics a few short weeks ago, or would be standing in several decades. She shook her head. Thinking about it too much brought on a persistent throbbing behind her eyes.

Eventually a hush fell over the crowd and Treasa began her recording as a choir of young voices swelled from a soft chanting to a chorus of multiple voices harmonizing and then diverging in a spectacular rendition of the anthem of the Knights Reverend. She held the crystal steady on the balcony railing to get the best view of the ceremony. As the chorus was joined by a symphony of instruments, a procession of elders and scholars came up the center aisle. They were followed by a color guard of high-ranking knights in full regalia. When the attendants had taken their places, the music swelled once again and everyone turned to watch Peatar Valleth III stride down the aisle. Head held high, his smile seemed to reach every corner of the basilica. He bowed to the High Elder and saluted his fellow knights before taking his place on the central dais.

Treasa recorded the entire ceremony, including the First Guardian’s speech that had everyone laughing and wiping away tears at different points. At the conclusion of the service, Treasa retraced her steps and slipped in among the crowds toasting the First Guardian’s installment. She could leave now. She had recorded more than enough grandiose formality. Timon would be thrilled. She winced at the thought.

Her feet dragged, and she came to a stop, the multitudes flowing around her like a stream parting around a small rock. This was not why the First Guardian had chosen her. His installment and the Battle of Kareth were so obvious. Odd were high most people would have chosen one of the two. He had entrusted her with this task.

She moved into the grand hall and spotted Valleth greeting dignitaries and carrying on a jovial conversation with those around him. As she approached, the group laughed at something in one of Valleth’s stories. Blinking, Treasa drew in a sharp breath. His stories. He was famous for them. There was always a point to them, whether to bring comfort, teach a lesson, or simply raise everyone’s spirits. A recording of the actual events of one of his stories would be the perfect Lasting Memory. It would be as if he was telling it again every time someone visited his memorial. Treasa almost gasped. She immediately knew which story. Her favorite. The one he had repeated so many times she knew it by heart.

Treasa hurried back to the Central House and changed out of her finery. She downed some bread and cheese that had been left on a tray in the library, and paced the room. Finding the exact moment in time from Valleth’s description of events would be tricky. Treasa bit her lip as she went over the details in her head, running through the timeline she had memorized of Valleth’s life and accomplishments. It was a narrow enough window. If Damerel was right about visualizing the scene being the crucial part of traveling, she might be able to pull this off. With a silent thanks to Keltris and her insistence she commit to memory even the smallest detail of Valleth’s daily life, Treasa chanted the words of traveling over her medallion and hoped for the best.

―

Treasa leaned against the high, stone wall that separated the university gardens from the city proper. The narrow street running along the back of the gardens was used by students and faculty alike as a short cut to the Central House. If she had traveled to the right day, Valleth would soon be leaving after a day of teaching at the military academies. The winter sun slowly sank behind the tall spires of the basilica, casting long, cold shadows.

Treasa pulled her cloak tight to ward off the chill, thankful she had taken the time to change out of her fancy dress. She looked up as the gate to the garden creaked. An older man walked out, a satchel of books slung over one shoulder. He turned, eyes sliding right past her, and Treasa smiled. It was Valleth. He still walked straight. His hair had only touches of gray, though his short beard was all salt and pepper. He wore a serviceable coat, military in cut, but without any of the trappings his rank merited. Treasa breathed a sigh of relief. So far, so good.

Treasa activated the recording crystal and followed Valleth as he walked down the street humming snatches of a tune. As Valleth rounded a corner, a boy with tousled brown hair and a dirty face stepped out into the road. Valleth came to an abrupt stop to keep from running him over. He chuckled as the boy’s eyes widened.

“Can I help you, young sir,” Valleth asked.

The boy regarded him with narrowed eyes as if considering his request. “Do you have any coppers?” he asked.

Valleth patted his pockets. Treasa tried not to smile. Valleth’s description of searching for and not finding a single coin was always comical.

“I’m afraid I don’t,” Valleth said and the boy shrugged as if it was no more than he expected. “I do have something, though.” Opening his satchel, Valleth pulled out a wrapped honeycake. “I’m sorry. It isn’t much, but it’s from Rena’s bakery, so you know it’s good.”

The boy’s eyes lit up. “That’s perfect! Better than a fistful of coppers.” He grinned from ear to ear, accepting the treat. “Thank you, sir. It’s my sister, Erin’s nameday and she loves honeycakes!”

Valleth straightened. “Do you mean to say that you are going to give this cake to your sister?”

The boy nodded vigorously. “Yes, sir. She will be so happy. We hardly ever get sweets and Rena’s are the best.”

“I see,” Valleth said, his eyes softening, “Does your sister like books by any chance?”

“Mama taught us both to read,” the boy replied proudly, “Erin wants to be a scholar some day and I am going to be a knight of the Order.”

“That is a worthy ambition One that should be encouraged.” Valleth rummaged in his satchel. “I have a gift for your sister’s nameday that I think you will both enjoy.” He pulled out a slim leather bound volume. “It’s a bit worn,” he said, dusting off the book, “but only because it’s one of my favorites.” He held out the book and the boy’s mouth fell open.

He tucked the honeycake under one arm and wiped his hand on his shirt before taking the book. He stared at it, reading the title in halting accents, “The Tales of Damar.” He looked up at Valleth, eyes wide in awe. “You’re giving this to me? For Erin? Are you sure?”

“I am very sure,” Valleth said, smiling.

“Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!” The boy danced around in circles, hugging the book to his chest.

Valleth laughed. “Take care not to get it sticky, son.”

“I’ll be careful,” the boy said, “Thank you, sir. Blessings on you.” He turned and ran down the cross street. Valleth watched until he was out of sight a smile on his face.

Treasa held the crystal up, finishing the recording as the last rays of sunlight lit Valleth’s face. He always said he had felt more joy in that moment than he ever had before or since.

Treasa held the crystal tightly, blinking back tears, and watched Valleth continue on his way. She could almost hear his voice recounting the story and see the laughter in his eyes. This was how the man should be remembered. Not as a battle hardened warrior or a brilliant statesman, but as a man who brought joy into the world with simple acts of kindness. She pulled the other two crystals out of her bag. They shone from within with the pale violet light that showed they held a memory of the past. She had no doubt, if she returned with all three, Timon would find a way to force her hand.

Before she could change her mind, Treasa took the crystals from her previous trips and cast them onto the stone walkway. She inhaled sharply as they shattered, the soft light dying away to nothingness. She took a deep breath and carefully wrapped the remaining crystal and placed it in her scrip. It was time to go home.

Clasping the medallion to her heart, Treasa chanted the words to activate it, and thought of home. The winds pulled at her and she felt lifted off her feet for a moment before being dropped in a heap onto the polished floor of the grand pavilion. She blinked and Damerel was there, helping her up. He steadied her as she gasped for breath.

“Are you all right?” he asked, supporting her arm.

Treasa nodded. “Just a little winded.” She looked past Damerel and saw a veritable array of people clustered around the pavilion entrance all with various looks of concern and surprise on their faces. There were several blue-robed scholars and, most notably, the High Elder Reyes and Lord Timon Valleth himself. “What’s going on?” Treasa asked.

“You were gone a long time,” Damerel said, “Several days, in fact.”

“Days?” Treasa blinked. Recovery missions usually took hours, half a day at most. “But why is everyone here?”

Scholar Keltris stepped forward. “Lord Timon was insisting that someone else be sent to recover the First Guardian’s Lasting Memory.” She sniffed. “He tried to force the issue.”

“It was my right,” Timon growled, pushing forward. The crowd muttered, seemingly divided between those who supported Timon and those who had been trying to stop him.

Treasa’s knees felt weak, but she straightened, mustering a serene expression. “Well, I’m back now,” she said.

“Yes. And I believe we should speak in private.” Timon jerked his head and turned to walk away as if he fully expected her to trot after him.

Keltris’s eyebrows shot up and Damerel put his hand on his sword. Treasa gave her head a slight shake and then said in a loud voice, “That will not be necessary. I have completed my mission, and am ready to present the First Guardian’s Lasting Memory to the High Elder.” Scholar Keltris and Sir Damerel exchanged a look, but straightened and stood ready on either side of her.

Timon protested, but Elder Reyes held up his hand. “You forget yourself, Lord Timon. Let the girl complete her mission. It is what you wanted, isn’t it?”

Timon nodded, but the hard look he shot Treasa made her knees quake again.

“Is everything all right?” Keltris whispered.

“It will be,” Treasa answered just as quietly.

“I will be glad to accept the memory you have recorded,” the High Elder said, “If only to end all this nonsense.”

Treasa went down on one knee and retrieved the crystal from her bag. She held it up for a moment for all to see, then presented it to the High Elder. “I give you the Lasting Memory of First Guardian Peatar Valleth III.”

―

Treasa leaned against the balcony railing and watched the fireworks that lit up the sky to celebrate Lord Timon’s installment as First Guardian. She sighed as Damerel joined her. “Do you think he is still angry with me?” she asked, twisting the end of her braid.

“First Guardian Timon does not seem like a man who forgives easily,” Damerel said, “but I do not see how he can hold it against you. Everyone loves the memory you chose. Hundreds of people have seen it already and they cannot stop talking about how perfect it is. Timon got what he wanted, in a sense. The people’s goodwill toward his father is passing down to him, for now at least.”

Treasa nodded, straightening as Damerel stepped closer.

“If you don’t mind my asking, how did you find that particular moment in time?” he asked, his voice low.

“It was one of his stories,” she said, “my favorite one. I think that’s why he chose me to find it.”

Damerel laughed softly. “Well, I certainly never would have chosen that particular memory.”

“Why not?” Treasa turned and looked up at him. “You said it was perfect and beautifully conveyed the essence of who the First Guardian was.”

“It does,” Damerel said, taking her hand.

Treasa blushed, but tightened her fingers around his. “Then why?”

“Because the boy in the Lasting Memory is me.”

Treasa shook her head, laughter shining in her eyes. “Do you think he knew? That you actually joined the Order?”

Damerel shrugged. “I have no idea. I never forgot that day, but I didn’t know it was him. Not until I heard him tell the story for the first time.”

Treasa sighed, a smile playing at her lips. “Do you think your sister will mind that I memorialized her nameday?”

“I think Erin will love it,” Damerel said, “You can ask her yourself, if you want.” He paused, his voice growing soft. “I would very much like you to meet her while she is in town.”

Treasa leaned in, wondering if the First Guardian had imagined anything like this when he had chosen her to find his Lasting Memory. She smiled up at Damerel. “I am ready.”

#inklingschallenge #team tolkien #genre: secondary world #genre: time travel #theme: visit the sick #theme: burial #story: complete

[physicsgoblin]

Ugh so I am not happy with how my @inklings-challenge story is turning out. I like the idea, don't think it's executed the best and it's not done, but I want to publish some of it anyway. Maybe sharing some of it will help. This as been a great exercise so far for me though. Any feedback is appreciated.

I fully intend to rework this into something bigger. I've got other ideas...

Anyway. Here is part of Strange Gods.

Look, you won’t be hearing telling this story at any other time, but it’s a party and I’m a little drunk. You know how it is, after almost everyone’s gone home, it’s late August and the air’s warm but it’s almost midnight and it’s got that coolness in the air, plastic chairs are huddled around a dying fire and it’s only the friends that are closer than brothers. The heart’s nocturnal. I guess this is when it comes out.

So here we are and I’ll tell you. I’ll tell you and I don’t care what you think. Well. I guess that’s not true. I don’t know if we did the right thing. But you’re not the one we have to answer to.

Since Brad brought you in with us, I guess you know we used to be a band. Strange Gods. Ever heard of it? Well, little before your time. We were never big. Mostly local shows and Metal Fests. Opened for some bigger names a couple times. We had fun, we had hair longer than our girlfriends’ and sometimes more makeup then them too. Mostly we were just guys in jeans and T-shirts with a passion for music. We fancied ourselves artists. My wife calls music “the art most like divinity”. Like how God could just speak and His words obeyed and music is a little like that. Ours was more like a sneeze than divine speech maybe but she loved it still. I still play for her, sometimes.

Oh the best part was the fans. The girls. You know how it is. You’re kinda weird in high school, a little awkward, but then you start strumming on a guitar, you say oh yeah I play drums in a band and suddenly you’re doing ok.

The worst part? The fans. We weren’t too big, but you’d get recognized every now and again. Sometimes it was all cool, just talking about music and shit. Other times people got a little weird. They thought oh, here’s someone famous, and then you’re almost not human to them anymore. But it was usually alright. And there was one in particular that I—none of us—will ever forget.

The kid was a local. Not much younger than us, but a hell of a lot more awkward. It was alright though. He wore these glasses and those kinds of shirts with full moons and yellow-eyed wolves scattered on the front and he’d sort of talk at the ground instead of at you and he loved the fact that a lot of our songs were based on local history and legend—half-hanged witches, wolves with a thirst for human flesh in winter, earth that won’t accept the dead—a lot of what you’d expect. Well this kid’s name was…I’ll call him Louis. Louis met us at Outer Realms (you know that pub on 114th?) after a very small gig, but we hadn’t been in Strange Gods for very long, so even small gigs were celebrated. Maybe we would have been more weirded out by this kid kinda staring and shyly shuffling up to us if we were sober but you know what, it was ok. Jason even let him have one of his guitar picks and we got him a beer, which he accepted enthusiastically but didn’t drink once. He said he loved having someone write songs about all the stories his dad told him as a kid. He said if we wanted more inspiration, he could help us. He collected stories, he said, the ones you whispered at sleepovers and summer camps, the ones that changed a little bit every time you told them, the ones almost nobody really believed. And we were like, hell yeah brother. That’s how Louis became our consultant for lyrics. Winter Walker, Thy Iron Refine, and Dance at the Bottom of the Sea all had songs with lyrics by him. But he never wanted credit, never wanted his name listed on the albums. He just seemed content to hang out at our house and tell us stories. Whenever we went on tour he would ask us to collect legends of the cities we visited. Brad told him he was welcome to join us but he just smiled at the ground and shook his head. He liked it here. Why would anyone ever want to leave?

Louis was friends with us for almost two years. He even spent Thanksgiving and Christmas with us since he didn’t have anyone else since his dad had died. He worked two part-time jobs, one at Seeny’s Pizza Arcade and one at the post office sorting letters, but most evenings and weekends he would come join us, sometimes bringing over a new boardgame all the way from Europe or a home-baked apple-pie (this guy could bake). Or he’d go on long walks wandering in the woods and fields outside town.

One day in November Louis didn’t show up for our usual Saturday night jam. We were working on the song Night Rite for the album that ended up being Seven Red Seeds and he was supposed to show up and work on lyrics with me and Jason. We were supposed to be filming a music video to go along with the new release and that was pretty exciting. But the kid never showed. We shrugged it off. After all, he was a bit of a loner. Besides us he didn’t seem to have any friends. He took long walks, sometimes after midnight.

Yeah. I’ll have to answer for not looking a little harder sooner.

Brad tried calling him Sunday with no pick-up. We drove down to the house that he rented from Mrs. Ozeki, but she said he want out on one of his little tramps at around 4pm yesterday, but she hadn’t heard him come in.

No, it’s alright. I’m fine, I’m just getting a little too sober I guess. I mean it’s not alright but it has to be.

We reported his disappearance after checking in with his work and learning he didn’t show up there either. The police investigated us, briefly. We were basically the only people he hung out with and maybe all the songs about murdered kings and lost whaling ships freaked them out a bit. Ultimately they ruled us out. They ruled almost everything out.

Brad, Jason, and I were all volunteers for when they swept the woods in long lines looking for scraps of clothing, his glasses, anything. I remember us all looking at each other, thinking the same thing, but Jason was the only one who said it out loud. He said, I don’t want to be the one to find his body.

The most they found when they swept the woods was his camera. Someone else had found it and we never got to see what exactly was on the film. Someone clearly has. The newspapers speculated about if it had held any clues, but any questions for the Sheriffs department was met with a “we do not believe the photographs from the victim’s camera hold any information about what led to his disappearance.” Yeah, bullshit. We heard stories around about most of the pictures just being of the few remaining winter robins, which Louis loved. And then everyone had a different version of what was on the last three. Some said close shots of a man in a red windbreaker. Some said blurry images of a great white wolf like the legends.

But the one that we all thought sounded the most real, was that of a field. You know the one near the old Pressfield cemetery? Photos of seemingly nothing but brown grass and gray skies but in the distance what looks like an enormous black bird flying near the ground. And over the last few photographs, the thing gets closer and closer, until the last picture is a smeared mess of Louis turning around, I guess to run. I don’t know for sure though. I pray to Christ I never do.

What we saw was enough.

In the end the case ran absolutely cold. They had nothing. If some psycho got him, he left no trace. If he got hurt and died of exposure, where was the body? If an animal got him, where was the blood and torn clothing? He sure as hell didn’t just ditch town out the blue.

We took a little time off from everything. It just didn’t feel right, you know, writing about death and ghost stories when our weird little friend had just become one. I’ll always wonder. If he thought, you know, this is fitting. To become what I have always chased. God I’m still drunk. Of course not. You don’t think about all the badness you write songs about until you can’t even bury someone’s son.

His uncle and a few cousins came down to collect his things and clear everything up. The oldest cousin met with us a few times, let us know that she was glad Louis had had some people here after his dad had passed away. She invited us to the little funeral they had at Salve Regina Church. Brad almost didn’t go. He gave in eventually but he sat in the back and didn’t stay afterward. No, I’d never been until then. There were moments, you know, moments where I forgot why we were there and the strange chants and the candles and the silence dropped over you like heavy night and bright day and I remember looking at the wrinkled man in black and gold and thinking, this is crazy and I think I’m wanting to be crazy too.

The priests shook our hands as we left and spoke to us about Louis and about how he would pray for us and ask the other Fathers to pray for us too. And they nodded and smiled gravely and the taller one, Father Nicholas, said, we will be happy to see you next Sunday. And Jason said we’d think about it.

Eventually we had to get going with life again. Things felt a little more somber. I mean really somber, not this adolescent misery we’d been playing with. We stopped going to Outer Realms after every work day, Brad flushed all our weed. It just felt cheap. Jason spent more time with his little sisters during his free time, Brad flew back to Chicago for a few days during Christmas to spend it with his parents. Me? I hung around. My future wife was here and that’s where I wanted to be.

It was mid-February when our producer started kicking us to get back into finishing our songs and making the music video that had been put on hold. And you know I guess without really discussing it, we knew what we wanted to do.

Dies Irae isn’t our most famous song, but I don’t care, it’s our best. When we talked it over with our producer, we drew a hard line: Pressfield cemetery. That old one where they found that kid’s camera? Yeah, that’s the one. We want it filmed there.

That’s what we said and that’s what we did. And yeah, old natures die hard, it was still over-the-top, it still had some goth-looking girls (one of whom eventually became my wife), and when we got there it was freezing and gray and brown-iced earth. It was still us and we hoped it would still be Louis.

We had a couple of days to film. On the first day Jason went for a little walk around the perimeter of the cemetery, fingers red from the cold as he held his cigarette, and when he came back around he looked a little jumpy. He said, I don’t like it here. Them birds are talking. Talking? Yeah talking. Well, laughing.

It felt weird being there again. There was a feeling in the air even from the film crew that had never been there before. One said it was bad luck to be walking around all these bodies and the only reason he was doing this was because he needed the money.

And it was weird to think that the gravestone that had Louis’s name carved into it was just a false monument.

On the third and last day it started pouring rain. Just pounding. You couldn’t hardly see a damned thing in front of you. It was the kinda rain that hurt when it hit you it was coming down so hard.

We were packing up, almost everyone had left, when Jason comes up to our pick-up and asks if we heard a weird noise. Weird noise? Well hell yeah, those girls were wild. No, he says, I ain’t kidding. Like a growl but more human. Like a scream, but more animal. Well, we kind of laugh at him, say it’s probably a cougar. And before Brad can make a joke about that—

There it is. It’s not a scream. It’s something that slices through the tombstones and rattles the eardrums so it was a sound—but of what I don’t know. I don’t know. Everyone got this look, this dead look like the world fell out beneath our feet. Nobody said a word. It sounded like it had come from somewhere in the middle of the cemetery. And there was a smell too. You know when it rains it mixes up the dirt and the plants and it just shocks you with the scent? It was like that, but as if the dirt was freshly dug and something rotten was unearthed.

And like I said, you couldn’t hardly see. Just dark blotches where the graves were blinking in and out of sight between raindrops. We just stood there, watching, listening. My heart has never pounded harder. I saw those rumors in my mind of gray skies and something big flying towards you and those are the last pictures you ever take.

Finally nothing happens and we start looking at each other, feeling like of course it was just an animal prowling around. Gosh, you had us scared man. Let’s get the hell out, let’s get back to my place, I’m cooking alfredo and Brad’s got a couple of bottles from the producer’s vineyard. Sure it was nice of him to share. Yeah actually I did get that girl’s number, the one with the green eyes? Come on, get the heat on, I’m freezing.

And we’re driving away, the noise forgotten—except Jason keeps looking out the rear window, just quick little checks. I pretend not to notice. But he twitches a couple of times, opens his mouth as if he’s about to say something, but no. He keeps quiet. Eventually he stops looking and seems to relax.

I don’t stop though. And a couple of times through the sheets of rain and the obstruction of the trees, I wonder if I see something wet, dark, and shiny slinking along the road. But it’s impossible to tell.

I get up the next morning and find this thing slung across the back porch. The ground is still soaked from last night’s rain but it hasn’t managed to wash away the shear amount of blood that’s coating the concrete patio. And I need you to get this. It was so much blood. You could’ve splashed around it. My stomach almost couldn’t take it. My sense of smell certainly didn’t.

Brad and Jason got up because of the smell. They shuffled out like the dead awakened and found me staring at this thing on the porch. Jason started retching and I told him to puke in the sink. I wasn’t about to clean up this thing and then clean up after him. What the hell is it? Brad says. Who cares? It’s got to get off the porch. Looks like a malformed-newlyborn-mut or something. Maybe it got suckered by a car.

We dug it as deep as we could and it crossed my mind that, damn, maybe we shouldn’t have a thing that smells that bad, a thing that looks that rotted decomposing God knows what into the soil. And Brad didn’t say anything but I knew we were thinking the same thing. Something about it just feels wrong. Like we shouldn’t be touching it. Like we shouldn’t have even looked at it. It crossed my mind that maybe Father Nicholas could come over and do whatever it is priests do to make things clean.

The paws though, check those out. They kinda look like hands, thinking maybe it’s a raccoon but the bastards too big. Good lord, it looks almost rotten. Maybe something else dropped it off. On the porch? On my porch man? Get the hose too, we got to wash off the whole backyard after this. Get the shovel and help me out—of course we’re going to bury it, that’s just what you do. Something’ll dig it out of the trash if we chuck it in there. It looks sorry enough, that’s just what you do.

How big? Maybe about four feet long. It looked pathetic and disgusting and I didn’t tell Brad this but I almost was glad. Maybe that ain’t it. But it felt right that we had our shovels and we were digging a hole and we were going to lay this bloody pulp in it. Father Nicholas once told me about things being fitting. And I guess that’s what it was, fitting.

No, I didn’t, make that connection, between this thing and what we heard in Pressfield cemetery. Not yet. But you know how it is. You never think you’re going to get a story out of something while you’re in it.

The thing was buried and we scrubbed ourselves off and then moved on with our day. Jason seemed much quieter, but he’d been that way since Louis vanished. So maybe it was nothing.

During the night I drempt I was on a boat. It was a boat that my parents had taken me to once, on a family vacation to Main. It was white and blue and unlike that July day years ago, the sea was wine-red and wild with storm. The waves were flooding the deck and the red foam left behind looked like clumps of flesh. I was stumbling around, looking for my mom or my dad or anyone at all—but the deck was empty. I found the door that led down into the lower deck, and the wood was almost black. I put my hand against the icy door, about to push it open, but somehow through the crashing of the waves I heard a scratch, like a single long claw dragging from the top of the frame all the way down to the bottom. I pressed my ear to the door. I don’t think I was breathing. And I listened to the scratching go all the way back up and down, slowly, over and over again.

When I woke up, it was still dark and at first I was thinking I was still sleeping. The scratching sound was still ringing in my ears, and I sat up trying to shake it away. My stomach churned. The clock said 2:36 A.M. I turned my head to the small window that looked into the dark backyard and realized that the scratching noise was coming from that direction. A long, slow scratch from the top of the window to the bottom.

I wasn’t as scared as you’d think. Maybe I was still too asleep, maybe all my panic had been used up over the last few days but I found myself crawling over to the window and just—waiting. I couldn’t see jack. I hadn’t flicked on my lamp. I just waited until the scratching started over at the top and I followed it down the glass, trying to see something, anything. But all I could see was what looked like a glint of a knife and a clearly defined scratch down the middle of the pane. And that’s when it kicked in, me getting scared. Someone was dragging a Goddamn knife down my window.

The most sensible thing to do, or at least the most sensible thing my half-awake brain could think of to do, was go wake up Brad and get the rifles from underneath his bed. He was not happy. He told me I should quite drinking so much before bed, but eventually he got up, gun on his shoulder.

I kept the light off and nodded to my window. We held our breath listening. Brad got closer, looking out into the blackness. The scratching had stopped and I didn’t see anything outside. But Brad noticed the crack in the glass and suddenly looked very awake.

I’m going to go check outside, he said, and as he headed toward the back door, the one closest to my bedroom, there was a series of loud slams that sounded like a person jumping off the roof. At this point Jason was up, and he’s asking what the hell was going on and Brad told him there’s a wildcat clawing Steve’s window or some crap. I’m going to fire a shot up and scare it away.

But two things happened before Brad could slide open the back door. I hadn’t thought about it until now, but there was an familiar smell that had been growing steadily stronger, a rotten, turned-earth smell, and I couldn’t say anything except stop. Don’t open it, wait.

And Jason, stone still looking out the back window at the porch right behind the door, called out the same thing. Stop.

That’s not a cougar. You gotta look.

I’m telling you, we did look. And there was the slimy pink thing with long skinny limbs crouched in front of the back door. It looked like it had a fleshy cape on its back and it twitched as if in pain. We watched unmoving as one long claw flicked up, digging into the door, dragging it down slowly to the ground, and then repeating the act, slowly, slowly.

And you just knew, you just knew, this was the thing that wasn’t supposed to be here.

No, no way, Brad was saying, this is getting too weird. We buried this thing. We put it in the ground. And it crawled out. And we saw it. It was dead. We threw it in the hole and it got back up.

Jason was still watching the thing as it lay on the doorstep. We don’t know if it was actually dead, he said. He said it in a whisper. Well you didn’t bury it, says Brad.

***

#inklingschallenge #team chesterton #genre: intrusive fantasy #theme: burial #story: unfinished

[aparticularbandit]

Bearial: Chapter One

for @inklings-challenge

next chapter

Albert Ross was twelve years old the first time he saw the shimmering in the air.  It rippled like the water on the lake from summer camp, sparkled in the light quite the same way, and he wanted to go check and see what it was.  But his cousin Tommy was out playing with him, and he didn’t want Tommy to see it.  He told himself he would go back for it and check it out later, just him by himself, but when he went back later, the shimmering was gone. Over the next several weeks, every chance he had to get out into the woods, Albert looked for that shimmering again, but he never found it.

He did, however, lose Tommy.

Tommy was never the brightest of kids.  He was younger than Albert by about five years, which didn’t help, as far as Albert was concerned, but he was always excited by everything.  He had the brightest of blue eyes and the biggest of grins, and he loved the woods more than almost anything else, the one exception being maybe Albert, who he took with him every chance he got.  In fact, it was often Albert’s job to make sure that Tommy came back from the woods, and he’d gotten pretty good at it over the years.

Except that last time.

The easiest way to get Tommy to come out was the promise of a story.  Sometimes, it was best to start the story, because wherever Tommy was, he would always hear it, like a lost dog finding the scent of its owner on an abandoned blanket and curling up on it (and getting found).  On this particular day, Albert called out, over and over, and when Tommy didn’t appear, he started the story.  It was one that he’d been telling for months at this point, a sequential sort of thing, following the adventures of a boy named Timmy and his best friend Colbert, which would seem a lot more like Tommy and Albert if Colbert wasn’t a bear.

Tommy. loved. bears.

But no matter how much Albert said, no matter how much he searched, he couldn’t find Tommy.  It was like when he tried to find the shimmering rippling in the air a few days ago, only that might have been him just seeing something, and this was Tommy actually gone.

Albert hadn’t panicked.  Not at first.  He’d thought he just needed to try a new story, so he’d switched to something else.  Something all about animals, because Tommy loved animals, and someone who could talk to them and understand them, who used their friendship with animals to help smooth things over with—

Well, he didn’t actually get that far because then his parents were calling for him, and then he did start to get a little anxious, and then he went and told them that he couldn’t find Tommy, and then they got anxious and he finally started to panic.

They never found Tommy.  Just like Albert never found the shimmering again.

Until he did.

~

Albert was twenty-seven the next time he saw the shimmering again.

It wasn’t like his life had gone downhill after Tommy disappeared.  No one really blamed him.  At least, no one told him they blamed him, but he knew that they did – knew that Tommy’s parents blamed him for not keeping a better eye on him, knew that his parents blamed him for not calling for them sooner because maybe they would have found him, knew that it was so much easier for them to blame him than to think—

It didn’t matter.  He was okay with being blamed.  He spent most of his life blaming himself.

At twenty-seven, Albert was primed to take over his late father’s business. It shouldn’t have been a shock, his father’s passing, especially after the last few years of battling an illness that the doctors couldn’t name (or perhaps wouldn’t), but it still was.  And so Albert found himself in the woods again, just like he had so many times since Tommy’s disappearance, walking amongst the trees, his hands shoved into his pockets.

For a long while after Tommy’s disappearance, Albert hadn’t been allowed into the woods.  His parents were reasonably afraid that he would disappear somehow in the same way that Tommy had, and in their protectiveness, they’d forbidden him from going.  Of course, he’d still gone in anyway, against their wishes, because some part of him thought that maybe, just maybe, this time he would find Tommy.  Or at least some clue as to what might have happened to him.

As he got older, Albert told himself that he was going into the woods to protect other kids like he’d been, like Tommy had been, but he knew that wasn’t the case.  He couldn’t lie to himself then, either; he wasn’t going into the woods to look for Tommy anymore either.  They’d simply become the place he went when he was upset or frustrated or confused or hurt or just…needed some place to be that wasn’t anywhere else.  Some place to be where he could be alone, where he didn’t have to think.

For all that they should have been traumatic for him, the woods were a place of escape.  Just like they always should have been.

Now, it wasn’t that Albert didn’t want to take over his father’s business.  He’d basically been running it for the past few years, stepping in more and more as his father grew sicker and sicker.  In fact, he couldn’t even say that it was the recent, raw loss of his father that led to him walking through the woods at this particular time either.  Or maybe it was both of them, all of it combined together.  He couldn’t put words to it, which was why he was in the woods in the first place.  He didn’t need words in the woods.  Just himself, quietly walking.

Albert saw the shimmering before he noticed it, noticed it before he acknowledged it, just the slightest notice that something about the woods seemed off.  He found himself heading to it without even thinking about it, his feet crunching through freshly fallen leaves, and then looked up, noticed something in the air, and angled himself to it more properly.  It was only when he was a few feet from the shimmering that he realized it for what it was.

“Huh,” Albert said, and “Huh,” again.

The shimmering said nothing in reply, although whether that was because it could not was yet to be seen.

Albert stepped closer to the shimmering, and it rippled in the near moonlight.  Part of him wanted to think it had to do with fog or rain or mist, but for once in his life, none of those were happening.  Still, maybe it was just a trick of the light.  That could be the only explanation for why he was seeing it again here, now, when he hadn’t seen it in nearly fifteen years.  He stretched his hand out; his fingers just brushed the shimmering, but where they did, they disappeared as through a veil, only it didn’t feel like a veil.

He jumped back, pulling his hand towards him, and there his fingers were again, as though nothing had happened to them at all!  And, honestly, maybe nothing had happened to them.  They didn’t hurt or sting or quiver or anything.  It’s like....

Like nothing.

Albert stretches his hand out again, and this time, he pushes his whole arm through, leaves it there, and then walks to one side of the shimmering just to check.  But no, no, his arm is not coming through the other side.  It’s somewhere else.

And, now that he thinks about it, somewhere cold.

How odd.

When he pulls his arm back through, Albert sees something like snow and frost lifting the fine hairs on his skin before it melts entirely.  There’s never snow here, especially not at this time of year.  It’s too hot for that.  His brow furrows.  Well, if he can stick his arm in and bring it back out, then he should be fine going through it, shouldn’t he?  He should.

Albert glances back over his shoulder, sees no one in the woods, sees only shadows that seem to laugh at him.  He sets his jaw, turns, and walks through the shimmering.  He’d like to see snow at least once, after all.  His father never did.

#bandit fic #burial with albert ross #original fic #inklingschallenge #team lewis #genre: portal fantasy #theme: burial #story: incomplete #i'm sorry this is a little late #and i'm also sorry that it's incomplete #i think probably it just needs the next chapter and i'd rather it be read as one whole #i just #ended up not finishing it by posting time #and i'm truly sorry about that #><

[thebirdandhersong]

✨Toward the Bright Verge✨

team & genre: Team Lewis, portal fantasy (stories where someone from the real world explores a new world)

themes used: feed the hungry, clothe the naked, bury the dead

story summary: Celia Goodwin and her best friend Gia Keen are separately mourning the death of Gia's boyfriend Sam when Celia sees Sam's ghost at the orchestra. Celia, sensing that the ghost still has an unfulfilled desire or need in the land of the living, is drawn into a series of tasks, which she performs in the hopes of granting him rest in the afterlife. But events unfold, she realizes that the tasks are not as straightforward as she'd hoped... and that walking out of the underworld may be much more difficult than she'd imagined.

status: COMPLETE !!! Chapters being uploaded one by one :)

#FIRST CHAPTER OUT Y'ALL THERE'S EIGHT IN TOTAL HUZZAH FOR AN AFTERNOON OF WRITING !!! #inklingschallenge #team lewis #genre: portal fantasy #story: complete #theme: food #theme: clothing #theme: burial #last year of school log

[larissa-the-scribe]

Terrarium Lights 3.4

Previously on Terrarium Lights: Gail got plot-twisted and now she's trying to do something to help about it.

Most of the other customers had already moved on, so the café was largely empty by the time Gail made it in.

Mrs. Mary Seward saw her as she came in, and waved at her.

They knew each other due to the annual festival held at the lighthouse, and because the Sewards had recently started attending Gail's church—though perhaps it was better to say that they were familiar with each other rather than knew each other. They had talked some, and were vaguely filled in on each others' circumstances, but they were little more than pleasant acquaintances who got along well at after-church lunches.

As such, Gail was both surprised and unsurprised that Mrs. Seward came out to serve her personally, instead of the worker that… did not seem to be there at the moment, actually. Odd. They typically made a point to employ some of the youngsters from the surrounding area.

"How are you doing, Mrs. Goffrey?" she said cordially, pulling a pad of paper out of the front of her apron and smiling pleasantly.

"The good Lord made the sun," Gail replied, sitting down at a hopefully private table further in the corner, "and it's shining as it ought. So I reckon I'm doing well. How about yourself?"

"Busy," Mrs. Seward laughed. "We've had to cut down on some of the days we have extra hands about the place, so it's a bit heavier on us. But business is good. Speaking of which, anything I can get you?"

"One coffee, please," Gail said, "black, no sugar. And if you have any fruit pastries, I think that would go with it well."

"Coming right up," Mrs. Seward confirmed, jotting down things on her pad. She whisked herself away to the kitchen, and left Gail to wonder how on Earth she was going to be able to learn what she needed to. Over-thinking was something she took pains to avoid, but at this precise moment it looked more like she hadn’t done any thinking at all. Another prayer, it seemed, would be in order.

Beside her, she noticed that Samuel had made his appearance, materializing through the doorway as if he had just walked in. He waved at her tentatively, then stuck his hands in his pockets.

Gail nodded at one of the other seats at her (admittedly) small table. Inwardly, she wondered how well she'd manage to deal with a sensitive conversation to someone she didn’t know very well, plus an involved spectator that only she could, but well, it would be rude not to invite him. Besides, it would rather cut down on time (and an elaborate game of mailcarrier) if he could just hear what was going on, himself, and not rely on her second-hand summaries.

He hovered near the table but didn't take a seat.

The last customer (presumably belonging to the one remaining gearmount out front) carried their cup and plate to the kitchen counter, and left with a merry jingling of the café bell.

It wasn't long before Mrs. Seward returned with one of her fruit dumplings and a cup of steaming coffee.

"There you go," she said, sliding the plate onto the table. "Made fresh this afternoon."

"Thank you, Mrs. Seward," Gail replied. The smell of warm dough and fruit—mango, she'd guess—mingling with the strong, bitter smell of the coffee struck her stomach with the force of realization: she hadn't brought any extra food, and she was hungry after having walked this far. "It looks delicious."

Mrs. Seward smiled politely. "Thank you."

Gail patted the table, indicating the seat across from her. "Sit, get off your feet a bit. There aren't any other customers here, and if any new ones come in, you'll see them fine."

Mrs. Seward hesitated.

"How about this," Gail said, "I order one more of the dumplings, and you get a snack out of it, too."

Mrs. Seward coughed a surprised laugh. "I couldn't take your money for food for me to eat in my own café."

"Nonsense," Gail retorted. "I couldn't ask you to sit and share your valuable time with me and not reimburse you fairly. We don't get time to talk often, and I haven't had much opportunity for socialization or chatting with Michael gone."

"Well…" Mrs. Seward sighed. "I suppose that's true. And if I need to get up and working, I'll be able to get back on my feet right quick."

"Of course. I wouldn’t dream of keeping you longer that you’d want."

Mrs. Seward’s smile felt less polite and more genuine. "I'll be just a second."

Gail exerted a great deal of self-control and did not scarf down the entirety of the (thankfully large) dumpling before Mrs. Seward got back.

"Ahhhh." Mrs. Seward sank down into the seat opposite, thin cheeks flushed from the warmth of the ovens in the kitchen. "I will admit, sitting down does feel nice."

"You seem to be quite hard at work," Gail agreed. "Why are the part-timers off-duty?"

"We're needing to save a bit more money just now," Mrs. Seward said, slicing into the dumpling neatly.

Gail was already several forkfulls ahead of her. "Oh? Is the lighthouse not doing so well? Repairs of some kind?"

"No, all of that's going well," she said. Now that she was sitting down and eating, her early reticence had dissipated. "Something else happened that is quite a miracle, so I'm very grateful for it, though at this exact moment it's a bit difficult."

"Oh?"

"Well, it's all a bit strange, but a close friend of my son's showed up again after having gone missing for six years, and we've been needing to pay the doctor to be here regular, since he hasn't woken up for the past three or so weeks."

Gail nearly spat out her coffee. Apparently, she had not needed to be concerned about information.

It, belatedly, occurred to Gail that if something big and surprising had happened—such as a young man appearing at the lighthouse one day—she would likely have had more trouble avoiding the topic than not. She bit down onto her fork with enthusiasm and general gratitude.

Wait.

"Your son?"

"You’re familiar with the annual remembrance festival, right?" Mrs. Seward replied, giving her a quizzical look.

"Well, yes," Gail replied. "We've only been attending since a few years ago, but yes. A festival of remembrance for those lost at sea, and for those brought home again, right?"

Mrs. Seward chuckled a bit, taking a delicate bite of her neatly sliced up dumpling. "Well, it actually isn't specified where they were lost. Your son was lost at sea, though, wasn't he?"

"Aye. David."

"We lost our son six years ago, but it was under unknown circumstances. The next year we wanted to give something back to the community that helped us through such a difficult time, so, in honor of him and those around us who we knew who had also suffered losses, we started the festival of remembrance."

"O-oh." Gail found she didn't have much of an answer.

"But, well, we still haven't found our son. We may never." She pushed her fork slowly into the dumpling, contemplating it. "But, again, we never thought we'd find his friend again, either, so there may be hope yet."

#heh #surprise #gail goffrey #terrarium lights #the ghost #the lighthouse #ocs #inklings challenge #inklingschallenge #inklings challenge 2023 #team: lewis #genre: portal fantasy #theme: burial #theme: visiting the sick #story: finished #salt and light #the santa juliana files #scribe writes #scribe does inklings

[clarythericebot]

Day in A Life

[ 563 words | Estimated Reading Time: 2 mins]

Los Angeles, Cal., Oct. 21, 2050 /Newswire/ -- Judge Baxter rules that the StarFlicks Entertainment Group maintains the right to exhume the remains of the legendary Leo de Vera. StarFlicks Entertainment holds a still-active contract that guarantees them full exclusivity and control of Leo De Vera's media visage. The company stated in a PR statement that they plan to feed De Vera's bio body to their cutting-edge Talent Replicator AI to provide the public with more exciting content from the renowned actress. Ms. Nevarro--practicing attorney and the granddaughter of Leo de Vera--slams the claim as a human rights violation.

San Francisco, 1964 Leonora Montes wants to rest. She wants it badly--especially on mornings like these, with the warm, golden sun blanketing her pale skin. She sits on grass as soft and spring-like as a bed, her dead husband supporting the whole weight of her six feet underneath. "What I wouldn't give," she says to no one in particular, "just to sleep here and never wake up." She chuckles to herself. "I see your morbidy's still rubbing off on me." No answer. But she can picture his gap-toothed wide grin, and it's enough for now. She begins her weekly ritual. Trimming the grass on his grave with a pair of creaky old shears. Arranging the flowers from their garden just the way he liked it--not by color or height, as she'd have thought sensible, but by alphabetical order in neat little rows. She still has to fight not to roll her eyes. Finally, she gets to his gravestone. "You can spare your handkerchief," she can visualize him saying, as he'd told her when she tried to wipe his neck in the midst of his final fever. "I'm dead either way, mahal." She takes out the cloth from her pocket and polishes the artifice definitely. "At least you don't bat my hand away now," she says. In loving memory is swept free of debris. His first name, and then their last name, are similarly scrubbed. She takes time to brush the numbers that denote his short life. 1940 - 1963. "One whole year without you," she remarks, more annoyed at this particular moment than sad. "It was supposed to be a lifetime, you idiot. Wasn't that the plan?" She can see him raising his hands, palms up. The gesture he'd used since they were children to call truce. "You have a point, de Vera. But." "But?" she asks his imaginary ghost. "But you knew well before you married me that my plans tended to go awry, more often than not." Leonora huffs, pockets her handkerchief, and sits down with her knees wrapped primly under her legs. She can do this forever, she knows. Stay by her husband's side in her whimsical memory, happy to be home in her dreams. But she has to tell him. She means to go right out and say it. The lump in her throat refuses to cooperate. She swallows and stares at a nearby dandelion, and keeps staring until she can conjure, in her mind's eye, her husband cupping her cheeks in his callused hands and nudging her to meet his eyes. "Ano na?" he inquires, light and gentle. What now? "I think," she says, "I should sign the contract." This is where her image of him freezes. For all that she knows him by heart, she cannot guess how he'd react. / / / A/N: This is for the @inklings-challenge! Looking forward to reading people's stories :) Unfinished (and a little late), sadly, and I never did find time to get the structure how I wanted it, but I'm glad I managed to get this much up :) I hope you enjoy! If you're curious where I was going with this, the plan was to continue describing the day when Leonora signs the fateful contract, while interspersing it with epistolary snippets (probably news clippings) that show her descendants' increasingly desperate ways to ensure that she gets to rest in peace with her husband. Then one of them manages to invent a time machine.

#inklingschallenge #team tolkien #genre: time travel #theme: bury the dead #theme: burial #story: unfinished

[add1ctedt0you]

An interesting theme, imo, in mdzs is the sheer tiredness you must feel when dealing with someone who, having been dead for more than a decade, is still the same person as before, while you aren't anymore.

#I don't have seen people dig into it #And it's reasonable #Mdzs has a lot of interesting themes! #Also we don't feel this because in the novel the main couple is building a completely new relationship #While the only person still alive with whom wwx had a relationship in the past isn't there a lot. So #I realized it while writing this wq fic. And now she meets wwx #And into my mind he tries to recreate the same dynamic as before. But wq just looks at him. Because now she is almost 40 #(kinda?? Age in mdzs is nothing but I like old women) #Anyway she isn't the same as 13 years ago #While for wwx isn't much long. For him from the burial mounds at best are 6 months #I am not making sense. sigh #But if I had a bestie in a come. Then they woke up and tried to do the same jokes I would blink and not even laugh #Because I've changed #It's fucking sad #For everyone

[revawake]

#mistynat #yellowjackets #yellowjackets spoilers #suicide tw #gun violence tw #misty x nat #for real though i hope they address this plotline #and it doesn't just get dropped with nat being magically 'cured' by lottie #although i will say that getting kidnapped seems to have done her some good. #nothing like being trapped in an earthy crunchy purple themed chicken having live burial doing cult to bring back one's will to live

[inklings-challenge]

Rough Count of 2023 Inklings Challenge Stories by Theme

Feed the hungry: 22

Give drink to the thirsty: 12

Clothe the naked: 18

Shelter the homeless: 24

Visit the sick: 11

Visit the imprisoned: 8

Bury the dead: 18

Obviously, a lot of these are inflated by stories doing several or all genres.

I thought "burial" would be higher based on what I saw when compiling the archives. A quick glance suggests that while it may not have the highest number of stories, it's probably the theme where the most authors chose it as the only theme.

#inklingschallenge #theme: food #theme: drink #theme: clothing #theme: shelter #theme: visit the sick #theme: visit the imprisoned #theme: burial

[weusedtobegiants]

i will do the burying.

Olivia Gatwood, from Life of the Party

#quotes #poetry #literature #poetry by women #olivia gatwood #life of the party #themes: burial