Death's Promise
My entry for @inklings-challenge on Team Tolkien! This story comes from my world of Laoche, which recently got rehauled (yet again) with a new pantheon and more depth to the religious worldbuilding.
In this world the First god is the Artist, who created all of the others to rule over different parts of creation, and the counterpart to the Artist is Death, who isn't an antagonist force but more of a celestial clean up duty. Her role is to be a storykeeper and guardian of souls, then break down the physical remains so the Artist can repurpose the materials. She's often met with dread, sorrow, or fear, but she is fundamentally, kind, and a caretaker of the Artist's creations when their lives are done. In this story, a young gravedigger meets her, and she gives him a promise.
The complete story is under the read more! I'll also be posting it to my blog so it can be found there in case tumblr's search function gives up on me.
Thud. Thud. Thud. The rhythmic falling of hammer on chisel chipped blocks from the stone wall in the crevasse where Martten worked. Dust swirled in the air and made his candles sputter. He stepped back from his work and coughed, assessing the progress. Almost deep enough. The niche needed a few more inches before it would fit Elanor’s body. Maybe a couple more inches after that. She was a large woman, and she ought to be comfortable. It was long enough now—Elanor was also a short woman—and he should finish before the dawn. His arms ached as he picked up the hammer and the chisel which he wrapped in fabric to dampen the clinking noise of his carving.
It had been a busy week. With all the unrest in the city, the devout were bringing down new bodies every day, and they’d run out of empty loculi. He longed for his bed and a shower to wash the dust from his hair, but he needed to finish this work first. He couldn’t sleep in good conscience, knowing Elanor didn’t have a place to rest. The candles kept the place warm, at least. Dozens of them burned around the small alcove, casting a soft glow around the small space. This deep underground, it always stayed cold, even during the day.
It was not day, though you couldn’t tell at this depth, except by the ice deep set in his bones.
He was just about to raise his arm to strike again when a flicker caught in the corner of his eye. A bent figure moved down the corridor, sending long shadows over his work. The newcomer was an old woman, ancient even. She used a cane to support herself and wore a black veil over her black robes. This must have been a superior he hadn’t met yet. He only joined the Siblings since the riots started a month ago, and he hadn’t yet met every follower of the Artist in Dazar. He lowered his tools and gave her a respectful head nod.
“Evening. Do you need something?”
“May I ask whose body will lie there?” She asked. Her raspy voice sounded like a rustle of dead leaves.
“A woman named Elanor Cernall. She was a weaver who died in the most recent attack on the market.”
“What was she like?”
“I didn’t know her myself, but from what I heard, she was a good woman. Pessimistic at times. Slow to forgive or forget if someone wronged her and her kin, but she had a strong sense of duty. Loyal to the Artist and his people. Skilled at her trade, too. The Siblings preparing her body said that she made and donated the cloth for a good number of our habits.”
Martten kept his head bowed as he spoke, but as he finished his story, he turned to the wall again. Night was getting on, and he wanted to sleep a bit, at least. “Did you know her?” he asked as his first stroke fell.
The old woman hums in the affirmative. “I did. She was a good woman indeed.”
“I’m sorry for your loss.”
“A life well lived is never a loss, but another shining craft to add to the collection of the Artist,” the old woman responded sagely. It was a response Martten heard before, but it didn’t seem like a platitude for her. When she said the words, she gave them weight, and the truth of the saying settled over his shoulders like a shroud.
It added meaning to his work. The followers of the Artist didn’t bury their dead in the traditional way. They hid them underground in catacombs so nobody could disturb them, but they didn’t cover the bodies with dirt or cremate them to get rid of the bodies. They let them decompose on their own, laid out on shelves and adorned with spices to mask the smell. The followers of the Artist remembered and visited - their cemetery was a collection of finished works who kept each other company in the dark. It seemed fitting that they should also have nicely finished graves in which to rest, places befitting the masterpieces. He angled his chisel and gave it a few gentle taps to smooth out a piece of jutting stone.
“It is kind of you to learn her story,” the woman said, interrupting his silence.
“I know them all,” Martten said proudly, then lowered his voice again. “Is that odd, that I talk to them sometimes? Isso the fisherman, a cheerful friend. Aikaterina the scholar, a persuasive orator and wise teacher. Eula, the singer, leading the Siblings in worship. Her poor boy Alex helps me sometimes. He doesn’t have anyone else left.” He paused his carving to gesture to each of their niches. “They keep me company. They’re almost like friends.”
The old woman made the symbol of storge to him, the middle three fingers of the hand held over her lips. It put him at ease, knowing he enjoyed her good company as well. “It’s not odd at all,” she reassured him, setting herself onto one of the empty ledges from earlier in the night to sit for a while.
“The other Siblings appreciate the sentiment, but the rest of the city…” Martten trailed off, a wistful feeling overtook him as his mind wandered. “I was telling Monica the other day—that mother in the niche under Isso. I was telling her about this baker girl, Emalee. I pass her stall after work and she always gives me the leftover bread and pastries from the day. She’s sweeter than her treats, but we don’t talk at all. I’m afraid she’d think I’m crazy for confiding in the dead.”
Martten realized what he was saying too late, after the confession already left his mouth. He talked to the shrouds often enough, but here he was almost treating this old woman the same way. It was wrong, but somehow, she didn’t feel like another human presence; her form so slight and so shadowed, just another ghosts.
“Apologies. I’m rambling. Monica was a grandmother of twenty-seven little ones when she passed, and I think she would understand another lovesick boy whinging about his crush while she’s just trying to rest. I don’t mean to trouble you with my cares.”
The old lady laughed, and it sounded to him a little like the cawing of a murder of crows, the sounds overlapping unnaturally as they echoed off the close stone walls of the catacombs. “I’m not troubled. I’m pleased to find a follower who loves the stories as much as I do. The dead like to be remembered; they enjoy the company too. Monica especially. Only two of her twenty-seven grandchildren visit anymore, and even then, not regularly.”
Martten frowned at that news and struck his hammer especially hard in response. A sizeable chunk fell out of the niche, splitting cleanly along the pins that he drove into the stone. He stooped and set it to the side, then returned to his tapping, working methodically left to right so the surface would come out flat and smooth.
“Do you carve all these loculi?” The woman asked.
“All since I joined the Siblings a month ago.”
“Who assigned you this task?”
“No one. It needed to be done, and so I volunteered. I’m a mason, when I’m not with the Siblings, so I have the skills for it. It’s fitting, giving our crafts back to the Artist and all, and the work means more than breaking blocks for the Atilan buildings all day.”
“You must be weary.”
Martten sighs. “Yes.” He won’t complain, though. It’s worthwhile, and no ache in his bones can change the satisfaction that comes with the effort. A few more strokes and the last chunk came out of the niche. He set it aside on the small pile of rubble for one of the other Siblings to collect, then returned his tools to their own cubby. “But as weary as I am, it’s these old bones that deserve the rest.”
The old woman raised herself from the ledge where she was sitting. Her cane caught the light as she moved, and he realized it was made of bone. A large bone, yellowed with its ancient age—maybe the leg of a stegodon. Part of him wondered if the strange woman collected it herself. It had carvings along the length with symbols that he couldn’t read. “These old bones appreciate a moment to rest and chat with such a charitable young man,” she said cheerfully.
“I hope your old bones walk the world a while yet,” he said, and offered her an arm to steady her as they walked out of the catacombs. She placed her hand on his arm, and Martten realized it was strong, but cold as a corpse.
“They will,” she responds, completely confident. She stopped, took her other hand off her cane, and it stayed standing upright on the point, on its own. She pulled back her veil to reveal a grinning skull beneath, then took her cane in hand again. Martten took a sharp breath as she showed her true form, but didn’t pull away, eyes fixed completely into her empty eye sockets, which had a soft flicker of orange glow within, like distant candle flames.
“You will have a good death,” she promised. “It will be peaceful and painless after a long and well lived life. Your loved ones will surround you, including the sweet wife of which you spoke. Your children and grandchildren will outnumber even Monica’s. One of them will carve your niche with as much care as you carved Elanor’s tonight, and they will tell your memories, and they will pass down your example of kindness to their children. It will be sorrowful, but only in equal measure to how much they loved you.”
Martten didn’t realize he was crying until she brushed the tears from his cheek with a cold and bony finger. He found no words of thanks, question, or response, before she returned her veil, and continued their march towards the exit of the Catacombs. As they walked, the weight on his arm grew less and less, and when he emerged into the light of dawn, he was alone.