Scene from a dream this morning.
Rainy cobblestones. A stone wall. The end of the wall cants downward to the ground, more for a flat surface than a deliberate attempt at beauty. There's a plaque set into the concrete that keeps the stone together, and an iron gate, right past the wall's end. There's a sidewalk, narrow, and a street. Leaves litter the puddles of water that spread across the cobblestones. There are no cars.
It is morning, early spring. Some of the trees are blooming. There is a faint and gentle breeze, and a girl.
Her name is Alice. She is, almost predictably, wearing a blue dress, or perhaps it's a blue coat; I can't really tell. She is darting from puddle to puddle, looking for something, and I see scraps of paper littering the puddles along with the leaves. She lifts each scrap of paper--they are about the size of post-it notes, unfolds each one. But none of them are what she is looking for.
I notice that there are more pieces of paper stuck in the stone wall. Quite a few of them have blown out during the storm the night before. These are what Alice picks up from the puddles--not that you're supposed to do that; the prayers--because that's what they are, prayers to the dead that lie in the cemetery beyond the iron gate--are supposed to fade away eventually, the paper grown soggy from rain and snow, the handwriting faded, worn, gone.
I notice there are iron spikes atop the wall, and that the wall is very tall. And of course it's a cemetery--I knew that already, didn't bother to read the plaque.
Alice darts from puddle to puddle. She is obviously upset. Her hair is damp and curling; golden, I think, when it is dry.
And then she seems to realize that the piece of paper that blew out of her hand wouldn't necessarily be drenched and drifting apart like some of the prayers she picks up; this has just happened. And the prayer--the note, in truth--was not intended for the Wall. (And yes, now it's just the Wall. Everyone knows of its presence, no one really talks about it. Some of the notes stuck in between the stones are not meant for the dead, you see.) Her piece of paper would not be as wet. And it's white, not colored.
And then she sees it when a gust of wind blows it free from the branches of one of the trees overhead. It flutters downward, and she runs to snatch it out of the air, but the breeze flirts with her desperation now, and flickers it here and there, away from her grasping fingers. Across the top of the wall where she would not be able to reach, around the corner, and out of sight.
Alice follows it. There are tears on her cheeks now. I dismiss her--for now, at least--and turn towards the cemetery. The sun has broken through the clouds overhead and it glitters on the puddles in flashes of gold. It hurts my eyes. It smells like spring. I reach out my hand--it's not my hand, but someone else's, a man's hand, worn and calloused. A tired hand. The arm is wearing a brown suitcoat and a cream colored shirt. I do not glance in the puddle to see my reflection. I am not interested in that. But I touch the wall, and feel wet stone. Moss. The charge between copper and iron that flows through the wall is unbroken.
I am more interested in what Alice was doing in the cemetery, so I walk inside. Not through the iron gates, but through the same door Alice ran through--unlocked now, which was not advisable, but the door had closed behind her, and anything--or anyone--wanting to get out would not have been able to touch the copper clad and iron bound door. The lock was even silver, tarnished and black; the copper weeping tears of green down the heavy oak.
I am holding a cane in my other hand. Not really using it; it's more for my own protection than anything else. It's a black, twisted stick, or that's what it looks like on the outside, at least. Inside, copper and silver twine around an iron core. I am cautious not to let the stick out of my possession. Its weight would give its protections away.
I step inside the cemetery. Walk over to the nearest tree and state my intentions to the protections. Nothing happens--I hadn't expected anything to happen anyway--so I step past the barrier and make my way through the tidy rows of graves. I'm looking for a new grave, of course. And after a few minutes of walking--its a large cemetery--I find it.
It's not even filled in. The sturdy oak of the coffin is streaked with mud, but only the bottom half has been covered; the stop still remains open. Banded with copper and iron, of course, but with one small anomaly--a little door with a brass knob, right at the top. Where, if I wished to open it, I would see the deceased's face.
I glanced up at the sunlight and the quickly fleeing stormclouds. I would see his face, but if they were that sure he would rise again, I would also kill him.
His name, according to the stone, was Charlie Asher. He'd died two days ago. I remembered reading something about an animal attack in the newspaper. They weren't very accurate in the first place, so I had dismissed it. Perhaps I shouldn't have.
I glanced back the way Alice had vanished. Should I-- No. I wouldn't go after her. She'd come back, once the breeze stopped playing with her. And then we would talk.
I settled down on a damp stone bench under one of the guardian trees, and resigned myself to wait.
ETA: Snippets of the conversation:
"But that is what you're supposed to do!" Alice said, and I realized she still didn't understand. "If there is a chance you might come back, someone will watch over you, and you are supposed to stay and wait until they come."
"But no one ever says what happens after that," I said gently, wondering if she really just was a silly girl and nothing more.
She stared at me. And then, whispered, "What do you mean, what happens after that? You live--don't you?"
"Open the door," I suggested. "See your lover's face."
"But--the sunlight--"
At least she knew that much. "Open the door. It's been two days." And I already knew what she would find. I looked around the peaceful cemetery and wondered where the protections had failed.
Hesitantly, Alice walked over to the half-buried coffin. She knelt down beside it and placed her hand on the oak, now warm from the sun. She glanced at me; I nodded. And then she opened the little door.
There was no outcry; no burst of flame; no scream. She looked inside for a long moment, then, stiffly, stood, leaving the door open to the sun.
"It's empty," she whispered, and waited for my reply. Perhaps she wanted me to reassure her that Charlie was in a better place now, but I honestly had no idea who had taken him or where he'd wake up.
"Are you certain he was inside the coffin when they brought him here?" I asked, because I truly did not want the cemetery's protections to have failed, even once.
She nodded. "I opened it. Twice." Her eyes were dry, at least; she hadn't fallen down into a hysterical fit.
"Have you dreamed of him?" I asked.
A flush stained her cheeks. "Yes, of course I have. We were to be married, after all. Of course I've dreamed of him."
Of course, I thought. And either they were true dreams, or her lover attempting to contact her from wherever he'd been taken. "Alice, do you have any other family?"
"My aged mother," Alice said, and considering her age, I wondered how old she thought I was. "She was very happy to hear of our engagement." She paused. "I live with her still; it was easier for both of us that way. She was a seamstress."
"Go home," I told her. "I will contact you by the end of the day. Go directly home." I fished into my pocket and handed her a mottled blue stone, worn smooth by frequent use. "This will protect you. Do not allow anyone to cross your threshold, even if they claim it to be an emergency. Claim you are in mourning." I didn't want to frighten her, but I wanted her to understand enough to obey my orders. "Please tell me you will do this."
Alice's eyes were wide, as if she'd just started to realize the import of what had happened. "Will you answer one question before I leave?" she finally asked. "And then I will do everything you ask."
"It truly depends on the question," I said.
"What happens after?" Alice asked. "What happens after you come back?"
"Those who come back are sent to their eternal rest," I said.
She thought about that for a moment, then said, "They are killed, you mean. They come back, and they are killed."
"Yes," I told her.
"By you?"
"Or others like me," I said. "Please, Alice. What happened here is not a good thing. It could--It could crumble the bedrock of the entire city. Everything you hold dear; everything you see around you could fall apart."
She took the stone from my hand, nodded to me, and clutched her coat around her neck. Her hair was dry now, and golden, as I had suspected. She looked so very young.
I watched her walk along the sidewalk until she turned the corner and was out of sight, and then I turned towards the coffin and closed the little door.
"Charlie Asher," I said.
There was no answer, of course. The birds didn't even come inside the cemetery. The flowering trees never bore fruit.
The protections seemed solid and sure. I let my gaze fall on the crypt.
"Charlie Asher."
Was that a line of darkness along the sealed side of the door? Had he somehow breeched the protections across the coffin and fled to the only building for safety against the sunlight?
Had he been watching her wait beside his coffin?
I walked the short distance to where the crypt sat, squat and grotesque against the plainer headstones and the flowering trees. The stonecarver had not left a single inch of stone uncovered with carvings--the building had more protection than the cemetery itself, in truth. I sat down on the topmost stair, beside a snarling gargoyle.
That had been a crack in the door. My eyesight wasn't so bad after all. Someone had broken the seal, and it had not closed all the way afterwards.
My back was to the door. Considering the stoop was bathed in sunlight, I felt safe enough.
"Charlie Asher," I said for the third and final time. If Charlie Archer had heard me, he wouldn't be able to stop himself from answering. A summoning spell it wasn't, but those who come back are rather predictable.
And then, because I had asked Alice, I said, "Charles Edward Asher," and backed that name with the power of my will.
There was a thump from behind the door. And then, an agonized silence, as he tried to figure out if I had heard the noise.
"If I say your entire name three times, you will be obliged to answer," I said. "And I would rather you speak to me willingly."
There was no reply.
"Charles Edward Asher," I said again.
"I don't want to die again," he said, panic riding through the words. "That's what happens, doesn't it? If someone comes back, they are killed. Am I right? I don't want to die again."
"We rarely get to choose when we die," I said. "How did you free yourself from the coffin?"
(Author's note: Oh my gosh, I could write this all morning, and have!)
It is morning, early spring. Some of the trees are blooming. There is a faint and gentle breeze, and a girl.
Her name is Alice. She is, almost predictably, wearing a blue dress, or perhaps it's a blue coat; I can't really tell. She is darting from puddle to puddle, looking for something, and I see scraps of paper littering the puddles along with the leaves. She lifts each scrap of paper--they are about the size of post-it notes, unfolds each one. But none of them are what she is looking for.
I notice that there are more pieces of paper stuck in the stone wall. Quite a few of them have blown out during the storm the night before. These are what Alice picks up from the puddles--not that you're supposed to do that; the prayers--because that's what they are, prayers to the dead that lie in the cemetery beyond the iron gate--are supposed to fade away eventually, the paper grown soggy from rain and snow, the handwriting faded, worn, gone.
I notice there are iron spikes atop the wall, and that the wall is very tall. And of course it's a cemetery--I knew that already, didn't bother to read the plaque.
Alice darts from puddle to puddle. She is obviously upset. Her hair is damp and curling; golden, I think, when it is dry.
And then she seems to realize that the piece of paper that blew out of her hand wouldn't necessarily be drenched and drifting apart like some of the prayers she picks up; this has just happened. And the prayer--the note, in truth--was not intended for the Wall. (And yes, now it's just the Wall. Everyone knows of its presence, no one really talks about it. Some of the notes stuck in between the stones are not meant for the dead, you see.) Her piece of paper would not be as wet. And it's white, not colored.
And then she sees it when a gust of wind blows it free from the branches of one of the trees overhead. It flutters downward, and she runs to snatch it out of the air, but the breeze flirts with her desperation now, and flickers it here and there, away from her grasping fingers. Across the top of the wall where she would not be able to reach, around the corner, and out of sight.
Alice follows it. There are tears on her cheeks now. I dismiss her--for now, at least--and turn towards the cemetery. The sun has broken through the clouds overhead and it glitters on the puddles in flashes of gold. It hurts my eyes. It smells like spring. I reach out my hand--it's not my hand, but someone else's, a man's hand, worn and calloused. A tired hand. The arm is wearing a brown suitcoat and a cream colored shirt. I do not glance in the puddle to see my reflection. I am not interested in that. But I touch the wall, and feel wet stone. Moss. The charge between copper and iron that flows through the wall is unbroken.
I am more interested in what Alice was doing in the cemetery, so I walk inside. Not through the iron gates, but through the same door Alice ran through--unlocked now, which was not advisable, but the door had closed behind her, and anything--or anyone--wanting to get out would not have been able to touch the copper clad and iron bound door. The lock was even silver, tarnished and black; the copper weeping tears of green down the heavy oak.
I am holding a cane in my other hand. Not really using it; it's more for my own protection than anything else. It's a black, twisted stick, or that's what it looks like on the outside, at least. Inside, copper and silver twine around an iron core. I am cautious not to let the stick out of my possession. Its weight would give its protections away.
I step inside the cemetery. Walk over to the nearest tree and state my intentions to the protections. Nothing happens--I hadn't expected anything to happen anyway--so I step past the barrier and make my way through the tidy rows of graves. I'm looking for a new grave, of course. And after a few minutes of walking--its a large cemetery--I find it.
It's not even filled in. The sturdy oak of the coffin is streaked with mud, but only the bottom half has been covered; the stop still remains open. Banded with copper and iron, of course, but with one small anomaly--a little door with a brass knob, right at the top. Where, if I wished to open it, I would see the deceased's face.
I glanced up at the sunlight and the quickly fleeing stormclouds. I would see his face, but if they were that sure he would rise again, I would also kill him.
His name, according to the stone, was Charlie Asher. He'd died two days ago. I remembered reading something about an animal attack in the newspaper. They weren't very accurate in the first place, so I had dismissed it. Perhaps I shouldn't have.
I glanced back the way Alice had vanished. Should I-- No. I wouldn't go after her. She'd come back, once the breeze stopped playing with her. And then we would talk.
I settled down on a damp stone bench under one of the guardian trees, and resigned myself to wait.
ETA: Snippets of the conversation:
"But that is what you're supposed to do!" Alice said, and I realized she still didn't understand. "If there is a chance you might come back, someone will watch over you, and you are supposed to stay and wait until they come."
"But no one ever says what happens after that," I said gently, wondering if she really just was a silly girl and nothing more.
She stared at me. And then, whispered, "What do you mean, what happens after that? You live--don't you?"
"Open the door," I suggested. "See your lover's face."
"But--the sunlight--"
At least she knew that much. "Open the door. It's been two days." And I already knew what she would find. I looked around the peaceful cemetery and wondered where the protections had failed.
Hesitantly, Alice walked over to the half-buried coffin. She knelt down beside it and placed her hand on the oak, now warm from the sun. She glanced at me; I nodded. And then she opened the little door.
There was no outcry; no burst of flame; no scream. She looked inside for a long moment, then, stiffly, stood, leaving the door open to the sun.
"It's empty," she whispered, and waited for my reply. Perhaps she wanted me to reassure her that Charlie was in a better place now, but I honestly had no idea who had taken him or where he'd wake up.
"Are you certain he was inside the coffin when they brought him here?" I asked, because I truly did not want the cemetery's protections to have failed, even once.
She nodded. "I opened it. Twice." Her eyes were dry, at least; she hadn't fallen down into a hysterical fit.
"Have you dreamed of him?" I asked.
A flush stained her cheeks. "Yes, of course I have. We were to be married, after all. Of course I've dreamed of him."
Of course, I thought. And either they were true dreams, or her lover attempting to contact her from wherever he'd been taken. "Alice, do you have any other family?"
"My aged mother," Alice said, and considering her age, I wondered how old she thought I was. "She was very happy to hear of our engagement." She paused. "I live with her still; it was easier for both of us that way. She was a seamstress."
"Go home," I told her. "I will contact you by the end of the day. Go directly home." I fished into my pocket and handed her a mottled blue stone, worn smooth by frequent use. "This will protect you. Do not allow anyone to cross your threshold, even if they claim it to be an emergency. Claim you are in mourning." I didn't want to frighten her, but I wanted her to understand enough to obey my orders. "Please tell me you will do this."
Alice's eyes were wide, as if she'd just started to realize the import of what had happened. "Will you answer one question before I leave?" she finally asked. "And then I will do everything you ask."
"It truly depends on the question," I said.
"What happens after?" Alice asked. "What happens after you come back?"
"Those who come back are sent to their eternal rest," I said.
She thought about that for a moment, then said, "They are killed, you mean. They come back, and they are killed."
"Yes," I told her.
"By you?"
"Or others like me," I said. "Please, Alice. What happened here is not a good thing. It could--It could crumble the bedrock of the entire city. Everything you hold dear; everything you see around you could fall apart."
She took the stone from my hand, nodded to me, and clutched her coat around her neck. Her hair was dry now, and golden, as I had suspected. She looked so very young.
I watched her walk along the sidewalk until she turned the corner and was out of sight, and then I turned towards the coffin and closed the little door.
"Charlie Asher," I said.
There was no answer, of course. The birds didn't even come inside the cemetery. The flowering trees never bore fruit.
The protections seemed solid and sure. I let my gaze fall on the crypt.
"Charlie Asher."
Was that a line of darkness along the sealed side of the door? Had he somehow breeched the protections across the coffin and fled to the only building for safety against the sunlight?
Had he been watching her wait beside his coffin?
I walked the short distance to where the crypt sat, squat and grotesque against the plainer headstones and the flowering trees. The stonecarver had not left a single inch of stone uncovered with carvings--the building had more protection than the cemetery itself, in truth. I sat down on the topmost stair, beside a snarling gargoyle.
That had been a crack in the door. My eyesight wasn't so bad after all. Someone had broken the seal, and it had not closed all the way afterwards.
My back was to the door. Considering the stoop was bathed in sunlight, I felt safe enough.
"Charlie Asher," I said for the third and final time. If Charlie Archer had heard me, he wouldn't be able to stop himself from answering. A summoning spell it wasn't, but those who come back are rather predictable.
And then, because I had asked Alice, I said, "Charles Edward Asher," and backed that name with the power of my will.
There was a thump from behind the door. And then, an agonized silence, as he tried to figure out if I had heard the noise.
"If I say your entire name three times, you will be obliged to answer," I said. "And I would rather you speak to me willingly."
There was no reply.
"Charles Edward Asher," I said again.
"I don't want to die again," he said, panic riding through the words. "That's what happens, doesn't it? If someone comes back, they are killed. Am I right? I don't want to die again."
"We rarely get to choose when we die," I said. "How did you free yourself from the coffin?"
(Author's note: Oh my gosh, I could write this all morning, and have!)