The Temple of Heart and Bone (10 page)

The sun, the figure realized, was
rising, or had risen, behind the inky stain of the storm clouds above. No guess
could be made as to the time of day, other than it was, perhaps, near sunrise.
As the clouds had shrouded the moon and stars of night, so the brighter light
of day was hidden from the world below. Darkness merely paled, lessening rather
than weakening. The storm and the night seemed reluctant to pass on the mantle
of ownership to the light and the day. Turning away from the farm, the figure
released the tree and sat back against it, wondering how far was left to go.

If the old man was right, the
path should start somewhere nearby. He had said it would not be hard to find.
The first order of business, then, would be to look for the path through the
trees. Breathing deeply and sighing with resignation, the figure stood up
against the tree, taking a moment to scratch its back along the bark. A
residual chill raced down the neck to the heels and the body shuddered
involuntarily. Starting first to the left, the figure marched out to look for
signs of a path in the trees. After ten or fifteen minutes of walking, the
figure doubled back and began to search to the south. In less than ten minutes,
a depression of the ground suggested a path winding through the cluster of
trees. Deeper and less used than the narrow game trails, the figure decided to
trust to luck and moved out along the path.

Wending its way through the
trees, the path proved to be somewhat erratic, though it always returned to its
original course. It took some time to understand the twists and turns it had
taken. The figure realized that, no matter which twists or turns the path had
taken, it was always wide enough for a hand-drawn cart to move through. The old
man had said that there was a wider path, much further to the south, which had
been cut for a horse-drawn wagon. This one, he had said, was used for
woodcutters and barter. He had also said it had more twists than a Northern
trade agreement, and he had been right—but not by much.

The bark of the trees had been cut
at different areas of the path. Symbols marked routes to other camps, perhaps,
or game or wood trails. It was a language known to the locals, the figure
thought, and wondered about its meaning. The old man mentioned the cuts, and
said that the proper set to follow would be the one that carved out a double
horizontal line. When asked what they represented, the old man had simply
replied, “the way through, I suppose.”

The figure smiled to itself,
thinking of the old man’s voice. He would
have
to hear about the
experience at the farm. That was just too uncanny. The old man would be able to
explain it, that was sure, might even be able to look into it, if it was
something that needed looking into. It was odd for bodies to be left in the
open like that, as if no one had been out to inspect the damage or investigate
the disappearance of friends or loved ones. It was highly unusual, and totally
against the prevailing religion of the region. The rules, the figure mused,
were undoubtedly designed more to protect the population than to calm either
deity or spirits. Religion, the figure thought to itself, had served only one
purpose from its dawn in time, to control the minds of the masses.

Certainly, there had been some
instinctual fear in experiencing that cluster of untended corpses. Bodies
represented death to the mind, either violent or perhaps infectious. It was
only reasonable for instinct to be afraid of them. Whatever had killed them
might remain to continue its work, whether it had been a disease or a predator.
Since the primal mind, or instinct, had no means of direct communication with a
rational being, it worked in chemicals and emotions, in images and reactions.
The release of chemicals was what made the heart race. The sounds that had been
startling in the cellar were merely the results of heightened humors, senses of
the body tuned to chemical perfection by instinctual awareness.

Deities and spirits, religions
and ghost stories were tools used by primitive cultures to instruct and protect
their members. The very prophets and storytellers of the times probably
themselves believed their tales. Their own instincts and primal minds had
worked to form guidelines that would keep them alive. Rising above the lesser
members of their society, they interpreted these prophecies and sacred texts
for the less gifted, sharing their insight and wisdom, ensuring their tribal
blood-lines would survive. As always, the educated were the protectors of the
less fortunate. The figure let out a derisive snort.

The path in the forest passed to
the accompanying thoughts of reason. Rain continued to fall and clouds
continued to darken the sky. Trees marched by, marking the time, and pale
darkness continued its grip on the world. A different scent came to the
traveler in the forest, the scent of a mass of water, different than that of
the falling rain. In the near distance, the darkness in the trees began to
fade, and the figure wondered if it had found its destination. Pressing on more
swiftly, nearly exhausted from the night’s travel, the figure looked forward to
stopping for more than an hour, or less, of rest.

Reaching the edge of the trees
and the beginning of a clearing surrounding a quaint, if run-down cottage, the
figure took another restorative pull from the flask of spirits. Moving with a
renewed chemical vigor, the figure circled the cottage at distance, noticing
shattered windows and slight signs of charring. Someone or something had been
present to put out the fire before it could consume this cottage as it had
consumed the old farm through the woods. The windows would need to be covered
to keep out the rain and the cold, but that wouldn’t really be too much work.
The level of the lake appeared to have risen from the rains. The
rickety-looking pier was almost level with the water.

Moving around to the front door,
the figure noticed that it wasn’t latched. Wind, time, or looters must have
left it open to clatter in the wind like the shutters of the farm. The memory
of the shutters caused an involuntary shudder. The darkness had lifted to the
point that the lantern was mostly unnecessary, though, the figure reasoned, the
cottage might be darker inside. Once again holding the lantern out to the
front, the figure concealed its other hand within its cloak. Pushing the door
open with its foot, another scene of sadness was revealed sprawled upon the
floor.

Covered with leaves and
surrounded by the stain of its own blood, a skeleton lie moldering on the
floor. Looking closely, the amber and yellow stains that had surrounded the
skeletons in the farmhouse cellar were missing, and this tugged at the figure’s
mind. Turning its attention to the rest of the cottage, the figure realized
that the building was in fairly sound shape. There was a cozy, if cluttered,
little fireplace, but that wouldn’t take long to clean. The windows could be
shuttered and boarded, which would at least keep out the wind and the rain. All
in all, it was just as the old man had said it would be. The figure stepped
further into the room.

Something strong and hard wrapped
itself around the figure’s ankle. Alarmed but swift, the hand that had been
concealed in the cloak produced a dagger and struck down toward the feeling of
pressure. The blade struck the stone floor between the ribs of the skeleton,
whose very hand had closed around the figure’s ankle. As the figure looked
down, the vacant eyes of the skull turned to regard it, raising its chin in
appraisal. The figure turned to run, but the skeletal arm pulled the ankle it
had grasped. The figure fell onto its face with a heavy thud, knocking itself
senseless on the floor.

Why,
Drothspar thought to himself, why had this happened? Why hadn’t he been there
for Li? What had he done to deserve such punishment? What sins had he committed
that required his wife—his very life—as a sacrifice for atonement? Was this
divine judgment for his excommunication? What state of torment had he entered
on waking in the forest? Questions blazed through his thoughts. Speculation
offered guesses, nothing offered evidence.

The fit of rage and terror he’d
experienced had subsided somewhat. All he could do now was lie still and
speculate. He was dead, or something very much like it. He could think; that
was certain. He could even reason. He wasn’t a ghost, some simple shade that
flickered about between legend and reality. He could affect the world around
him. He had gathered the leaves on the floor to himself. He had a tangible
form.

He was not, however, what he had
been. Flesh had fallen from his body. Fallen, perhaps, or been gnawed off by
hungry little scavengers. How odd, he thought, to have been eaten and digested.
The thought didn’t particularly bother him. He knew he couldn’t go and politely
ask the animals in the forest to regurgitate his flesh, please.

Nothing in his novitiate—nothing
in life—had prepared him for this. There were rumors, of course, of older
priests performing exorcisms, casting out unclean spirits. There were whispers
of rites to aid troubled souls on their path to the Maker’s Forge. Aside from
legend and old peasants’ tales, he had never heard of a spirit animating its
bones. Ghosts were ghosts, spirits were spirits, yet one question remained—what
in Creation was he?

Revenge, he thought to himself. Revenge
was one of the reasons he had heard that spirits would remain in the mortal
realm. Stories told of spirits that would stalk the places they had died,
hoping for a chance to fall upon the wits of their killers. The spirits had no
other weapons. They could only attack the conscience and mind of their
murderers. Many of these stories ended with the spirits becoming as mad as
their victims. Haunted by their own trauma, altered irrevocably by their own
lives and deaths, the spirits became completely lost in mind and soul. They
returned to their haunting night after night, unable to remember anything else.
Revenge lost its meaning—spirits stayed because they didn’t know what else to
do.

Could revenge be his purpose? On
whom would he take revenge? His own killer had been a nameless, faceless
marauder riding a horse in the darkness of night. His wife’s killer, perhaps?
How would he ever find out—?

Something stirred outside the
cottage; something was moving around through the storm. Most animals would have
the good sense to stay in their dens. What, then, could be moving outside? The
idea of looking out the window occurred to him, but he decided to remain still
and listen. If he started scraping about the room, he might alert whatever was
moving. The hollow eyes of a skull staring out of a shattered window would
probably frighten away most things, he thought to himself.

Footsteps sounded on the wooden
porch. They were quiet, moving slowly, but footsteps all the same. They stopped
for a time at the front door. Drothspar’s thoughts worked coolly as he
considered the situation. Whoever opened that door would see a skeleton lying
in a pool of dried blood, not a priest bereft of life, love, and flesh. He
needed answers. Whoever this intruder was, he decided, they could provide at
least some of them. Besides, this was still
his
home.

He felt angry as the door hinged
mournfully open. A lantern, shielded and low, entered before a dark-cloaked
figure. Though the cottage was dim, he could see the legs and body quite
clearly. It wasn’t a spirit, he was certain, and certainly not a form like his
own. Someone living had intruded on his thoughts. Some intruder had entered his
home! Outrage mixed with jealousy. The figure moved closer, closer. The legs
were in reach. He lashed out his hand and clamped down on the interloper’s
ankle.

The figure resisted. Its own
hidden hand flashed out of its clothing and stabbed at his rib cage. Hooded
eyes stared down at him, and he, raising his head, stared back through the eyes
of death. It turned to run, but this intruder was
not
getting away.
Pulling just as the figure lifted its foot to kick loose, Drothspar shifted its
weight completely out of balance. The body lurched forward, hitting the floor
with a muffled thump.

Drothspar kept his hand on the
ankle and shifted his body into a crouch. He tugged at the foot, but the figure
did not move. Moving his hand up the figure’s leg, he worked his way up to the
torso, always keeping one hand on the outstretched form. Placing his hand on
its back, he could feel the rhythm of its breathing, and he was strangely
grateful he had not killed it.

He wondered about that feeling
for a moment. Why had it mattered? What difference could it make if he killed
some intruder? Why should they get to live while he was some sort of
abomination? He thought he should feel more violent than he did. He was dead
after all, and this creature still lived. The anger he had felt when the door
first opened, however, had not been sufficient for murder. He didn’t want to
kill this person because he didn’t know anything about them. His death had
taken away his flesh, but his beliefs had remained. He was comforted by that
thought, even as he rolled the figure on its back.

Covered head to toe in an inky
cloak, the figure remained silent and still. The cloak was so thick that it was
not possible to see if the creature was still breathing. Keeping one hand
clamped to the figure’s arm, Drothspar reached up to pull back the hood. His
head jerked back in surprise, and a quick guilt rose up in his phantom breast.

It was a young woman, probably a
few years younger than he had been when he died. Her forehead was bleeding
slightly, but her nose was bleeding freely. He worried that she would inhale
her own blood, so he looked about for some way to support her head. Nothing was
readily in reach, so he released her arm and cradled her head with his own
right hand. He brushed the mahogany-colored hair from her wound and soaked up
the blood on her pale face with her cloak.

She was in her early twenties.
Her features were striking, each calling attention to itself while adding to
the whole. Her cheekbones were high, seeming to point to her eyes. Her eyes,
while closed, had a slightly almond shape, like those of a curious cat. Flowing
from the line of her eyes, her nose was long and graceful, ending smoothly
above two closed red lips. The red of her lips, however, was the product of her
nose, which continued to bleed. Wiping the blood from her lips, Drothspar felt
another twinge of guilt. He mentally smacked himself for attacking the first
living person he found.

Touching her lips with the cloak,
he noticed them move slightly. Her eyes fluttered open momentarily and then
closed. Her forehead creased with effort, and she opened her eyes once again.
She seemed to be fighting with focus, something he understood quite well. He
tried to smile with phantom muscles as she eventually focused in on his face.
Her eyes widened with terror and her lips opened to gasp for breath. She seemed
to feel his hand behind her head. Her face flushed a crimson red. She let out a
sigh as her eyes rolled back in her head.

Drothspar let out a mental sigh
of his own and paused to consider his situation. First, he needed something to
place under her head. Her nose had stopped bleeding momentarily, but he was
worried it might start up again. She had a bag over her right shoulder that had
been covered by her cloak. Freeing it from her shoulder, Drothspar slid the bag
under her head and cushioned it with her hood.

He closed the door to keep the
cold blowing rain from falling on her face. He stood up and raised his hand to
his chin in thought. Looking down at his hand, he noticed her dagger still
lodged between two of his ribs. He toyed with its handle to see if it was
loose. It was stuck solidly, so he wrapped one bony hand around the other and
pulled on the knife. The young woman opened her eyes just in time to watch him
pull her knife out of his chest. He heard her gasp and watched as her eyes
widened once more. Gripping the dagger in one hand, he wove the other back and
forth, trying to let her know everything was okay.

The woman watched the skeleton
brandish her dagger and wave its arm furiously. Her face flushed a deep crimson
and her eyes rolled back in her head. She fell unconscious on her make-shift
pillow. A small trickle of blood ran from her nose.

Shaking his head, Drothspar knelt
to stop the flow of blood. He needed more than a closed door and questionable
pillow to comfort the unconscious woman. He’d need a way to communicate with
her. That much was certain. He’d also need some way to cover his body. He
looked around the cottage, but nothing presented itself as clothing. The
curtains had all been burned too badly. He didn’t think he’d make a very
striking figure as bones wrapped in charred curtains. On the other hand, that
would probably be far too striking.

The clothing he had worn at the
time of his death had either rotted away or been carried off by animals for use
in nests and dens. Once she stopped bleeding, he looked into the bedrooms where
he and Li had kept their clothing. Everything of use was gone, either looted or
packed away. He looked at the little sanctuary he had built into the cottage
walls when they had arrived. He had wanted to retain some connection with his
priestly past. Li didn’t entirely approve, but she hadn’t said anything
negative about it.

His priest’s robe! The robe he
was wearing when he met her! He had kept it hidden behind a loose log of the
sanctuary. Li had never forgiven the Church for expelling them under false
pretenses. She had accepted the little sanctuary because, as he told her, it
had been devoted to the Maker, not the Church. The robe, however, she had
banished. He was supposed to have taken it out and burned it, but it reminded
him of the day they had met. He couldn’t bring himself to burn it. It had, in
its own way, been a part of his experience of her. He had hoped that one day
she might relent and he could share that memory with her.

He hung his head. That chance was
long gone. He shook off the thought, worried the injured young woman on the
floor would wake again to see Death standing over her. Working as quickly as he
could, he wriggled the loose log out of place and recovered his robe. It was
dusty, to be sure, and had more than a few holes in it. The holes, however,
were small, and the robe was very long and thick. It was dark brown in color
with a lighter brown mantle over the shoulders. A dark brown hood draped over
the back of the mantle, matching the color of the main robe.

Slipping the robe over his head,
Drothspar worked his arms into the sleeves and his head into the hood. The robe
draped loosely over his form, and reached several inches onto the floor. He
remembered it as coming just below his ankle. He thought about it, realizing,
wryly, that he had lost a considerable amount of weight. Looking around the
cottage, he remembered the girl’s knife. Working by the fireplace, he trimmed
the hem of the robe. Standing up, it was still a little long, so he took off a
bit more. He wanted the robe to drag just a little to hide the bones of his
feet.

Once that had been accomplished,
he started working on a way to communicate. He could write, if only he had
something to write with—and on. Looking in the fireplace, he found an old,
charred piece of wood. Pulling it out of the debris, he tried writing on the
floor. It was a bit hard to make letters at first, but he scraped the shiny
aging off of the outer layer, and the writing became easier. He wrote a simple
message on the floor and decided it might be nice to start a fire.

A small bit of flint had fallen
beside the fireplace, and there was more than enough tinder. A stack of old,
dried wood remained near the fireplace, apparently not valuable enough to steal
or take away. The flue was probably a disaster. He opened the metal plate in
the chimney and dust and debris fell like an avalanche into the fireplace. He
gave another phantom sigh and started working on cleaning the mess.

Within a short time he had
cleared the debris from the fireplace and gathered old plants and leaves for
tinder. Striking the flint to his rusted dagger, he managed to get some sparks
into the fireplace. He tried to blow on the glowing embers, but nothing
happened. He nodded his head in understanding and struck flint to metal again.
The sparks flew once more and he tried to wave the air with his hand. The
little sparks glowed slightly, then dimmed and went out. Gathering the hem of
his robes, he tried a third time, striking flint to dagger. Sparks flew from
the flint and into the fireplace. Waving the hem of his robes, the sparks
glowed and smoked in the tinder. After a few moments, a small fire came to
life, licking the dead plants. Slowly and carefully, he fed the flames with
little twigs and splinters.

The clicking of flint and steel
had stirred the young woman on the floor. Her brow creased in effort and pain,
and she reached her hand to her forehead. She looked at the fireplace and the
figure working the flame.

“Hello,” she croaked, her voice
both nervous and hoarse.

Drothspar didn’t turn and
continued to feed the fire. He pointed down to the floor, to the charcoal
message he had written there. The woman followed the line of his arm, his hand
covered by the sleeve of his robe.