XI.I; Night's Escapade

  He had snuck off in the middle of the night. It was very surprising, honestly—his level of stealth. I was sure nothing could get by the Professor, yet he did. He didn’t wear his cloak either—he didn’t seem too fond of it. The only reason I knew he snuck off was because I too was awake, idling away, looking up at the stars. Hil used to tell me about them. About how they once fought some great war.

  Regardless, I’ve been following him for about an hour, and I must say, he’s rather quick on his feet. Ledges and rolling hills that take all my strength, he simply skips up, like a fairy. Cliffs and wide crevices, he hops like a rabbit. And neither muddy patch nor thick grass slowed his movement. He obviously meant to be back at the campsite before break of dawn.

  As wherever we were going finally reared on the horizon, I wondered why, however, he would choose to go somewhere we were going to go tomorrow. The Woods of Estain, a thick, plentiful forest—the home of many a famed song and horror. To the very far right, you can see the village of Talbot. It’s bright, and splendid, and lights up the ever-night. To the left, you should… should be able to see a village—the name of which I’ve forgotten—but alas, they must be asleep or something.

  “You might not know, but it’s a bit rude to follow someone,” gasped a voice behind me. Somehow, he’d gotten behind me. Sat on a stone, huffing and puffing. “A couple days in bed and suddenly, I’m not the runner you used to be.”

  “How long have you known,” I asked, with a hand on my hip.

  “Ah,” he groaned, rising from the rock. “About an hour or so. You may as well come, then.” Down the rolling hill, the forest grew clearer. Most of its trees were a dark, purplish oak, but a few in-between were birch and chestnut. “Why did you follow me?”

  “Usually you’d make some sly, bordering-on-perverted comment,” I laugh, “it’s not like you to ask questions like that. Where’s that wit that made me follow you?”

  “Oh I’m still witty,” Gram laughed.

  “Yeah?”

  “Yep.”

  “Say something witty, then.”

  “My name’s not ‘Witty’, I’m afraid.”

  Ha!

  “Truthfully,” he continued. “I’m just tired. Terribly tired. Slaying that bird was quite the effort, I’ll have you know.”

  “It certainly didn’t taste like it.”

  “You ate some?” he questioned with a puzzled look.

  “You didn’t? ‘Twas you who slayed it?”

  Gram threw a hand up, waving me away. “Bird’s peasant food—that’s what my mother used to say.”

  Your mother, hmm? “What was she like?”

  He looked back at me, and then forward. “She was who she was.” So she’s dead. “What is yours like?”

  A cunt. Ah, but such a word wouldn’t befit my blood. “She wasn’t kind, but she did her duty. Raised me reasonably well.”

  “I see.”

  He’s awfully silent. Changed, since whatever they did to him at Sigel. Why, he tries to act the same—you can see it clear as day, and perhaps some of it is still there—but it just feels… sad. Like he’s sad.

  It was a silent walk into the woods. The roads faded, and a dredge through trunks and brooks became the path. We emerged from under a hanging willow, and there, a hut of thatch and daub was nestled in a great glade. Rocks dotted about the place, and twig bundles of various shapes hung from the roofs and the branches.

  In the clearing beside the hut, Gram crouched before a stone and placed his hand on its face. “I… I don’t suppose you’ve anything that’ll make the dig faster? My mum wasn’t a fan of shovels.”

  So this was your mother’s house. Your house. And this… digging. “Is this—”

  Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.

  “—no,” he interrupted. “It’s not her grave.”

  “Right,” I laugh, smacking my chest. “It’s a terrible thing, to be a grave-digger. Don’t you find?”

  “Oh it is a grave,” he giggled.

  Ah. Right… “What are you digging up, if I can ask?”

  Gram drew the pick from his belt and hammered it into the ground. “I want my old one…”

  He hacked away the dirt, and thin, cracked roots pierced out of the earth. I had nothing to do besides help him, so I used my hands to claw the dirt back into a pile. A half-hour later, we reached something hard. Hard and of a foul stench. Wooden. A coffin.

  “Who’s buried here?”

  “Full of questions, aren’t you?”

  There was once a time where you probably would’ve been happy to answer them.

  “Aren’t we all?” said a cackling voice, hoarse and rough.

  Emerging around the bend of the hut was a man cloaked in a green cape that covered his body like a bat. In the light of the moon, his face could be seen clearly: it was bereft of hair, square like a box, and his eyes were wrapped in thick, white bandages.

  “Robert?” said Gram, rising from the grave.

  “Is that you Gram?” he laughed, moving like lightning and embracing Gram in a hug. “Gods be good, I’d thought we’d never see you again.” Robert sniffed and gazed at me as best he could. “And who’s this then?”

  “Alice,” I greet.

  Robert scoffed in great amusement. “Pity your mother isn’t here to see you bring a girl home.”

  “My mother…” Gram repeated, looking him up and down. “Are you truly here?”

  “No,” he replied, fading from existence.

  Gram looked saddened by that, and returned to the grave.

  What the fuck? “Was he a ghost?”

  “A spectre, they’re called.” Gram pulled apart the coffin with his pick and reached inside. From it, he drew another pick, this one slightly longer—long enough to reasonably be wielded by two hands. Lodging the pick given by the Professor in his belt, he held the longer one over his shoulder, rose from the grave, and kicked the dirt in as best he could. “Best be off, then.”

  I followed him out of the hut’s clearing. “So they’re like ghosts?”

  “Do you believe in ghosts,” he asked.

  “I do now,” I laughed. “He hugged you.”

  “They’re real until they’re not,” he explained with a hand out. “Call them out, and they’re gone until they return. They’re not ghosts, though. I don’t know if ghosts are real, but he wasn’t one. Just a mimic of his soul, chained to the earth.”

  “So he’s dead?”

  “More than likely,” he lamented. “The spell was cast long ago, and they can appear while the host still lives, but his never did.”

  “And how did you know?”

  “He called her my ‘mother’. None of them ever did that.”

  I stop in my tracks. “So that’s where you lived?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “You told me you were from Talbot.”

  He rolled his eyes in mirth. “Well, we lived there too.”

  “You’re lying to me, I should think.”

  His pink eyes narrowed. “Need I tell you the truth?”

  They were very odd eyes, in the light of the flickering moon. They were odd eyes in general. Pink… he’s of the Magia of Fire, if I remember right, but I’ve never seen or heard of one having pink eyes before.

  “I would like it if you did.”

  He turned back and continued on. “Ask me something else then.”

  Alright. “Why do you own a pick?”

  “I was levied by the Duke of Estain a few years ago, when he went to war with Ildrich. This… was given to me before I went. Served me well. Much better than whatever sickle or fork I would’ve been given. You ever get levied”

  “No. I’m a girl, why would I? Did you kill someone?”

  “Probably,” he mused. “It’s kind of hard to tell when they’re wearing armour. Angles don't levy girls, then?”

  I shake my head, though he doesn’t even see it, so I’m not sure there was much point. “Maybe some, but not often.” And not for me. No… we are only fit for telling the armies who to attack. “Did you enjoy it? War?”

  “Did you, boy?” a voice whispered.

  Red.

  “What the…” I look around, and there’s no movement in the trees. No noises. Nothing whatsoever.

  Gram looks confused. “I did, actually… why you look so shocked?”

  I waved him away.

  Humming, he turned back. “We should probably get back to camp before Riscard throws a fit.”