The corpse-cutter, as many derisively called him, was puzzled. There had not been much in the way of work for many days. Typically there would be several bloaters that would come in during the month, but it had been fifteen nights since he received a body from the river. And in grand total he had only observed and prepared near to 20 bodies in this month. The number would normally exceed sixty.

The final week was approaching at an uncomfortable pace, and he feared the worst. Perhaps it was superstition or his poetic inclinations surrounding death, but he was anxious. Even in rational terms less bodies did not mean less death, they just had not made it on the collectors cart yet. In irrational terms, this strange interlude of death meant that something momentous and sinister was lurking in the future.

This was the stance the corpse-cutter took, as it was more comforting to think of something fantastical than to consider a mound of bodies hidden away. The dirt had been filtering in from the wooden-planked ceiling, making it quite hard to concentrate on this issue. The problem in living in this barrow was that it always required repair, and even if it was fully kept up with, it remained as a hole in the earth. Lying on the table was a woman with dusky black hair, splayed out like an overturned inkwell.

X

“Damn frustrating it is.” The sediment fell steadily on this specimens translucent skin. It was truly impeding my progress. Not that the ranks of dead were amassing at my door. This corpse was one of the very few left to tend to before the slow march into the city.

“You’re stunning milady, you know that? I certainly hope you aren’t too used to hearing it. This may be the last time those words are spoken.”

She of course was not a noble lady, I was only being polite to the woman. She was going to the first tier of the city, the Moans, meaning she must be low-born. An aptly named district as no one ever seemed to be in decent health. The various noises symbolizing discomfort could be heard at all hours of the day.

I do not think it really matters where a human is buried in the end, making it odd considering how vital it is to keep bodies in shape before burial. It is simply the fact that the dirt is the same everywhere. If you are in the Pinnacle, dirt may be harder to find amongst all the stonework and finery. Though once located it is the soil you could find anywhere. The creatures of the dirt will efface all of the work I have done with gnashing teeth anyhow.

Yet the people who stand atop the ground will remember these dead in the way I have frozen them.

This bitter casting off of time is artistry in a way, I have to be quick yet diligent. Even now, the rosy edges of the woman’s lids are turning the hue of bread flour. Her mouth that had at some point presumably laughed bore all of those lines gravely. The depletion of nutrients making every chuckle and every worried brow stand out incriminatingly. The simple application of powder was enough to make these hardened lines submit for a moment. Brushing off one final speck of soil, she was prepared for the cart.

I rapped sharpy on the door and Donavan burst through, nearly striking me down.

“Calm yourself boy, the dead can wait a few moments!”

Donavan looked sheepish but not entirely remorseful,

“I need a drink and I’ve got to get home and wipe off all this death before I head there. The barmaids let me have it all last night telling me I smelled like rot.”

I grunted. “You’ve hardly done any work since you've been here, you’re just a glorified cart pusher. Don’t tell me of rot.”

“Well sir, if we are being truthful, I don't think there's much glory in this. And the only people you take into your company are dead. They certainly don't mind the smell, or much of anything really. You clearly wouldn't understand.” Donavan began jostling the woman’s head playfully.

“Stop that boy, have some respect! I would take you out of my service if you had someplace to go, you dunce!”

Donavan muttered something to the effect of an apology.

“Alright, alright boy, grab the other end so we can get her with the others. Once we have delivered them you can whore and drink freely.”

Donavan shuffled to the other side of the cloth gurney and helped hoist the woman up and out toward the cart. There were three others already resting on the wooden pallet. One was a rather ancient man who had not been found for several days, that required quite an extensive covering in scented oils and removal of rot.

The other two were presumably Elisus siblings. They clearly had some relation, both straight black hair that had a light gleam after washing in the basin. And bracing green eyes. So bracing that even now they shined uncharacteristically bright considering their stage of decomposition. With some effort we rolled the woman onto the cart as gingerly as possible, yet she still landed with a soft thud.

“Alright boy, let's start pulling, you are going to have to do the brunt of it, I am feeling my age today.”

Donavan scoffed, “You aren't nearly as old as you act, I swear sometimes I think you died a season ago and haven’t realized it yet.” He chuckled lightly and spat at the ground, pushing the dirt aside with its impact.

“Hm, perhaps you're right.” The people of the Flatlands gave a light wave as the cart of dead rolled by. For people living in such dire conditions, they were quite cheerful. I suppose there is something to be said for the people that chose to live here rather than the squalor of the Moans. These types of people did not give into despair, but rather distanced themselves.

Conditions would be much improved if the King allowed us to build structures outside the city, rather than driving us to act as worms in the dirt. This seemed to be a strange compromise, yet being incapable of seeing our existence from the towers was enough. We do not want to reflect badly on the city to outsiders. The cart rattled a good deal even with our slow pace. We must move along dreadfully slow to ensure the bodies remain in good shape. The artful stitching across the breastbone and down to the navel must be clean and intact, or all of the intimate effort will be for naught.

“Be careful boy, we don't want to dirty them up.”

Donavan projected an incredulous look, “Are you joking? They’re going into the dirt, you get that right?”

“Enough of your tongue, raise your arm.”

The gate was in sight, a blackened cross-hatching of iron that was several meters tall, maintained by bored guardsmen. Donavan raised his hand and gave a light wave. The guardsmen began the slow process of drawing upward the cold iron wall,

“Here comes the meat, is that for the dogs?” The other guardsmen snickered.

“You know very well where these are going, now let us pass.” I snapped.

The guardsmen had raised the gate high enough to draw the cart through but they stood abreast at the opening. Their cobalt sheened armor gleamed to the point of assaulting the eye.

The head guardsmen glared at me, always a man with a stellar mood,

“No time for banter today aye my friend? Got corpses to sleep with and fondle I’m sure.”

The men they placed at the front gate were always the most intelligent. First to fight and first to die. So intelligent that they were chosen as the most expendable of soldiers. I wished desperately I didn’t need to get through, yet I did.

“Always the clever one Captain Aman, please may I pass?”

Aman grinned infuriatingly, “Ah, now here’s something you don’t get around here often men. Manners.” The other soldiers shook their heads at my cowardice.

One of the other guards spoke up,

“Go on, you both stink like death, get those things in the Earth.”

The guardsmen shifted slowly aside wide enough for the cart of flesh. The open air was quite vicious on the bodies even after all the preparation. I cast a submissive glance upwards, “Very gracious you all are, may Addia and all things holy bless you all, good day.” With barely veiled contempt Donavan gazed at the guards, he had not spoken this whole encounter and still did not. He tightened his grip at the cart and we passed through at last.

While it could certainly be said that we both smelled of death, people don’t often acknowledge the stench of life that can inhabit densely packed places. Life lived in discomfort and proximity has a stench just as unpleasant. The fragrance of despair in the Moans was all-encompassing. It wrapped around every dirtied corner and raided the doorsteps of families’ homes. The scent of life should inspire terror far more than death. The dead have committed their last act, their aroma can be ignored. Whereas the humans here produce such an odor that tells an infinite number of sad tales.

Bizarrely, the graveyard is in sight as soon as one walks through the gates. It is polite in a way, almost as if it was put there as a matter of convenience for the dead. Without a thought in how it might appear to the ones who remained. The church flanking the tombstones was in a desperate state of disrepair. Like all of the buildings in the Moans it gave the impression of a structure sagging toward the Earth. This was in sharp contrast to the other levels of the city which all grew sharply toward some peak. The marketway above, then the Middling where those of noble repute lived, and above these cordoned realms there was the castle grounds.

As we made our way toward the crumbling church, a line of gazes could be felt on our left flank. Standing in a stiff formation, the city guard maintained watch in front of an endless staircase. It was the only immediate pathway that led toward the next district. It was nearly closer to the city gate than the graveyard in order to prevent any unnecessary contact with the Moans inhabitants. There was a slim chance of this, as anyone who lingered around the staircase was promptly bludgeoned.

“Let's make the final push, you’re acting as if this is the first time you’ve seen this place.” Donavan chided.

“I’ve seen this a thousand times. In a thousand different places.”

A short, confused shrug from Donavan in response,

“Let’s just get these things in the ground before those soldiers take a liking to us again.”

The cart rattled the rest of the way, old wood carrying old bones and young bones. All to be in the same state soon. Passing through the moss-textured tombstones, an Elisus woman slowly materialized from the dark church interior. Her face was youthful, absent of lines and untouched by the pained movement that many of the Elisus laborers bore. She must be the replacement for the senior groundskeeper who passed some three weeks ago. The old woman had tended to the graves as best she could. Trimming blades of grass that licked the stones of rapists and priests alike. Brushing the dust uselessly within the church that came in through a million different cracks.

I hoped this young woman would trim the grass around her tombstone with the same dedication. It was a strange thing to be buried beneath the dirt that you labored over for such a long life.

She smiled confidently enough as she drew closer, “You look like you’ve seen a spirit undertaker.”

“Suppose I see spirits more often than I see the likes of you city folk.”

Donavan looked between us.

“You may go boy, we can handle it from here. Go spend your coin on drink and women with no interest in you.”

Donavan scoffed but offered no response, instead opting to jog off and wash as soon as possible. The woman motioned toward the cart and together we dragged the bodies into the church, the broad doors nearly hanging off their hinges.

“You will want to be careful with them, they have been well-tended to, I don’t want your men to tear at them before burying.” The young woman looks up, with a smile ghosting toward her lips.

“What does it matter? Now that they’re here, they will be buried and everything you’ve done will be for naught. They won't be handled until you’ve gone, so simply imagine them as you left them.”

I was incredulous,“It is not about how I feel, some of them may have family, they will want to see their kin as they were in life. That is why I do what I do. To give them a glimpse of that time.”

“Well it’s a myth isn't it?”

“Pardon me?”

“What you do, it's a story. You make them up as if they were still breathing, all vibrant and unblemished. Their stench all managed. As far as I see it, you're letting these people forget. Forget the truth of it all.”

“Well no one likes to consider that, that is why I have a living. And of course the matter of knowing why they died.”

The young woman smirked furiously. The candlelight surrounding Adia’s altar gave it an even more righteous tinge, and she spoke,

“How pleasant it must be, to be able to afford blinders.”

“What?”

She closed our distance through the shadows, a downward glance at the green-eyed bodies as she spoke,

“When you live a life such as ours, there is no time for forgetting.” The young woman while speaking began to grab water from the altar bowl and moisten a cloth, drawing it across the first woman’s forehead.

“I am told what I am, how I am, every day of my life by you all. And someday someone may strike me down for what they think I am. And no one will raise a voice in protest.” She gave a feather-gentle touch of the young boy’s cold forehead,

“We can’t forget the end of all this.” She gestured vaguely in the air around her, “Because the end could be any second for us, in this world defined by you all.”

I didn’t deserve all of these critiques I was not what was wrong with this world in any effect,

“I suffer the same as you, I live in a hole in the ground, I barely muster enough to eat.”

She raised her eyebrow at this.

“Though you know who you are at least? Of that you are sure. I’m not sure I even know who I am. I’ve gotten so used to people telling me who I am that I am quite sure they’re right, and that is true evil.”

I sighed, “All I am saying is that I suffer the same as you.” The young woman paused for a moment as she arrived at the final corpse.

“Then tell me how do I suffer?”

I realized I did not know, and I could never know.

“You are an eloquent woman, I have forgotten your name.” The candlelight was casting a low bronze sheen on the dampened foreheads of the corpses.

“Anear - now would you like to bless them?” She was clearly done debating.

“Certainly, shall we bless them with Addia’s words and with the words of your Pantheon?”

She shook her head ruefully, “There are too many gods in my world, and not enough I understand. Anyhow, your God seems to be the right one.”

“Huh...how do you figure that then?”

“Well we’re down here and your people are up above, their God must love them more.”

We said the words.

After the appropriate rites were given, Anear motioned for the grave tenders to begin gathering the corpses and gave me a glance,

“I will not apologize for the things I have said in anger because I know them to be true, things have been tense in the Moans as of late.” Things were always tense here, people with very little had troubles very large. She felt my lack of understanding,

“Talks of foul magic, Shalen walking amongst us with officials grabbing their leash. Men going missing at the slightest offence to the law.”

Once again I said something that was foolish to her.

“There is no magic left in the world, I would think your people would know that all too well. Shalen and spells are the talk of fearful people with little to eat.”

A wearily drawn in breath, like the wind through the beaten-down church,

“Magic does not disappear, it changes hands; transforms.” She slowly led me out the door of the church, flanking the men lugging the bodies.

“And if these stories of monstrous creatures spreading despair are nearly true, they will arrive in the middle, with you men. Capable of just as much evil as these creatures we create in our heads to pass the time.”

The young woman, Anear I should say, knelt down. Plucking the weeds around the gravestone of some man from anywhere in the world - it was no longer important.