Gravedigger - One

One:
And after the storm


The body of Rafell the Magistrate lay in state beside the hole he was soon to inhabit. The family, of which there were few, and the friends, of which there were even fewer, had already deserted the graveside. They left Graves and his apprentice to nail down the lid and lower the Magistrate into the earth.

Rain was falling. Graves glanced up at the drab, weeping sky. 'Rain's puddling. Good wood that. Going to spoil fast, mind.'

His apprentice gravedigger nodded simply to acknowledge that he had heard.

Graves shook his head, looking left, down the slight incline of the hill towards the great iron cemetery gates, through which Magistrate Rafell's nearest and dearest had hurriedly left, encouraged by the first heavy drops of rain.

'T'aint right, Perin, my boy. Family should wait 'til the departed is proper interred. T'aint right for them to leave like that.'

Perin said nothing. He was not a dramatically intelligent boy but he knew enough. He knew enough about Erdhanger. A little nowhere town sitting by its graveyard, tucked in against the forested hills, overshadowed by Csus, the great mountain. Small towns are quick to hear, and Perin knew that the most disliked man in the settlement had been Magistrate Rafell.

The lawman had persecuted all manner of smugglers and vagabonds. The smugglers provided cheap luxuries from the bazaars of far off Nagyevo, the fortified town across the plains to the west. The vagabonds had provided diversion, as entertainers and storytellers. Rafell had represented the Tacnimag, governors of the Claimfold, who were Power itself in Valo. He had waged his personal war and won.

The result was a settlement lacking in both luxuries and culture. Perin had little interest in this, not being able to afford the first, and not seeing the necessity of the second. His life was to dig graves for Graves until Graves died, and then he would become Graves himself, in a way. Perin had not heard of concepts like destiny. There was no high ambition in him.

Graves shook his head as he shovelled earth. 'He'd be up and living, if he aint closed the brothel, I reckon. That was the last crack in the ice. Towns like Erdhanger can't keep without one.'

A client of the condemned brothel had decided that the best thing to do, all things considered, was to introduce the magistrate to the sharp end of a log-wedge. He had fled the town the night after. No one had felt inclined to hunt him down.

The brothel was reopening and a company of actors had appeared, as if from nowhere, to resume their crude but enjoyable performances. The townspeople loved tragedies. As far as they were concerned, Rafell's death was more of a comedy. Family aside, only two people in Erdhanger felt able to show respect to the lawman's last remains. Respect, as Graves would often say, is part of the gravedigger's work.

Graves slapped his shovel down on the heaped earth, compressing it. It would have been easier to stamp the damp soil flat but that was something the grizzled man would never do.

Graves was in no state to take advantage of brothels, nor was he in any way a patron of the arts. The change in the town had completely passed him by, and in any case, he disliked and feared people who still had a pulse. He finished the touches to Rafell's grave.

By tomorrow, the faces of the "clients" – Rafell's wealthy widow and a disinterested cousin – would have faded from Graves' memory. But he would never forget the name of the man buried in plot number eleven, for that name was inscribed on a cheap tablet of stone, and written in the enormous graveyard tome. "Clients" were to be forgotten. But "guests" were marked down and remembered for ever.

Perin did feel a measure of contained sorrow for the unloved man now buried six feet beneath the topsoil. It was an emotion he felt for any body that came through the iron gates, destined for a wooden bed and a quiet resting place.

Strange, that he was to be a gravedigger. The sorrow was something that another might not have felt. It was all the poetry in Perin's uneducated being, but it was poetry that could not escape. He had no writing, and only enough reading to tell who was buried where.

Perin sighed deeply. He didn't understand the people in the town any more than Graves did. Their animosity towards each other was mostly incomprehensible to him. He cared not for the theatrical troupes, nor for whores. He found the plays unrealistic and he did not get the jokes. And as for women, although Perin was the perfect age to have an interest, they were, to him, very much like theatre. They did not hold his interest any longer than it took for him to note that they were attractive. They thought little of him.

The boy picked up his shovel and his edging spade and carried them to Graves' hut, walking in the footsteps of the old man, who rarely chose to stand in the rain any longer than necessary.

The rainfall pattered persistently on the sodden earth heap. The overgrown grass danced under the water's weight. Dirty brown clouds slowly dragged themselves across the grey heavens. The sun's position was invisible, but it was surely low in the sky now. The firs shook and swayed in the precipitous weather, the rain making them seem like darkly caped giants in the failing light. They loomed over the crowded little graveyard from the high banks on which they stood.

In Graves' cabin, an oil lamp was lit, casting golden light out into the wind and rain through the one, dirty paned little window.

                                                                               



Perin walked directly to the butcher's. He kept his head down, knowing that if other apprentices saw him, he would be easy game. They were harsh with their words. In fact, they never showed much reluctance to deal out physical pain, in addition to the normal tongue-lashing. The gravedigger's boy was a friend to no one. Those that kept house with the dead were strange folk to start with, and there were none stranger than that Perin Foundling.

The butcher silently cut and wrapped the meat that was Graves' weekly order. The butcher's wife attempted to make conversation with Perin.

'You know, we can have our boy make delivery each week, seeing as how master Graves always wants the same thing. It's only a little walk up the hill, after all!'

The butcher gave his spouse a dark look, but Perin was already shaking his head.

'That's alright, thank you, Mistress Hoer. Graves… master Graves says I should get the walk into town for my health and wellbeing, mistress Hoer. I'm happy to come and get it.'

Mistress Hoer watched him. The boy had a measured way of speaking and a pleasant voice. If it wasn't for the fact that he always had that intense expression of concentration on his face, and the muddy coat and hat he wore, and of course his unpleasant but highly necessary occupation… Yes, well, if not for all that, he could prove quite handsome. Mistress Hoer smiled sadly. It was a shame.

Perin said goodbye politely and left with the cloth bundle under his arm. The order was always the same. Mutton, a small chicken and some pig's liver. The meat was in small portions, but the parsimonious gravedigger would make them last the week and maybe more, with nought else to eat in-between such meals, save for crusty bread that he got cheap from the baker. Occasionally, if Graves himself had been down into the village, there would be cabbage. A thin soup to go with the bread if the meat was gone.

Perin closed the iron gate of the graveyard behind him, stepping up the poorly maintained path of stones cut into the bank. He followed the path towards the cabin, walking through the plots. The gravestones passed by on either side. Autumn's first fallen leaves had been blown in from the lower hillside and the air smelled fresh and clean. The firs on the higher bank hardly stirred today.

Perin found himself humming a melody. It had slipped into his head and he had not noticed the beguiling notes passing his lips until he heard a loud, incredibly deep voice boom out from in front of Graves' cabin.

Graves was standing in a nervous posture that he always adopted when dealing with those that breathed. It was not he that had spoken, but the enormous stranger that stood next to him. Perin was so surprised that he did not register what the voice said. He almost dropped the meat.

The stranger was very broad in the shoulders, with powerful legs like the boles of young trees. His clothing was a rumpled canvas, coloured vividly in dark red and darker, midnight blue. There was no symmetry to the pattern. His hood was up and seemed odd, somehow. Nothing of his face could be seen beneath it's red covering.

The stranger strode forward, two strides to three or four of Perin's, removing his hood and leaning in with urgency, looking down at the apprentice from a height of some nine feet. Now Perin did fumble the package of meat out of shock, but to his credit caught it before it could hit the cracked paving at his feet.

Beneath the hood, the stranger's face was monstrous, dark skinned and bull like. There was an eagle-ish sagacity in his eyes, beneath a noble, ridged brow. A broad, strong lipped mouth – the lips themselves a dark, black-red – concealed large teeth, clean and white but alien to Perin's eyes. The bull like effect was caused by the large gold ring that ornamented the stranger's flared nostrils, and the pale horns that pushed through his thicket of black hair, curving outwards slightly from just above his temples. They were some seven or eight inches long.

'I said, where did you hear that tune?' The voice had an almost melodious quality itself, now Perin heard it up close, rumbled down at him impatiently, but without aggression.

'Come now, child, haven't you ever seen a Prigon before?'

Perin shook his head dumbly, aware that his hat had fallen off, clutching the meat bundle to his chest. The Prigon chuckled like thunder and crouched down to retrieve Perin's hat from the floor. He settled it on the apprentice's head with a large, dark nailed hand. Four broad fingers and a thumb. Perin noticed the nearly ordinary hands and fixed on them, as if to pretend that he could not see the person's strange face and pale horns. And tri-coloured eyes! They were now visible as the Prigon rose back to his full height.

'I am Kesairl. From Helynvale. I am conducting business with your…' here he looked back at Graves, with a question in his tone.

'He's 'prenticed to me.' Graves supplied gruffly.

'Indeed.' The Prigon tribesman fixed Perin with a smile, which although terrifying, forced Perin to remember his well learned manners.

'It's nice to meet you, Kesairl Prigon from Helynvale. I'm Perin Foundling, apprentice to master Graves. At... at your service.'

The Prigon raised his heavy brows, still smiling.

'Indeed! Well said, boy. Though be careful. Putting yourself at someone's service is a heavy risk. Far more than a figure of speech. And "Prigon" is not the name of my family, nor my tribe, but the name of my race.'

He bowed deeply, seeming to have forgotten the tune that had caused such a reaction moments before. Then, with a smile, he returned quickly to Graves' side and began to talk to him once more.

With a faltering bow, Perin quickly carried the meat into Graves' cabin, where he placed it in the stone chamber at the back. The space had been quarried out of the bank against which the cabin stood, with shelves going some way back into the earth. Those on the right were sparsely occupied by Graves' treasures and money, as well as his perishable food supplies. The shelves on the left were much more crowded with the collected and catalogued bones of former inhabitants of the graveyard. Each bone within had been buried long before Graves had finished his own apprenticeship. The plots where they had once lain were filled now with new "guests".

Perin had never been bothered by bones. In fact, the familiarity of the clean, white, scrupulously tagged femurs on his immediate left served to calm the fright put in him by the appearance of the Prigon. He knew little about such people, save that they were a respectable but nomadic race, allied to the Peoples of the Claimfold. Technically, they were also allied with the ruling Tacnimag.

Perin knew more than a little history, as Graves was an amateur student. It pleased the gravedigger deep down, because very few of the people in it were alive.

In the time long past, when Graves' grandfather had yet to be born, the Claimfold had been established. The farmsteads and settlements that had been planted by Man in the unspoiled hills and forests of Valo had come under attack by hordes of armoured, wire furred creatures known as Drizen. They were wild eyed, broad-snouted, and ate the men, women and children that they killed.

It had seemed certain that Mankind would be wiped from the face of Valo. But another monstrous looking people had emerged, dressed not in crude plates of armour but in thick, studded leather, caped and hooded. Noble. Fearless. A famous human warrior had fought alongside these new people, and returned to the city that would one day become Nagyevo, accompanied by an envoy. The message was received, and the two races entered into alliance.

Man gave Prigon trade and metalwork, and Prigon gave Man education in magic. Each race had proved apt at mastering the gifts of the other.

In a way, the alliance between Man and Prigon was responsible for the creation of the Tacnimag. Magic, for those that mastered it, made men who could rule unchallenged.


Perin made his way back into the one roomed cabin, closing the oaken door to the crypt. He sat in his chair by the door, hoping to catch some of his master's conversation with Kesairl.

'…Foundling is an unusual name. What kind of family are called that in your culture?'

Any guilt Perin might have had at eavesdropping on his master vanished. They were talking about him. Graves coughed, seemingly surprised at the turn in the conversation.

'It's the name given to any lad, or lass, that's born from the house of bought pleasure in town. If a girl there gets taken with child, then she'll have it, and leave it where she will, if she wants to work still…'

'You mean the place where females...women mate with men for money?' A slightly disapproving tone. Graves did not reply but must have nodded, for Kesairl continued, 'I see. So he never knew his Sire. Or his Dam. Hard for a child to find his way with such a beginning.'

'Well, his way now is digging graves, if you'll pardon me bluntness, master Kesairl.'

'No. Pardon me. You must be anxious to return to business. Now, I know you do not normally serve people of my race here, but size will not be an issue. It is not a Prigon that needs burial. The plot need be no larger than for any man. All that I require is secrecy on your part, and naturally on the boy's.'

'That won't be a problem. He don't talk all that much; he's got no friends. Nor 'ave I, for that matter. Not many wants to make friendly with a keeper of the dead!'

'All men, be they Man or Prigon, or something other, should know friendship.' The Prigon intoned solemnly.

A stab of regret hit Perin hard. It was an emotion he had not known before. Friendship. For the first time in his exceedingly lonely life, Perin was aware of it. It made a harsh, bittersweet song in his chest.

'Well, as you say, master Kesairl.' The gravedigger muttered gruffly outside the door. 'Bring the departed through the woods and down the bank then, if you don't want watching eyes. I'll 'ave locked the gates already.'

'Very good, master Graves. I shall return then, at nightfall on Seconday of this coming week. Until then?'

'Aye, until then. It… it has to be the full moon, does it? Only I don't normally do burials under a full moon…'

'Meaningless superstition, my friend. I am afraid no other night will do. Goodbye.'

'Fare thee well then, master Kesairl.'

Perin listened to Kesairl's heavy footfalls die away, not in the direction of the path into town, but towards the bank and the fir trees. Graves' feet stamped at the doorstep to kick off mud and then he entered, grumbling under his breath.

'We'll have the liver tonight then, lad. All of it, we'll be getting paid very well come next Seconday so we can afford to feast for once. C'mon now, up with you and get it! That's right, the sooner we cook the sooner we eat…' he tailed off for a moment, rubbing the cold out of his hands.

'Funny fellow that Prigon. Not that they aren't all funny, in their way. Wanted to talk 'bout you. Odd. You must 'ave got 'is attention with that tune you was 'umming, lad. Heard it in town did you? Come on now, find the pan, I want to eat…'

The moon rose above the stirring fir trees, nearly waxed full in the clear night sky. Its pale light joined the luminescence of the stars above the rain-washed slopes of the Claimfold.

The same light shone down on the broad stone walls of Nagyevo, and on the glass roofed observatory of the Tacnimag in the centre of the great castle town.

It shone on the rocky moors of Helynvale, where colourful tents were spread out all across the Fold. It shone on the high paths of Csus, the great mountain of the Claimfold.

Upon its mere foothills lay Erdhanger and the home of Perin, apprentice gravedigger.

And the moon was nearly full...