The Enterprise of Death (39 page)

Five of the walking dead quickly came to her and hoisted her up, as careful as she would have been herself to keep the splintered hoof from brushing the ground, and as they slowly turned
her around she saw nothing but the empty cemetery. Instead of an unbroken white churchyard Awa saw black pits yawning all around her, several tombstones tipped over, and the gory trail the monster had left as it fled, bloody clumps of its hide littering even the far edges of the grounds. Glancing toward the previously dark town she saw it was blazing with light, but no brave souls had yet dared investigate the noisy disturbance in the cemetery. Through her shock Awa took note of the dead men holding her aloft, and realized who had saved her.

Awa had not thought herself so powerful—she had always dug up the bodies herself before trying to raise them, even if she did employ their help in refilling their own graves. Now the militia of the undead that she had conjured all stared at her, some from oozing sockets and others from dry skulls, and Awa smiled weakly at them. She had vowed not to raise the mindless ones, not to use the dead without the permission of their spirits, but this seemed like a reasonable exception. She did not know how much time she had before the villagers found their courage and came with lanterns and cudgels, and so she bade her animate palanquin lower her onto a stone cross marker to supervise the reinterment.

“Someone find my knife,” she tried to say, but only a little blood came out. The monster had nearly killed her, she realized, and she would need a volunteer or two to help get her through. As she mused how to go about it, one of the bonier fellows —no, a woman, Awa saw by the pelvis—returned with her dagger and, she saw, the disguising string that had come loose from her ankle when the creature bit her. Awa shook her head in bemusement. Just to make sure she was correct she had the woman do a little jig, and Awa smiled through her hurt. She did not even need to speak aloud for them to hear—how useful was that?

There were always a few whose spirits had not quit their bones for what other worlds await the dead, perhaps those with unfinished
business in the mortal realm, and Awa singled out the three corpses present whose spirits clung to their flesh like a drowning sailor to driftwood. They were still mindless, of course, as the spirits could not actually reenter their old homes without her help, and so help them she did after ordering the rest of the mindless ones to bury each other.

There was a recently deceased man, his skin barely blackened by the grave, and a man and a woman with less skin between them than Awa had on her two thumbs. Once the restored spirits had stopped marveling at the event, all three faced Awa. She would have returned their polite bows had her injuries not crippled her.

“I am in your debt,” said the freshest of the dead. “That monster had dug me up and would have eaten my body as surely as he ate the dozen before me if you had not interrupted him. He would eat one of us, sing his song, and eat another, and I would have been next.”

“Why care?” Awa managed. “You’re dead.”

“He ate them, bones and all, and if he had devoured me I would not have been able to meet you, and ask the boon I shall now beg.”

Awa was accustomed to the dead making little sense to the living, and so she simply nodded.

“My request is a simple one—I promised my heart to the sea, and had no intention of dying, and being buried, anywhere but within her. I was born on the coast, but not long ago life pushed me far from her, and fate has made a liar of me. I beg that you take this heart of mine with you on your travels, and before it rots away to nothing cast it into my beloved.”

“The rest?” Awa said with a wince. “Ribs, say? Legs, say?”

“The rest?” The corpse took a step back. “Well, the rest could just …”

“You can hear as well as I what she thinks, what she needs,”
said the woman’s skeleton, both she and the other old corpse having salvaged operative tongues from their mindless neighbors before they had fully reburied themselves.

“Yes,” said the male skeleton, clapping his finger bones on the fresh corpse’s shoulder. “The hyena would’ve eaten you anyway. If it’s only your heart you care about, where’s the harm in helping our mistress?”

“No harm, I suppose.” The dead man smiled nervously at Awa. “Use of me what you will, mistress, though I beg you remove me first so I do not feel it.”

“Come,” said Awa. “Come and rest.”

The dead man knelt as if in prayer before Awa, who still half sat, half leaned on the tombstone. Awa gently pushed his spirit out of his bones, then went to work with her knife. His heart was already well on its way to putrescence, but Awa wagered that with the help of the sun spirits that drifted down even in cruelest winter she could dry it enough to last the duration of a trip to the ocean. She was surprised to see that the man’s spirit had not drifted away to wherever they went, nor had it stayed in his skull, but had somehow come loose and settled in the wet lump of muscle Awa held in her hand.

“Mistress?” the male skeleton said quietly but firmly, shifting from one foot to the other as though he were a child in bad need of a piss. “Ah, mistress? Mistresssss?”

“Yes?” Awa was intent on her task, wrapping the dead man’s heart in the wet rags rotting to his skin.

“Ah, lights? Lights.”

“What?” Awa looked up.

“The village is coming,” the female skeleton said. “Let us away.”

“But I haven’t heard your requests yet,” said Awa. “How will I know—”

“Let us away,” the dead woman repeated. “Hurry.”

“Right,” said Awa, trying to get up and falling from her seat into the snow. She felt bones closing around her, low voices murmuring to one another how best to handle her. Then she felt them raise her off the ground and she cried out despite herself —she hurt so much she knew she must be dying. They moved very quickly, the two skeletons carrying her while the mindless body of the man whose heart she held in her hand staggered after them. Once they cleared the wall of the cemetery and the harvest moon cleared the wall of the canyon the night became very dark indeed.

“You called it a hyena,” Awa asked Johan, the male skeleton. “How do you know that’s what the monster was?”

Awa had not heard of hyenas from her tutor, though well he might have warned his pupil against that bane of grave and grave robber alike. Her parents had cautioned her of them when she was a child, though she had forgotten that particular boogeyman until the skeleton had used the term. The hyena had come as close to killing her as even her tutor had managed, and she was horrified to recall that in her panic she had so freely given it her name. Even after consuming all the requisite pieces of the heartless dead man Awa found herself unable to move from the cave she had found without the assistance of her two skeletal companions—they had only that night carried off a goat from a nearby village, the hoof now boiling down for Awa to consume.

“My line o work meant being appraised’ve mythical whatsits,” said Johan, putting his finger bones in the bubbling pot and giving the hoof a squeeze to see how it was softening. The rest of the creature smoked on spits strategically balanced around the stewpot, and the skeleton removed his hand and blew on the steaming bones. “Not so mythical, I suppose, but there it is. Hyena. Got magic rocks in his head, too, shame you didn’t catch’em.”

“Magic rocks?” Ysabel, the female skeleton, glanced at Awa.

“Well, it’s not so credible like magic string that hides a hoof, or, you know, resurrecting the dead like our names is Lazarus, I’ll give you fair,” said Johan. “But Philosopher’s Stone in the ol’ eyeball mightn’t be so far-fetched.”

“And what was your line of work?” asked Ysabel. “I’m sure our mistress is curious.”

“Awa,” said she, “please, I’m not your mistress. Just call me—”

“Mistress wants to know, she’ll ask,” said Johan. “Think your hoof’s about ready, if—”

“Does graverobbing sound like a business to you, mistress?” Ysabel asked Awa, who was having a time of it adjusting to voices outside her own addressing her on a regular basis.

“That,” said Johan, “is pure shit.
Pure shit
. I look like I got a beard to you?”

Without any skin or musculature it was difficult to tell if he was genuinely upset or only joking, and he and the woman bickered on as Awa closed her eyes and listened. They had stayed with her for days now and neither had volunteered why they wanted to return to life, and if they kept this noise up much longer Awa would demand a damn good reason or banish them back to death. The thought, harsh though it surely was, curled her lips into a smile that caught the attention of her companions.

“Course, she don’t mind you being a graverobber,” said Ysabel, and, opening her eyes, Awa saw they were both staring at her.

“Heard’ve resurrection men afore,” said Johan. “But didn’t think they meant nothing like her.”

“Look,” said Awa, the pain in her leg faded to the point that holding a thought long enough to voice it was easy, if not exactly pleasurable. “I gather you both have your reasons for wanting to come back …”

“Her first,” said Johan, pointing at Ysabel.

“Now, how’s that fair?” protested Ysabel. “He should have to go first for trying to do me like that!”

“Out with it, Johan,” said Awa. “What do you want?”

“I want to be a relic,” said he, clapping his hand over his jawbone as soon as the words left it.

“You what?” asked Awa as Ysabel laughed and laughed, her teeth chattering.

“I want,” Johan repeated slowly, “to be a relic. I don’t expect it’s in your powers to make me one official-like, but I thought you might be able to, you know, pull a switcheroo?”

“What?” Awa squinted at the skeleton, as though she might see what he was about if only it were not so smoky beside the fire.

“It’s like this,” Johan explained, making an obscene gesture at the still chortling Ysabel. “I was something like an entrepreneur, made my coin selling relics and all.”

“Relics?” Awa had not wanted a drink so badly in a very long time. “What kind of relics?”

“The regular kind?” Johan rubbed his palms together.

“The
regular kind
are made’ve saints, not random old bits of beasts, you cheat!” said Ysabel.

“Says you!” shouted Johan. “I was in the business long enough to set you straight there, and anyone else! When they weren’t stealing’em from one another they were making their own.”

“Who were stealing what?” asked Awa.

“Priests and all, and men what worked for’em,” said Johan, clearly pleased that she had taken an interest. “Like me. I’ll allow I went freelance after a time, but I started off legit as the rest. I was one o the boys what got the saints out’ve Stantinople when we crusaded it.”

“He was slinging chicken bones, trying to pass them off as old Popes!” said Ysabel. “I took pity on him getting run off by the priest, and the thankless fraud got me killed for my trouble.”

“Harsh, Ysabel, very harsh.” Johan crossed his arms. “So much for personal responsibility, eh? And the few times I didn’t have real bones with me they was pigs’, not chickens’, so that’s slander atop o slander.”

“Listen,” said Awa, rubbing her temples. “You can’t lie, so let’s go from the beginning. Starting with you, Johan. You were helping people leave Constantinople?”

“Yessss?” Johan fidgeted. “Well, alright, yes and no. See, people what do real right by God get turned into saints, and the bones them saints leave behind is powerful holy. So over the years Stantinople buys up a load o these saint bones, relics is what they is, and the people pilgrimaged there to pray. And when Constanty was being sacked on direct orders o the Pope, well, my brothers and some others who was there decided to help out this abbot was reclaiming the relics. So we nicked some bones and took’em back to France and all, to where the bones, relics, right, where the relics belonged.”

“Why did they belong in France instead of Constantinople?” asked Awa.

“Cause the priests what paid us for the bones told us so,” said Johan with a shrug. “Not being a priest myself, I couldn’t say. But belong they did—saints wouldn’t let no one move their bones otherwise. Furitive sacrum, they call it.”

“And what happened after that?” said Awa.

“I seen the coin I made off one set o bones, so I thought why not make a little more? I, ah …” The words started falling out, to Johan’s obvious dismay and Ysabel’s delight. “A man died on the way home with the relics so I cut off his hand. After, right, after, but I cut it off and cleaned the meat and little white ropes and all and got the bones out, and ah, rubbed’em with sand and filth and all, and got’em cracked a bit, and traded ol’ Saint James a left for a left. So after we got the coin in France I took the show to the road, selling his finger bones.”