From the distance, a man approaches.
Tall, gruff, with white hair, he looks like a senile bugger who's got nothing better to do than to bother us.
I smell Trouble.
His sluggish pace eventually catches up to us, and when it does, he gives us a long, hard look.
His eyes, too crusted and dry for blinking, look down upon us with clear presumption.
"Oi, Inspection Time!" He barks out his order but it gets caught on the back of his throat, so, he tries again, even louder this time.
"Stop!" his voice cracks in a higher pitch as his Adam's apple sags down; too large, it wobbles as it almost touches the ground.
"Sir," I reply, "as you can see, cargo is something we are unfortunately lacking in. Make way for us, please. Help a family in need."
Ignoring me he turns to Tim.
"Who's this crook-fella? Where's your daddy, boy?"
"Dead."
Tim whispers this himself, thumb shaking as he gestures to the body in the back.
Dismounting his ride, old guard hobbles around for a brief moment before he sticks his nose to smell the country air.
"What ya sayin?" seemingly poor of hearing, before he finds what he's looking for he doesn't allow for any direct response.
"What's this, found ya lil stash, bandit boy." he retorts smugly, cackling loudly as he points to the quilt.
"I said he's dead." Tim replies in his normal volume, but the guard refuses to listen.
Walking up next to the man, I place my hand on his shoulder and try to explain the situation with an assertive tone.
"Can't you see he's dead, please, have sympathy, let us pass."
"Yes, his dad, where's he? I've got some strong words for 'im."
What?
I pull back the curtain of quilt tucked around Jimson's body. Taking its time, the burlap eventually falls to the ground to reveal a body.
His body.
Scrambling, the paling guard only manages to regain his balance after a few moments pass and he has had his time to readjust.
He coughs into his palm before speaking further.
"You know the rules. If you have any complaints, speak to Jiord."
"..."
I look at the man, confused, then I glance ahead. Standing small, I see Tim and read his body language.
Shrinking back, he barely nods. His face has become increasingly blank now, only watching as this stranger unfastens the tangled rope to steal his dead father.
He's not fine.
"What! You can't just take him. The boy needs to mourn his father. We need to bury him, properly, not—what the hell, where are you even going with his body, put it down."
Snorting, the man only stops for a moment to talk back.
"Squawk, squawk. Your friend here flaps his mouth more than your late father ever did."
Hearing this Tim freezes; a faint twitch cracks his stoic mask—subtle, but noticeable.
Bastard. You made my boy sad. I won't let that slide.
I double check Tim's direction. Though no words are exchanged, I can tell that he's uncomfortable.
Fine. I'll deal with this scum before lunch.
Stepping towards the man, I roll up my sleeves.
Walking past me with the body, he places it a top of his yonk and begins securing it with our rope.
I chase after him attempting to yell insults in his direction but he starts yammering back instead.
"We have our ways. Prune's like you shouldn't talk, shouldn't speak like we don't know what we're doing. We've lived in the unlivable, understand. This is your last warning, champ."
Some nerve. This dude just called me champ. That's actual disrespect where I come from.
I lean over and block from the front of his mount and begin my harassment.
"Six hours, we have been traveling. Our best friend and family member, dead. We are still mourning his passing to this very second. Explain it to me, who gave you the balls to grave-rob and swindle us of our last moments of grief. What do you get off destroying a grieving family like! Huh?"
Jabbering my finger up at his face, I rattle off all the rhetorical language I can muster in my condemnation.
Ratatata—"Causing Negligent Infliction of Emotional Distress!" Papapapa—"Damages and compensation must be paid for our psychological harm!"
Then comes my tactical nuke:
"Disorderly conduct—You dare Invoke 'Elder Abuse' to exploit a grieving family for personal gain!"
He blinks.
But I don't care, won't make me stop.
I continue unloading my emotional baggage through words of legal jargon, finding some semblance of much needed reprieve in this righteous tantrum.
Persisting, I pin him inside my most belligerent portrayal of his unconscionable self, and then within this framing, I condemn him for the emotional and psychological harm he just previously inflicted.
When I finally manage to stop, I let out a ugly smile—slow, yet immensely satisfied.
Boy, does it feel good to let off steam in the pursuit of justice.
Everything that happened before had got me all pent up for a little while.
I slide my hands into my mangy pockets, breathing, letting the last of my rage uncurl.
He just stares. Veins bulge across his thinning scalp.
"Y-You," he mouths his words back at me, but that's all he can do.
His dry lips then begin to chew, swallowing down all potential retort—too lost, too confused to even speak further in my presence he goes quiet.
Go back to the psychiatric care unit, and stop bothering us with your problems... buster.
I idly scratch at my itchy balls, half-bored, half-amused, yet still standing confidently on my throne.
I can't help but watch him in bemusement, likening his seething visage to a kettle that's too stupid to whistle.
I already made him my bitch, and now I'm simply savoring my victory.
Slowly, he gets off his yonk, quivery as he faces me.
Immediately upon landing he trips over his own shoe and collapses to the ground.
Lying down, he spits a puddle of bile into the dirt—his lullaby of sickly heaves serenades us over the grassy greens.
After he concludes his little performance, he wipes his mouth with a tattered rag, then babbles about having some killer headache. As if that makes you any less of a loser, pal.
"You…" at last, he manages to speak to me coherently.
"I don't like you, boy. But for the kids sake, I'll stay professional. Rules are rules. You'll need a permit for that body, and until it's processed, it stays with us."
"Permit… for a body? Ridiculous! Tell me, what is your name and where are your carers?"
"Carers! I'm just doing my job, don't push your luck any further."
"I won't stand for your audacity. Just wait until your manager hears how you wronged an orphaned boy. Shameless. I bet you don't even have kids—you would never understand, what we have to go through."
His face twists.
But before he can answer another voice calls out.
"Francis. Calm!" A clear voice projects from the distance. Its owner a pale man with azure eyes draws ever closer on his albino yonk.
"His name's Francis, and he's the designated watcher here. Suspicion's his whole job," he pauses for a moment and ponders.
"Though that doesn't excuse him and his actions, I sincerely hope you can find understanding and forgiveness in your caring heart. I apologize for his rudeness to you, and to Timothy. He didn't mean any harm, I can guarantee that."
Quickly, he shifts to a new topic. "Want to know a funny thing. Francis here doesn't even have to work at all, but keeps on insisting to do it, all for our, the communities safety." he then lets out an airy laugh.
"Ha-Ha-Ha you're quite stubborn aren't you Francis."
Draped in clerical finery he gestures openly. Both his minimising tone and soft-spoken words that slither over each over, give me the impression of a snake.
"Francis," he continues, "this man couldn't have known anything about your condition; he's never met you. How could he know something about you so… personal?"
His words are precise, and in response to them Francis's wrinkled face can only look down, his fingertips lightly tap against each other whilst accepting this scolding.
"Worry not," the priest begins to comfort. "It's not bad at all. Most men your age have that happen to them—they just don't have their exes reveal it whilst drinking in a group. We're all proud of your bravery and ability to move forward despite this inability."
He dismounts from his pale yonk and gives francis a firm hug, patting on his broad shoulders.
"Here, let me deal with this. You can head back and have a break for today—you've earned it." he whispers in his ear.
Fuck, now I seem guilty.
As if reading my mind, priest guy turns his head towards me and talks.
"It doesn't matter now, child. What's said now is done. Forgiveness is the best path forward. Shake hands and call it a day."
Francis, shuffling forward extends out his clammy hand.
I take it—but quickly, it turns awkward.
"One second."
"Two seconds."
Francis counts under his breath, mumbling a half-baked apology, and then, after pulling his arm back, waddles away to his mount.
"Now Timothy" the priest turns his gaze.
"Do you accept this apology?"
Being directed like this Tim squirms slightly before giving his answer.
"erm, yes, I think so?" he turns to look at me.
"Great now that's all resolved allow me to introduce myself to the newcomer." He looks at me now before nodding to himself.
"My names Father Jiord and I'm the local community leader and counselor here. If you have any questions, please, ask me—I'm always happy to help."
Jumping from his mount he begins to lead the way. Both me and Tim can only follow.
"So—" I'm about to speak but am interrupted.
"It's been a while since Francis got that angry. You must have a certain way with words," he opens up with a well-placed joke.
"The rules just seemed just so absurd, and his body..."
Wait, they just took it, I've been had.
FUCK
####### ##### ### # ##### ########
"When are we going to get it back?" I quietly reply and breath out.
"Hah 'absurd', tell me about it. I couldn't agree more. But well, we don't make them do we. The whole area's under quarantine—rules are stricter than ever. Let me tell you, there are reasons for this injustice."
I just managed to obtain justification to smack you myself too. What a coincidence.
"Oh, what reasons?" I ask gently, laughing along to match his tone.
"Curious about the wider world aren't you, I like that in a man." He whispers something under his breath before speaking again.
"You must'nt be from around here then, I'll explain the history of this place for you. Around fifty years ago, a sickness ravaged these here lands and It was called De'sin.
What was different about this infection was its strange and ungodly nature; it only ever affected the ascenders, us morts remained completely fine even if we had obtained the condition. What was worse, was how we could even spread it to their kind.
We became dangerous and so they responded accordingly. Die, or go elsewhere, that was their mandate to all the family's infected.
Camps, previously used to burn corpses quickly became overfilled with the new refugees, however, more were constantly built to house and contain this disease.
Tracing their origins back to the abyssal plains more commonly known here as the 'dead lands', the Heavenly Sky Palace quarantined this entire continental shelf due to its close proximity to the source, and as such, it is here that we are caged."
He pauses as his face grows increasingly grave.
"Some claim it was a ceremonial curse from the Cult of the Bloodborne Ascendancy. Old magic. They supposedly used millions of the dead as a way to catalyse it. Dangerous, hard to obtain things now, under all the new rules."
He continues, voice low and reverent.
"These 'dead lands', they have a tenancy to absorb mana—even the beasts adapted and changed to take in that ungodly property. No one knows how the appeared, all we knows is that it has something to do with the sky."
Woah, that's a lot to suddenly lay down. Man still has his uses, the time is not nigh.
"The sky?" I frown.
"One empty eye watches from the dead sky, so big, so large it eat up all the light.
That's why they call it the 'dead-lands.' Not from mere description, but from sheer terror of that so-called being, and the land that has become its domain."
"What happened to those effected?" I continue my inquiry.
"Withering of spiritual development. Regression of mana cores and pathways. Whatever it was— it was vicious. Even I got it. It ruined my life. That's why I'm here, trying to start my life again."
"I'm sorry for your loss, but that doesn't explain why you just took his body?"
He pauses for a moment, eyes suddenly appearing emaciated as he thinks deeply.
Noticing my sudden look of concern, his face lights up and smiles as he tries to explain thoroughly.
"Dead bodies have always polluted the air with their bad mana. It's a long-standing arrangement. If unattended they become a wandering pest. Furthermore if they contain the plague they must be burned too, only with a special tree extract, though. They say the flames are purple, I can only imagine the sight." He sighs deeply looking away to the distance.
"We burn about three hundred tonnes of corpses a year—all from the constant battles at the northern borders. It's hard, but necessary job, the only one we can do to prove useful."
"But why here?" I press.
"If it happens here, the infection doesn't ravage the rest of the continent. Furthermore with the emergence of this curse, this land has become uniquely valuable in its ability to absorb up the bad mana—so we use it; bout the only good thing to come out of this plague."
"And what about the war in the north?"
"It's been quiet lately," he resumes. "The caravans of corpses are shrinking each year, but something just tells me, this ain't right. Rarely anyone comes 'ere. Sometimes exiles, crippled ascenders and refugees but it's mostly the convicts sent here now. We are grateful to take them all though, must stick together like one big happy family... But."
He trails off and smiles awkwardly.
"Say, do you want to join us? I don't even know your name young man."
"..Ugh, sorry. My name's Desmond." I reply scratching my lower chin.
"Well then sir Desmond... Welcome to Settler's Camp." he gestures outwards to reveal a town.
Reaching the end of this mountainous ramp, ahead lies a bustling sprawl of flat yet open land, filled with yurts, foot traffic, and pop-up stalls grilling meat over open fires.
In the center protrudes a large, old timbered cathedral; towering and imperial above the bustling chaos of mundane life.
"What's that?"
"Ahh, that's the community and prayer hall," Jiord replies. "It's where we manage all the town's logistics and administration."
"And that?" I point to a smaller but sizable block of compact huts.
"Storehouses. They hold the supply of food, resources, and salt."
"Salt? You have salt here?" My hands clasp each other and my fingers begin twiddling in excitement.
"You've heard of it I see. Those little speckles of white rock keep meat from spoiling but also add a flavour that is simply sublime."
He points toward the top of the canyon's rim.
"See those two canyons, look closer."
I squint, unable to see much under the bright sun.
"I can't see anything, just some sun and a bit of sparkle."
"Yes, that's it, the light! That's where the salt piles form. If you look even closer where we came from too, you'll even see the town's miners harvesting them from way above. Salt is scarce, but we're lucky here. They provide us with a good income to run things tight."
He also claps his hands together, excited in sharing his passion about the uses of salt.
---
Time passes as we ride along the main path deep in discussion, the topic changes almost as rapidly as my various questions regarding culture, daily life, food, and activities here.
Throughout the campgrounds, various townsfolk stream along haphazardly, floating towards us as they gather. Sometimes by themselves, other times in small, collected groups, but all of them go out of their way to greet Jiord with nods, half-smiles, and wavey motions from a nearby distance.
After some time travelling, we herd past the last cluster of tents, accommodations and people into a quieter, more spacious outskirt of town.
"So, how come the prowlers don't come here?" I query.
"Great question. I wondered about that myself when I first arrived."
He adjusts his reins in his hand and coughs.
"The reason is mana. The dead lands out there are barren because of their stagnant and non-existent mana concentration.
Here's the strange thing though, it's like something sucks it straight out of the air. The mana doesn't just fade; the land actively consumes it. It isn't just passive as is commonly thought. Hard to explain the details, but from what I've managed to research is that those beasts can't survive long in these mana-dense areas, so they avoid them.
But what's even more mysterious about this, is that it seems that mana is one of the things they like most in their diet."
Things are more complex than I initially thought.
Tilting my head forward, my chin protrudes so far outward it clicks itself back into place.
"How, intriguing but is here really safe from them!"
"It is indeed intriguing, from all I could study it is safe for us to inhabit here—that much I can guarantee. You probably noticed it too, how the canyons have more life inside than out and how they had no prowlers inhabiting them either. We found that is due to the mana current.
This current slowly seeps down from the mountain top, taking the entire distance to dissipate. Plenty of stories about folk going crazy from deviation; yet another one of the many reasons why no one particularly wants this job."
He sighs to himself and leans back, crossing his arms for a moment before he resumes:
"It all converges here, in the heart of the valley. I don't know much, but this is the reason why Mount Trenchlaw became our home—and I hope it will soon become yours too."
". . ."
As I'm weighing my options he interjects yet again.
"We really need all the hands we can get... Think about it and give me an answer soon."
His pace slows before the stop.
Standing before a lonely yurt flapping against the wind, he ties his brown leash on a nearby stake made from wood, of which we follow suit.
"Here's your stop. Say, Desmond you want to be Timothy's new guardian, right?" he asks, wrapping up his last hitch around the plank.
"Yeah. Jimson asked me to do it, and I owed him my life so…"
"He was that kind of person, wasn't he? Tim, do you agree with this arrangement too?"
Jiords soft gaze lingers as he squats down to Tim's level.
"He's my only family I have now!" Tim blurts out then looks at me.
"Good, good. You guys seem to have bonded quite well."
Reaching into his bag he pulls out a majestic but ill-matched blue top hat, placing it firmly to his chest for a moment, and closes his eyes.
"..."
"..."
Me and Tim give each other strange looks but he stands still for a moment.
"Amen." He places the hat on his head and turns away.
"Don't you two worry about a thing, I will try and get this funeral ready as soon as I can. But, Desmond, we have an old tradition here of taking down the houses of our deceased. You should ask Tim bout it, sounds like something you two might consider doing for the rest of the day, to settle in and bond before the grand Farewell soon."
I nod slowly.
"Well, I must be heading off for now. Good day to you two, and may the lord bless you and our late friend Jim."
"Treat him with care," I call out.
He waves dismissively as he undoes the knot and rides back off to town, leaving only the two of us behind.
We watch as Jiord's body shrinks into the distance, a weight I didn't know I even had, is carried along with him.
Something grabs at my waist.
I look down.
Oh look at you, little scuttler, managing to sneak up on me like that.
"Thanks you, Des," he speaks directly into my chest, sinking further into my embrace.
"It's alright, we're family now. Nothing wrong with wanting a moment to settle personal grievances."
I pat the back of his head.
"You really went off on that guy," Tim says quietly.
"He deserved it."
"He was just doing his job." Tim argues
I pat on his back lightly. "Yeah. I know. But I could see you were uncomfortable."
He maintains his silence in my bear like embrace.
"Tim, what's with this tradition?" I speak of into the distance.
His head unsticks from my shirt, then he speaks up to me.
"This yurt—me and my dad built it when we first arrived here ten years ago. When someone dies, their family deconstructs what they had built with their loved ones, then, they rebuild it in the image they remember."
I ruffle his hair.
"I understand. Do you think you can handle it, or you need some help from big papa?"
He looks up to me, his once gentle face snarls up at me.
"Yeah, big muscles man—like I need your twigy arms for help."
Springing forward he pulls at my hand, dragging me forward until he stops before the constructed entrance.
This is it
Your home.
I know I can't replace what you had, but I will try my best. Thank you for letting me be a part of this, Jim.
Tim stands next to me for a few moments staring inside the empty house.
Looking away and back up to me he nods.
"Ready?"
"Ready!"
Lifting both his arms up he reaches for my neck.
In response to this attempt, I pick up his tiny frame and lower him around my shoulders making sure to hold his legs.
---
Gradually, we disassemble the living memory. Piece by piece, I followed his rhythm in complete silence.
Not because we were too sad to speak, moreso that there were no words in that moment that were ever needed to be shared.
Maybe it was our unspoken presence, or our shared goal toward completing the task before us.
Either way, we indulged in each others presence, sharing funny and introspective moments between us like long cherished siblings.
After a few long hours we finished both the disassembly and reconstruction of the house. Our bodies collapse against each other, unwinding onto the open field of leafy cloves as they dance to the tune of the whistling wind.
Laying back to back, we breathe in our earthy scent and sweaty musk, staring at the sky.
"Boy, don't you stink too much," I break the silence.
"Not as much as you. You've smelled funny ever since the moment we met," he retorts.
"You're saying what? Lying shit."
"Yeah. Remember this kindness from me—it's your thank-you gift for standing up for me before, and helping me now."
"I need to teach you better manners." I scratch my itchy back.
"No, maybe I need to teach you better manners." He giggles.
"Watch your tongue." I give my most stern voice.
"Why? You can see it just fine." He sticks it out and waggles it at me provocatively.
"You little—"
I grab his boot, ready to remove it to tickle his foot, but the second I pull it, the stench hits me like falling birdshit. Collapsing to the ground I pretend to gag.
"Haha! That's what you get, loser."
"I'll take my defeat with humility."
After recovering, I capitulate, laying my head over my folded arms in loafing comfort.
"Squawk, squark. You'll chirp on about it as much as your so-called 'emotional damages,' whatever that is."
"Hey, I was standing up for you! Don't mistake my kindness for weakness" I raise my voice.
"The only one standing up here is me."
He hops to his feet, looming over me.
"And that was really embarrassing. You should be ashamed of yourself. I think you even made poor old Francis cry."
His straight face finally cracks, full of life now, as we share another round of rapturous laughs that drag out for longer than anyone would ever care to admit.
Reigning back my breath, I lie backward, staring up at the afternoon sky.
My voice hums to itself in awed appreciation.
"Don't you think it's just so captivating?" I idly muse in my deepest voice reaching up with my open hand.
"It's just a sky. Why look there, when we have the whole world around us constantly moving and changing? You look at the one thing that never changes, old smelly… fuck."
Testing the waters—that won't fly by me, boh.
"Hey, only I'm allowed to say that. That's my privilege. Do as I say, not as I do, twerp."
"Oh yeah? That doesn't even make any sense. Shit, fuck, shit, ass, fart, yonk."
He continues, rattling off all the well-oiled words in his arsenal in a mocking yet imitative high-pitched tone of my argument before.
"Enough!" I wag my finger at him.
"So you're ready now? Come on, bath's this way, Dezzy."
He clicks his tongue, clapping at me like I'm his pet, beginning to walk off as I stay put, continuing to snooze around.
"Ugh, you really know how to be boring."
Groaning, he walks back..
Grabbing at my tender thighs, he attempts to drag me along with all the force he can muster.
My neck bumps against the coarse dirt as I get to enjoy the show. It only for a moment though, before he stumbles back in his step, unable to lift up my newly gained dad-weight. This is but the first step in my paternal transformation.
"Looks like I won this round." I let out a chuckle.
Gloating at him in gleeful condescension, looking right back at him.
"Oh yeah? I've got a secret weapon too."
"What is it boy?" I raise my brows in anticipation.
"You don't even want to know. Even my father hated it."
I keep staring at him, giving him my most childish facial gestures I can form, proceeding to urge him on.
Go on. There's nothing you can do to move me.
This is my newly acquired dad energy.
"Bet!"
He turns and gallivants away from me in sluggish but dramatic motion, building up anticipation with his half-assed performance of deliberate movements.
What's this little goober planning?
When he is around five meters away from me, he turns back—a devilish smile now possesses his once-innocent face, sprinting toward me in run-up for...
Jump?!
Oh hell nah, please don't do what I'm thinking you're planning on.
I regret it already, just please not my gut.
Beer gut activation.
I tense my stomach inward, and hold.
Thump…
OOOOOOAAAAAHHH!
The air rushes out of my mouth, yelping as his knees land, sticking into my swollen gut.
Before I can even react, his anus tears the foulest and loudest fart known to mankind.
Cackling and shrieking, he gallops away—dodging, weaving, and evading every vain attempt of mine to grab him back.
What a magnificent little shit.
Is this what fatherhood is like? It already sucks ass.
Why did all the men I knew who were dads have a beer gut, but now that I'm officially a father I don't get this superpower?
Life's unfair.
I don't have neither the equipment nor facilities to deal with this smelly kid.
Limbering my body up, I prepare to give chase, verbally chastising, "The sheer audacity!" of his actions.
"It's just a fart! What's there to be ashamed about?" he calls out, running circles around me.
"Oh, you shit with that ass, boy? I'll make you lick it up if you do that again!" I respond in kind chasing after him.
"Ha! You can smell more of my ass when you try to keep up with me!"
It doesn't even last for thirty seconds before I stop, gasping, wiping at my bloody nose before spitting out.
"You wouldn't dare!"
Grinning over his shoulder, he looks back at me.
"Then it seems like I won again!" he yells back.
I begin to shake, and scrunch my face up.
What was first a feral and wild look on his face is now covered in concern as he hesitantly approaches me.
"Wait, are you ok?" He gulps some air, pupils widening at me.
I tumble to the ground.
"Wait, I didn't mean anything, just—here."
He runs back, offering me his hand, and I slowly grasp it.
Yank.
I pull him back into my arms.
"Mwahahahaha, you are my prey. I'm going to eat you, my little blow-fly."
I sing rocking him in my arms.
My fingers slide in, finding that one ticklish special spot under his arms, then I unleash a controlled shock.
Zap
He squeals like a newborn pig then fights back.
---
After rounds our of playful melee, a victor had yet to be decided; so in settling for a tie, we lay here, piled-up and squished a top of each other.
The sun has now turned into a soft tangerine of evening glow.
Slowly, we pick ourselves up and clean off the smell of grass.
Following us, two silhouettes, both deep and large shuffle along with us toward the distant promise of a clean bath.