The Unblessed Dead Page 2

  Carrie sags against the closed drawer with relief. “That was gruesome. The others didn’t fight that much.”

  The closed metal drawer shudders against our backs as the cleansing process removes any body fluids from the platform and shackles.

  “He was taller and bigger.” My arms and back ache from our struggle.

  Carrie leans her head against my shoulder.

  Silence stretches between us.

  “He stopped when you told him to,” she says in a hesitant manner.

  I can feel her watching me.

  “Do you think…” she falters.

  “I startled him,” I reply swiftly, stifling my fear before it seeps into my voice.

  “Maybe he remembered you? Just for a moment?” Her gaze drifts to the observation window that is currently shuttered. In front of it are flowers left by the grieving tucked into vases. “Do you think Mother remembers us?”

  “I hope not,” I answer truthfully.

  Carrie picks up her pole and starts toward the gate, but stops. I know what she’ll do. She can’t help herself. It’s a ritual I don’t understand. How does she find comfort in it? I start to follow, but my slipper rolls over something. I squat to see one of Schoolmaster Simmon’s fingers lying on the ground. It must have been severed when the drawer closed.

  Casting a worried look toward my sister, I see her sliding open the panel over the observation window. Her attention is solely focused on seeing our mother inside the sanctuary. If not for my mother’s suicide, she wouldn’t be one of the Beloved Dead. Taking her own life was a sign of atonement, so she was given the sanctification rites.

  The last time my father ever spoke of my mother he said, “Your mother is at peace. I saw to it.”

  Hastily, I kick the finger over to the wall and with the end of my pole dig a small hole in the dark soil. When it’s a few inches deep, I shove the digit into the small grave with the toe of my slipper.

  Again, I look at Carrie. She stands with her hands pressed to the thick glass, completely fixated on the Beloved Dead.

  I scoot the dirt into place with my foot and pat it down. My heart is beating anxiously. The final evidence of our sordid adventure is buried. It feels disrespectful to not return the severed digit to my former mentor, but I don’t know what else to do.

  “Carrie,” I hiss. “We need to go before we’re caught.”

  Looking over her shoulder, Carrie says, “Is that her, Ilyse?”

  I hurry over to the observation window to tug her away, but her tormented expression stills my hand on her arm. I force myself to gaze into the Perdition Sanctuary. The Beloved Dead of the Atonement Settlement wander about the huge space inside. Schoolmaster Simmons stumbles along, standing out amidst his brethren. Mottled flesh, white eyes, straw-like hair, desiccated limbs, and gaping mouths filled with rotten teeth and black bile renders the appearance of all the older Beloved Dead indistinguishable from each other. Only the new occupants bear any resemblance to their living faces. It occurs to me that only the freshly dead have appeared in our garden.

  “Is that her, Ilyse?” Carrie whispers.

  The dim light inside the building is deliberate. It’s to obscure the worst of the Beloved Dead’s decay. The dead cannot see us. The thick observation window, threaded with bars of iron, only allows us to see them. Through the cluster of bodies, I see the figure my sister is pointing to. My heart hammers harder against my ribs.

  Our mother stands alone in the center of the Beloved Dead. Her once rich brown hair is matted to her face and neck. Her long dress is in tatters. Somehow her shawl has remained pinned about her shoulders all these long years. Around her neck is a necklace with a silver rose.

  “No, I don’t think so,” I lie.

  “I wish I knew which one is her. I don’t remember her face at all,” Carrie says, sighing.

  “Should I describe her again?” I ask.

  The Atonement Settlement’s disdain for technology is only matched by its hatred of the arts. We don’t own a vid, photo, or sketch of my mother. My memory of her is fading, and every day I struggle to remember the details of her face.

  “Please?”

  I move to close the panel over the observation window as Carrie turns away. “She had long brown hair with glints of red. Her skin was darker than ours. Like burnished wood. Her eyes were hazel, and shaped like a cat’s.” My fingers catch the handle on the panel, and I draw it slowly over the window so as not to make too much noise.

  Carrie waits for me to finish, her head bowed under her hood and her fingers gripping the control pole tightly.

  I continue to describe our mother as I ignore her decayed figure beyond the thick glass. The metal panel is heavy, and I turn to face the window as I use both hands to draw it shut.

  My mother’s dead face comes into view as she rushes the window. My voice falters, and my fingers tremble. One skeletal hand rests against the glass she should not be able to see through, and her dead white eyes seem to stare into mine. Her mouth strains to form shapes, as though she’s attempting to say words.

  With a whimper, I pull the panel shut, blocking her from view.

  “Ilyse?” Carrie is staring at me.

  “We need to hurry.” I rush toward her and grab her hand.

  “What did you see? You saw something, didn’t you?”

  I wrench open the gate and push her into the passage. “I saw the Beloved Dead. Just as you did.”

  “But you’re trembling.”

  I don’t pause in my haste to return home. I drag her along with me. The dogs are silent. The mist is thicker. I feel pursued by the gaze of my dead mother.

  “Ilyse?”

  Finally, we arrive at our gate, and I open it for her. She refuses to step through, her chin set in defiance.

  “What did you see?” she asks, anger flashing in her eyes.

  “Nothing,” I answer. “I didn’t want to be discovered. My Bridal Auction is soon, remember?”

  With a sigh, she says, “I thought you saw her. Sometimes, I feel as though she’s watching me when I visit. But I can never tell which one is her.”

  “It doesn’t matter. She’s one of the Beloved Dead awaiting the Resurrection. And we are the living. Her daughters. Awaiting our Bridal Auction and a life of Piety and Serenity. We must remember that.”

  I can see my words have dampened her spirits. She presses past me to clean off her control pole with the garden pump. I do the same, then we climb through our window. We hide away the poles, make sure the soles of our slippers are clean, and shake out our robes. Finally, I close the heavy panes of the window, and crawl into my bed.

  Darkness dwells in the corners of the room and the mist piles against the leaded glass of the window. Turning my face into my pillow, I hide my tears and sobs from my sister.

  If I am a necromancer like our mother was, I am doomed.

  Chapter 2

  Choices to be Made

  The sun is just cracking the horizon when the roosters start their morning ritual. Their loud announcements of the day rouse me from my bed as Carrie drags her legs out from under the covers.

  “I blinked and it was day,” she grumbles.

  “We better hurry, or Father will be suspicious of us sleeping in,” I say.

  I grab my day dress from the wardrobe and fresh underthings from the drawer. I feel sluggish and my eyes are still puffy from crying. Usually Carrie tries to race me to the bathroom, but today she watches me from her perch on the end of the bed with bleary eyes. I feel a bite of envy at her lack of worry. We both know Father won’t chastise her like he would me for being late to breakfast. Despite my moment of jealousy, I decide to rush through my bathing ritual so she can make it to the table before Father sits down.

  It’s better for everyone if the day starts on a good note.

  Especially after what Carrie and I endured the night before. Everything must be exactly as normal. Neither one of us can afford falling under suspicion.

  I open the door to t
he narrow hallway, and scamper along the cold wood floor to the bathroom. Once inside, I work the pump to fill the tub with three inches of lukewarm water from the outside tank. It’s rarely hot, despite my father’s maintenance man repairing the boiler numerous times. Sitting in the tub, I scrub my skin nearly raw. I still feel tainted from the night before. The scent of death clings to my nostrils. I wonder if I’m imagining the smell, or if it really is clinging to me like spider webs. My mother’s dead face haunted me while I slept, and even now I can see her blackened lips twisting into words.

  Since she was a necromancer in life, can she communicate as one of the Beloved Dead?

  The thought nearly makes me retch because it’s too horrible to consider.

  Worse yet, what if I’m like her? She took own her life in her jail cell out of shame. Will I be tempted to do the same? Or will I be banished to the Deadlands and forced to try to survive all the terrors that dwell out there?

  After I finish washing my body, I grab the pitcher from beside the tub and fill it with water from the pump. I use half to wet my hair. I scrub soap into my locks, then use the other half to rinse it. My hair still feels a little soapy, but I hesitate to use more water. Though we live next to the river, all the water needs to be purified through the external pumps built outside each house. Contaminants are dangerous. Besides, excess of any kind is frowned upon, and considered sinful. I’ve done my fair share of sinning since last night. I broke many of our rules. I resist filling the pitcher again, drain the tub, and wipe it down with my used washcloth.

  I dress in a lightweight white cotton dress with long sleeves, a high collar, and a hem that brushes the tops of my feet. My aunt convinced my father to allow her to add lace to the dress “to emphasize femininity” since I’m of age to attract a husband. It’s a small luxury I enjoy. After combing out my long hair, I braid it and wrap it into a bun. I tuck my feet into my slippers and stand before the small mirror over the sink. My eyes are puffy and my cheeks are a bit too red from the soap, but I look presentable.

  When I open the door, Carrie is leaning against the wall clutching her things.

  “Took you long enough,” she mutters.

  “I hurried,” I retort, sticking out my tongue.

  Carrie is always grumpy in the morning, so I don’t take her snarled lip to heart.

  She slams the door behind me.

  I hurry along the narrow hallway to the main hall, leather slippers whispering softly against the polished wood floors. Father’s coat and hat are missing from the hooks by the door. He hasn’t returned from the bakery yet. His mornings start very early, but he always returns home for the first meal of the day. I stride through the living area filled with sturdy furniture made of wood and leather. The walls are bare except for a plaque on the wall that reads “To live simply is to be humble.” Schoolmaster Simmons had discreetly shown me vids on his tablet of houses in other settlements that are full of adornments when he’d tried to convince me to attend the Academy in The Republic. I was intrigued by the images, but my people shun vanity. I sometimes wish we had a picture of my mother and older sister. I miss them, though I can’t say that to my father. He refuses to even mention them.

  Slowing, I clasp my hands before me and enter the dining area. The oval table is laid with clean white stoneware dishes and sunlight streams through the filmy lace curtains over the window. My aunt sits at one end of the table next to her son in his wheelchair. She’s dressed in the pale gray dress all second wives wear, and her dark hair is twisted into a high bun on her head. Aunt Leticia is my mother’s sister, but there isn’t really a resemblance between them except for their coloring. My mother’s face was full with round cheeks, which I inherited, while my aunt’s face is all hard lines and hollows. My mother always smiled, but my aunt never does.

  I suppose I can’t blame her for always appearing dour. After my mother’s trial, my aunt fell under suspicion. Because she lived in another settlement where the Lost Texts aren’t strictly followed, she was spared an inquiry. Soon after my mother’s conviction, my aunt’s husband died in a farming accident. Her brother-in-law immediately took over the family house and farm. Though he was single and obeyed the Lost Texts, he refused to marry his brother’s widow. He desired a young bride and turned Leticia out even though she was pregnant. My father had yet to take a new wife after my mother’s suicide. Since he only had female children, he offered to marry Leticia and adopt her newborn son as his heir. They seemed content with the arrangement, but her woes were not over. When Rennon was four, he fell from a catwalk when visiting the bakery, and broke his spine. It devastated my father and aunt, but not being able to walk hasn’t slowed Rennon down one bit. At seven, he’s a bit of a hellion.

  “Good morning, Ilyse,” my aunt says.

  “Good morning,” I answer neutrally.

  My father tried to force me and Carrie to call her ‘mother,’ but we couldn’t bring ourselves to obey. For a while I called her Aunt Leticia, but that became a point of contention. So I avoid addressing her directly. So does Carrie.

  I lean over and hug Rennon. He squeezes me tight, his little arms much stronger than people would assume. As far as Rennon is concerned, Carrie and I are his sisters, and we don’t correct him.

  “How are you, Rennon?” I ask.

  “I’m so hungry I’m going to eat everyone’s breakfast,” he answers, grinning.

  “You can’t eat mine! I’m famished!”

  “Then I’ll eat Carrie’s, since she’s not here!”

  “Rennon, you’re getting overexcited. Calm down,” my aunt says.

  Rennon rolls his eyes, and folds his arms over his chest.

  I take my seat and feel my aunt’s eyes on me. It’s hard to resist the urge to touch my eyes and see if they’re still puffy from crying.

  “You look very plain today,” my aunt says watching me closely.

  “Thank you. I aspire to be humble and without pride,” I respond correctly.

  She smiles slightly. “As all good women should.”

  Carrie slides into the dining room, her shoes slipping on the floor. Her wet blond hair is in braids which cling to her shoulders as she quickly takes her chair. Not a second later, the front door opens. Immediately, we all straighten in our chairs and await the arrival of our patriarch.

  Father enters the room free of his black overcoat and hat. Thick gray hair and lines around his eyes reveal his age, but he’s still a very handsome man. To atone for this, he doesn’t wear a beard. His gray shirt is immaculate under black suspenders, and his black trousers don’t have a fleck of dirt or flour on them. I don’t know how he remains so neat in the large bakery he owns and runs. Under his arm, wrapped in paper, is a fresh loaf of bread for our breakfast. The aroma is delicious, and my mouth waters. Taking his seat opposite my aunt, he sets the bread in the empty basket set next to his plate.

  “Good morning, my family,” he says in his rich vibrant voice.

  “Good morning, Father,” his three children respond.

  “Good morning, Harris,” his wife says.

  “May the gods bless us on this day,” he continues.

  “Amen,” we reply.

  “May the gods bless our food.”

  “Amen.”

  “May the gods bless our family.”

  “Amen.”

  “Let us eat.” My father picks up the sharp bread knife and starts to cut the loaf into chunks. Steam rises from each slice.

  We wait for him to speak with our hands resting on our laps. His daily duty is to guide our conversation, and prepare us for the day’s events.

  “There is concerning news today,” he says at last. He finishes cutting the bread, takes two slices, then hands the basket to me.

  My aunt waits for me to finish setting a piece of bread on my plate, but her eyes are on my father. “Oh?”

  “The Bridgetown Settlement fell to the Unblessed Dead last week,” he somberly announces.

  My aunt audibly gasps. That’s where she
lived until her first husband died.

  Carrie gives me a sharp look.

  I ignore her and slide the basket to my aunt. Did the Unblessed Dead somehow slip through their defenses like the Beloved Dead have been escaping the Perdition Sanctuary?

  Recovering her shock, my aunt asks, “May I ask how it happened?”

  “You may, wife. It was the necromancers,” my father answers, his voice thick with distaste. “Governor Cole’s own daughter was secretly a necromancer. Her evil brought ruin upon the entire settlement.”

  “Aura? But she’s just a child!” My aunt forgets the bread basket, her fingers tugging nervously on the napkin on her lap.

  “A dangerous child.”

  Across the table Carrie raises her eyes, and we stare at one another. I’m not certain what she’s trying to silently convey to me, but I wonder if maybe she suspects I’m a necromancer. The thought makes me very uneasy. I believe Carrie loves me, but she often speaks without care. Carrie doesn’t know what it was like to be under suspicion when our mother went on trial. My older sister, Angelina, and I passed the test the Elders ordered to determine if we were evil devil-women or not. I still have nightmares about the test. It’s the reason why Angelina ran away. I shiver, and struggle not to remember the terrifying days of my mother’s trial. I force myself to focus on the conversation at hand.

  “Is the entire settlement lost, Harris?”

  “It’s a ruin. Very few survived. The Enclave sent help, but it was too late. Word is that Cleric Fabiola was there, but didn’t stop Aura until it was too late. More evidence of the duplicity of the necromancers.” My father’s contempt of the necromancers is very clear from his scowl to the way he butters his bread with swift motions of his knife.

  Rennon taps my aunt’s shoulder and points to the bread. She recovers slightly from her shock, serves herself, then hands it to him.