HEADSTONES

Dark crimson tulips hang from my hands as I arrive at the burial grounds beyond the Cyrican. A common cobbled wall encircles the area, its stonemasonry moss-grown and weathered, dusted with snow. The gates part wide this afternoon, but the effect is far from welcoming. No. It feels like walking between bones.

A familiar chill sweeps my spine as I tread beyond the looming house of Amel.

When the Heofonweard first established the church here decades ago—and the cemetery of their followers adjacent—the other townsfolk, the faithless, had no choice but to erect new headstones for their loved ones here. That included my father. Despite my mother's vehement protests—imagine, her husband forced to lie beside godless heathens for eternity—it didn't change the fact that the man was neither shrived nor blood bound to the Cyrican.

"What might your father think? The desecration of his own body?" I recall my mother asking in my youth, and me, far too young to understand such significancies, let alone questioned, replied uncertain.

"He isn't really here," I say, "He's gone sailing."

The dead—who unlike my father—are under the ground, poor and damned and otherwise. And that gets me to thinking of him moreover, whom I do not think of often, and whom we find no time in our days to honour. Whom I have made the exception of today, under the guise of familial duty. The reality far more damning.

I'm here to meet Dossa.

"Almost there," I tell myself. Even if I'm seen, I am simply laying flowers. Nothing untoward is bound to happen.

Near the back of the cemetery, rows upon rows of headstones rise from the earth like fingers. When I finally reach my father's grave, I crouch beside it and lay my tulips, feeling senseless. Like I'm bad, and it is bad. It has been too long. Moss has swallowed the arched edges, dirt blanketing the front. Meeting the damp stone, I use my hand to peel away the overgrowth covering the embossed title: Rowan Branton Whitmaw, beloved husband and father. The crimson red of my blood ring glows in the dusk-light. "Why am I here?" I whisper, imagining him asking. A face forgotten. A stranger. "I needed some fresh air." I lie, which is indicative of how nerved up I am.

Would things have been better if he were still here, still alive? Probably not. He was a scoundrel and a drunk, as far as I remember, and rumour suggests. We would still be poor—and perhaps poorer still, yes. But man, wife and child—father, mother and daughter—as a situation, it is inarguably better than your only father figure being the Heofonweard. A holy messenger. He knows the women who writhe within this soil. Knows their names, their bones that moulder in unmarked graves, or float as ash. Knows their methods, too. Which, I think, is rather a lot to live up to.

I suppose I should say, I miss you or something sentimental, but I don't.

That chill creeps down my spine again.

Like I'm being watched.

"Listen to ye whine. Ain't that nice." Dossa remarks from behind me, "dying to meet the neighbours, are we?"

I pitch forward, stunned, before pivoting to give her a look. For a moment, I think myself unscathed before eying the front of my smock, sodden, flattening my freshly laid tulips. My shoulders slump, of course, I think, Amel forbid me to do something nice. Which coincidently, isn't a nice thought.

"Ms. Mythine, a pleasure." I swallow hard.

"On account of my pretty smile?" She shows her ghastly teeth, grinning brazenly, as I stumble to my feet. She is larger than our last meeting, more ghostly in the late hours. She is draped in a motley assortment of coats and shawls, layered haphazardly upon each other. The outermost layer is a voluminous, tattered fur coat that resembles the pelt of a great wolf, complete with a ragged hood that frames her face like a scucca.

"No, on account of you living." I say, rather ruefully, "the dead don't make for good company."

"Aye, still kicking yet." She says, the skin on her face stretching in a pallid, almost yellowish hue, taut over her sharp cheekbones and chin, more skeletal than spry. I make a muted noise of agreement in return. "Come then, no dillydallying."

I do as I am bidden, despite not knowing our destination.

We make haste, her movements hurried yet deliberate, each step accompanied by the rustle and creak of her many layers. As she walks, she exudes a faint, sour smell, a mixture of damp earth and decay, like something that has been buried for too long—like a reaper—its black lace draping over us and stirring countless questions within me. I want to ask the wiccan many things—about Lina, about my mother, about their relationship and of her crippling marginalisation—but instead I utter, "Where does your mother rest?"

"My mother?" She clicks her teeth and I watch the back of her head, as she takes one breath. Two. Three. Before replying, "Far from that godly lot."

I think of the townsfolk, and the horrifying stories they had regaled of Dossa over the years. One particularly evil tale involved a horse, who had been force fed an apple, packed full of nails. It ripped the creature from the inside out. Another, a stray dog slashed open, intestines hanging, splattered red. Come morning, the rats had descended, enjoying their feast.

The thought conjured nausea.

"Right." I answer back, knowing better than to say anything else.

Several times I think to utter an apology, but just when I am about to open my lips, we stop abruptly. I stumble, quickly steadying myself, narrowly avoiding a crash into the meandering wiccan.

Dossa stands, hunched and gnarled, before a headstone. A hand, claw-like and bony, slowly protrudes from a sleeve of her coat, her nails long and discoloured, curling like talons. They clutch at a talisman, a collection of trinkets and charms, each one more peculiar than the last—a bundle of feathers, a tarnished locket, a string of beads that seems to hum with hellruna, with magic. "To ward against the grymmen."

In times of waning faith, amid drunkards and more brutal winters, the droll tellers would roll in, captivating sinners through song and fable—my mother says—the grymmen are spirits whose powerful screams herald a death, reaping their soul and guiding them to the afterlife. Yet, many have forsaken the old beliefs, supposing they know better. My mother included.

"I have not seen hers before." Lina's grave, I mean to say, but I am affected by this moment and speak foolishly, tongue-twisted and ungainly.

Dossa drapes the talisman over the headstone, which stands proudly amidst the long, snow-spindled grass, meticulously preened and tended. The inscriptions, clear and unfettered, read: Angelina Mythine, a life of love, thought, and deeds. Flowers adorn the base, their vibrancy faded over time yet still contrasting with the stone's muted grey.

Wait. "Angelina Mythine," I read slowly. 

Angelina Mythine. Lina Mythine. A.M.

Beware the wolf. Their guises are treacherous, guard your soul.

"Long dead," Dossa surmises, giving me a look, "that's what happens when ye go sniffing, ye get snuffed." She adds scratching at the corner of her mouth, as though the years of heartache had rendered her impassive.

I blink, confused.

Her next breath is the kind that carries the qualities of both candour and acid.

"Murdered."

"No," I scoff in disbelief, in denial, parting my lips in a moment of hesitance. "No, you are misguided. That is not right. Lina Mythine was ill. She went blind. She died—died of natural causes—" I had heard the Cyrican's memorial mention amongst the weekly sermons, heard the Heofonweard's prayer request, the whole of Pilvere had heard. And a whole town couldn't be wrong. 

"A lie scurries halfway 'cross the realm before the truth even peeks at the sunrise. Or maybe, if a rat shrieks enough times, it just becomes the truth, eh?" Her thin lips tilt—not like before, not quite a smile and not quite a sneer, but something in between. Something unpleasant.

"Are you certain she's dead?" I ask, forgetting myself entirely, thinking back to the note scrawled amongst the tomes and my hidden blood ring. It seems a distinct possibility.

"Mind yer manners girl. Sinful, all the drivel ye spit." She dismisses me with a wave of her hand, stomping away, tearing at the reeds and weeds as she goes. My cheeks burn as I hurry after her, pulling my coat in close.

"I—I apologise. That was needless and crude." I say in one breath. In another, I want to push my luck, asking after Lina. I knew her to be churchly once, before her blindness. Did she service the Cyrican as a scribe? Was she devout in her faith? Why did she leave the church? But know she will not tell me. Because I do not think Dossa knows the web I am tangled in. How desperate I am to escape, escape all its afflictions, all its consequences before it is too late.

"Do you know what we are?" She says on the wind, coaxing me to follow. The chill carries her voice, as my gaze tracks her shaking shoulders and the mist of the forest behind them. "Ye and me, peasants, commonfolk. We are born to die. That is what we are to them, what defines us—dying."

"Perhaps," I say, considering the glory of Amel. It makes sense. It does. Elder George, certainly thought so. Imagined the godly nature of him, kissing away tears, ailments and sin. Blessings to corrosive mortals. A life. A blink of an eye. A beautiful ephemerality, "but there is more than just dying, there is living—"

"Then busy yerself living and stop playing dead, like some petrified toad." She snaps, with all the grace of a goat. I sputter slightly, red-faced, finding her presumptuous and assuming. She doesn't know me, know me truly. I battle to maintain my composure, as my reply is lost. Rather, I push my feelings to the back of my brain. Because that's how I cope, how I have been coping, and if there is another better way, I do not know it.

Soon we pass the treeline, and the forest is silent and still, the atmosphere sleepy in the lingering darkness. How long have we been walking? Five minutes? Fifteen? Dossa's measured breath forms little clouds in front of her face. There is no sign of a home, a pasture, or even a trail. With the blanket of snow hiding the forest floor, we could have crossed a dozen trails without knowing it. I'm not even sure we're north of the Cyrican anymore. The ground rises and falls in little bumps and dips, obscuring the overall grade until I'm uncertain of anything. "Where are we going?" I ask, chewing at my lips, "It is too cold to go to the river."

"Not the river. No, but close." She says, "not far now from the veil."

"The veil?"

"Aye." The wiccan sighs, and I inch closer expecting clarification. When Dossa remains silent, I square my jaw, asking forthright. She goes on to explain, eye twitching, "the thinnest mantle 'twixt the realms, potent energies gather there." Before concluding, "ancient and hallowed grounds, fitting for wiccian."

"Between realms?" I ask.

"Oh, do keep up girl." She chides, as though finding me very stupid. "Next, ye'll be begging me to wipe yer arse."

Casting Dossa an angry glare, I take note of her sluggish crawl and realise we had arrived. Our figures standing side by side, in the centre of a twenty-foot-wide clearing of untouched snow. Amongst us is a littering of stones, at different heights, positioned haphazardly.

She turns and peers at me.

For a moment her intentions seem to hang, as though she may rescind our deal and throw slander to my name. But the wiccan simply nods. I exhale, the chill biting at my cheeks, before taking another deep breath to remain calm.

A selection of tools are pulled from her coat; a rag, dagger, and finally a grimoire. "Seemingly ye are possessed. Daemon-marked." She says plainly, flicking the grimoire open. "A funny sort, a decade before, Constable Miggins and the Heofonweard came knocking suchlike." At this point in the relation of this evening's strange venture, Dossa lowers her voice and gazes stolidly down at the book, dithering. "Asking and pining after wiccan-scars, or marks, and hidden secret parts. Fiendish allegations." Then she laughs, and I see a strange and wicked intensity come into her eyes. "I hitched up m'skirts, well above my thighs, acting all sluttish. I cannot see the back of m'secret parts—I say—but would ye saucy buggers care to look yerselves? Hah! It did make me laugh. The face on them both." I watch her closely, wondering as to what had loosened her tongue so lasciviously. For modesty's sake, I dare not speak against the story. Do not repeat her words.

Then she smiles, a vacant smile, cruel in nature.

"Mother ne'er saw the sunrise. Already deformed in her poverty, they had no punishment left for me but the wretchedness of solitude." She looked apprehensive now, like she was swept up in her tale and couldn't think to stop.

I could scarcely recall the lacteal scum of Lina Mythine eyes, white and cloudy—or maybe I imagined her altogether, like an apparition of my mother's scorn—one wonders if Lina looked uncomprehendingly up as her time came. The moon of her eyes. Surely here is no malice left, when you are finally permitted to sleep.

"I'm sorry." I say, because it feels the correct thing to do.

"Life is hard. Then ye die. Then they throw dirt in yer face. Then the worms eat ye. I'm grateful it happened in that order, not theirs." She dismisses me, and her sordid tale, refocusing on the task at hand. To anyone else, the disturbing symbols, Old English and peculiar illustrations would undoubtedly deter all of those faithful to Amel—but it seemed mundane to the wiccan. Her fingers caressed the worn and hardened pages with a familiar warmth, before resting it on a nearby standing stone.

The potential of magic right at her fingertips.

"Yer hand." Dossa invites my palm, drawing her dagger.

Before cowardice kicks in, I extend my arm. The wiccan's eyes meet mine, a fleeting connection that seems to only offer unease. My first thought is that she has brought me to this secluded place to kill me, or at the very least, to hurt me. Surprisingly, this thought brings very little terror, only a sense of morbid curiosity. Another thought is that she has brought me here to trick me. But then I remember, I am desperate for her to tell me what to do, to instruct me. To solve all of my mistakes. Does that make me stupid? I cannot rightly say. Dossa does not seem to, as the blade bites into my skin. A sharp pain, that is quickly replaced by the warmth of blood.

Making light work, she catches the bleeding in a small jar—seemingly from her beastly coat—and kneels down swiping a handful. The residue clings, dogging her skin like a parasite as she paints a circle in the snow surrounding me. It is a malicious image, red against white. Deeply unsettling, as though all at once, this moment is very real.

This is real, I remind myself.

A line slowly forms, appearing patchy and heavy-handed around her, in fact, it didn't look right at all. I had the distinct feeling this sort of hellruna wiccian is not common, which seemed to raise a foolish sense of assurance, like it somehow deemed this whole decision less criminal. Amel would understand, I think, though uncertain. Discoveries of truth, should, in theory, guaranteed certainties of my own devotion. This would present all faculties and facets of faith open to understanding. Yes. This is good.

Wisely referring back to the image, Dossa corrects the mark, pulling her finger across the snow in hasty swipes. The motion emboldened the bands, pink and swollen, until it closely resemble the grimoire's illustration.

Then the chanting began.