EMPTY THE GRAVES

Atymos is spooked by a letter from the dead.

Far away, the fires of Dolometris’s realm kept his subjects in a permanents state of warmth. Some warmer than others. Here in the more exposed realm of Atymos, cold winds would blow down from the mountains and cast an icy glaze over the landscape. On these days, despite the chill, Atymos would take a stroll and admire the glazed grass, the frosted walls, the icicles hanging from the ornate conrnices of his monuments, shallow drifts of snow at the base of his towers. He would be followed by the Royal Dog Walker, several hounds of undefined breeding and Sizma who welcomed the opportunity to get away from the palace now and again, especially after snow.

“Breath that fresh clean air, Chamberlain.” Atymos stopped at the gate of his favourite chapel. A chapel dedicated to himself, a chapel that only held services on Atymos’s birthdays – all seven of them – and other celebrations connected to his life.

“It is indeed fresh, Gracious Majesty. Like a frozen spice. It tingles in the throat.”

“Yes, Chamberlain.” Atymos wasn’t sure of that. “There’s just one thing. . . .”

“Majesty?”

He couldn’t find the words and shifted about as if his hooves were cold. “That, that . . . There. That.”

The only that there Sizma could see was the wall and the gap where an overgrown path, covered by ice and brittle scrub, led into the cemetary. “You don’t like the cemetary, Majesty?”

“No. No, I don’t. Ghastly place.”

“There’s no one in there.”

“What do you mean? The place is full of headstones.”

“Yes, Majesty, but the graves are empty. The occupants are already here, walking around, doing whatever they do.”

“That’s not what I mean, Chamberlain. Come, follow me. I’ll show you.” He found a route through the shallow snow, avoiding the more lethal glazed patches of ice and stopped at the gap in the wall. He hesitated and then approached the nearest grave.

“Look. There. What does it say? Adolfo Capulino, born twelve something or other, died twelve whatever that says. And there,” a more ornate headstone of polished white marble, “Isobelle Rulette, seventeen, I can’t read that. And on and on it goes, headstone after headstone. The place is full of them.”

“It is a cemetary, Majesty.”

“I know that, Chamberlain. Look over there.” He pointed towards a distant low hill capped with several ancient trees around a tall slender spire. “That magnificent edifice has my name on it.”

“Yes.”

“All the monuments in my realm have my name on them.”

“As is fitting, Gracious Majesty.”

“Thank you, Chamberlain. But here, they all have someone else’s name on them.”

“They’re headstones, Majesty, not monuments.”

“That’s not what their relatives think, Chamberlain. Every headstone is a monument to someone’s so-called loved one. Look at this, what does it say? A father and brother admired for his inspiration, decency and a life devoted to education and knowledge. Tell me that isn’t a monument to this man. It’s fawning and sycophantic.”

“That may well be the case, Majesty. You present a persuasive argument, but they are still headstones, not monuments like those built for you. Consider this. Everyone here is dead, they are commemorative. You are alive, your monuments are celebratory.”

“It’s indecent.”

“Celebrating your life, Majesty?”

“No, no, these. These mini-monuments.” Atymos shivered. He emphasised his tremble as a signal the conversation was over and it was time to return to the palace and his jigsaw. “Get rid of them.” He started to walk away, but came back. “No, don’t get rid of them. Put my name on them.”

“What? Pardon, Majesty?”

“Any monument, no matter how small, should have my name on it. See to it, Chamberlain.” Off he went again. He ordered the Royal Dog Walker to walk in front of him in case the ice was too slippery for royal hooves.

Sizma caught up with him at the entrance to the chapel. “Majesty, a moment.”

“Yes, yes, well yes.”

“You want your name carved into all those headstones? People will think you have died.”

“What?” The dogs crowded around the Royal Dog Walker as if they knew the implications of Atymos’s name carved into a dozen or so headstones. One of them howled.

“Be quiet. Chamberlain, we can’t have that.” He stared at the cold grey stone of the chapel. “My original order. Carry it out.”

“Remove the headstones, Majesty?”

“Remove the headstones. Remove the cemetary. My goodness, it’s cold. Step inside, Chamberlain.” They entered the chapel and left the dogs and the Royal Dog Walker shgivering outside. Atymos sat on the last row of benches. Here’s my idea, Chamberlain. It is genius. Remove the headstones, create a garden. At the centre of the garden build a tombstone, but not any old tomsbstone to the dead, a tombstone to the living. To Me. A tombstone that, as you say, celebrates life. It will be the first of its kind. Can you do that, Chamberlain?”

“Anything is possible if you so desire it, Majesty.”

“Excellent.”

“And what of the headstones? Should I return them to their owners?”

“No.” His voice echoed around the chapel. “Your humanity serves you well, Chamberlain. As a gesture to you, inform the owners of the headstones that they will be removed to make way for my living tombstone and remind them of the sacrifice and what an honour it is for them.”

“Very generous of you, Majesty. I shall carry out an audit, trace the names on the headstones and bring them the wonderful news.”

“Good show. I knew I could rely on you, Chamberlain. Now, time to return to my jigsaw.” He stood up. “I’m sure there’s a piece missing.” He left the chapel and after he was out of sight Sizma pulled the missing piece out of her coat pocket.

She returned to the cemetary, found a parchment, quill and ink in her bag and made a note of all the names. Fourteen in total, eight men, five women and one child with an ambiguous name. The next stage would be to visit adjacent villages to track down the owners and deliver the wonderful news that their memories were about to be obliterated.

The afternoon warmed slightly, water in the streams began to trickle again where delicate ice walls had surrendered to the sun. The contrast of cobalt blue sky and white ground increased as time passed and one by one the names on the list were ticked off and the news received with a mixture of surprise and supressed disappointment.

At the water mill, Norbert of Wien was moving sacks of grain from a frozen storage shed into the warmer interior of his house. “Hello,” he heaved and coughed, “Damages the grain if it freezes solid.”

“I see.”

“Can I help you?”

“My name is Sizma, I’m Atymos’s Chamberlain. I have some news for you.”

“Oh . . . go on.” The subjects of this realm knew it was never good news.

“Your headstone in the cemetary is to be removed and replaced with a living tombstone to celebrate Atymos’s long and, well let’s be honest, eternal life.”

“I am pleased.”

“No, you’re not.”

“No, I’m not.” He dropped a large sack of grain and sat on it. “What is he doing? Building a tombstone to his own life? That doesn’t make sense.”

“It makes sense in his world, Norbert.”

“I suppose so. Do I get my tombstone back? It’s the only one I have.”

“If I were a betting person I would wager his Gracious Majesty doesn’t think you need it anymore. After all, you’re not dead down here, only up there. Whey do you need a headstone down here?”

“Because there’s a cemetary. To be honest, I’ve never seen the logic of it myself, but there it is.”

“There it was, Norbert. If I can return the headstone I will, but don’t hold your breath waiting.”

“I never hold my breath.”

He had no need. Carrying sacks of grain at his age he needed all the breath he could get. His surrender was typical of the reponses Sizma encountered and she was becoming numb to it by the time she reached the final name on the list. Joseph Bagg was out when she knocked on the door of his cottage and at the end of the day he was still out when she came back. The light was dimming, the contrast between cobalt and white reducing to a glomy grey and the air temperature had dropped to the point where Sizma could feel the tip of her horns tingling.

The door of Bagg’s cottage was unlocked. She pushed it open and quietly examined the small lounge. The walls were hidden by paintings, prints and bookshelves. In what should have been the dining room a small printing press sat on a heavy oak table. Aroound it, boxes and shelves contained all the accessories and necessities of pringint and publishing. Ink pads, great bottle of ink, some of them coloured and smelling of the raw materials that provided the colour: clay, egg, lavender blossom, citrus peel. There were boxes of typefaces, and piles of paper, some of it soft and fragile, translucent thin, other piles thick and heavy that resisted folding.

In the kitchen nothing boiled, there were no abandoned pots and pans, everything in its place, food in the larder, condoments in cupboards, crockery in a water tub. Bagg wasn’t upstairs, His bed was made, the room tidy.

When Sizma returned to the printing press she took one last look at the equipment and one final smell of the lavender blossom. On her way out she was stopped by a man waiting for her at the front door.

“Who are you?” He was tall, assertive and ready for confrontation. His big nose had been the recipient of a lot of punches, and his own fists werelike the sacks of grain in Norbert’s water mill.

“I’m the Royal Chamberlain, Sizma. Who are you?”

“I’m sorry. I thought you might be a burglar.” He went donw on one knee.

“Stand up, I’m not that important. Where’s Joseph Bragg?”

“Gone. He left without saying several days ago. Is he in trouble? He’s in trouble isn’t he?”

The man seemed eager to hear of Bagg’s problems.

“No, he’s not in trouble. Not yet. I need to speak to him about his headstone.”

“Headstone?”

“In the chapel cemetary. Atymos has decided to remove the headstones and replace them with his own tombstone.”

“Hos own . . . He’s dead?”

“No. He doesn’t need to die to build a tombstone for himself. It’s his latest idea. All the owners of the headstones are being informed of the good news and that their headstones will be removed.”

“I see.” The man peered over Sizma’s shoulder at the printing press. “I doubt he’ll be disappointed. He’s a humble man. Has no time for headstones and commemoration. I can tell him if he returns. I shall send a letter to the palace to inform you.”

“Good. I don’t want to keep coming back. Bagg, if I’m correct, is the J Bagg of Bagg Publishing and Printing?”

“Yes. Most of the books and pamphlets around here are printed on that very press there.”

“I think his Gracious Majesty has some of his books. Small world. Anyway, I will leave you. If you could inform him if and when he returns that would be very helpful.”

She closed the door behind her and watched the man return to his own house farther down the lane. He walked with the heavy limp of old age and large awkward limbs. Studying Bagg’s cottage there were indications he hadn’t been at home for a while. The roof was thick with snow, no internal heat to melt it. When the door was open the rug behind it was clear of leaves and mud. But people travel, they visit relatives. Perhaps Bagg had gone somewhere warmer.

Back at the palace, consternation occupied every room and every member of staff preoccupied themselves with one goal.

“I was right, Chamberlain.” Atymos stood next to the table in the royal games room, the large jigsaw complete except for one piece. “There, look, the top of the tower where my insignia is located. Gone. Missing.”

“I’m sure someone will find it, Majesty. Did they look under the table itself?” She crawled under the table and resurfaced. “As I thought, Majesty. The piece was down there all the time.”

He stared in amazement at the tiny pice of wood. “All this time, Chamberlain. This household would collapse if it were not for you, Chamberlain.”

“You give me too much credit, Majesty.”

“Yes, I suppose I do.” He placed the piece in its annoying gap and left for his bedroom.

several days passed before a new crisis erupted. Sizma was summoned to Atymos’s breakfast table, the satyr demigod surrounded by food and drink and a discarded envelope. “Chamberlain, read this. Sit down and read it.”

She sat next to a bowl of orange segments and read the letter. It was a warning.

“Gracious Majesty. The writer of the letter has mis-titled you, Gracious Majesty.”

“That’s not the only crime. Read on, Chamberlain, read on.”

“Gracious Majesty, let me tell you a tale of Satyr Dodred’s territory and the chilling acount of the cemetary clearances there. And how the dead did stalk the living, eating their flesh and chewing on their eyeballs . . . Who has sent this, Majesty?”

“I have no idea. Read it all, Chamberlain.”

“And on the fifth day they did chop off the-“

“Read it to yourself, Chamberlain, not out loud. I don’t want to hear it a second time.”

She read it. An account of atrocities carried out by corpses disturbed by having their resting places dug up and destroyed. Acts of bestial depravity not even seen in the pits of Dolometris’s caverns and furnaces. The entire account a bloodthirty warning of what was to come to those who disturbed the graves of the dead.

“The writer has quite a vivid imagination, Majesty.”

“Vivid. He or she is a sick individual, Chamberlain. I have eaten oats and I’m certain they will be reappearing any minute now. Who would write such a thing, Chamberlain?”

“I don’t know, Majesty.”

“Who? Who in my realm possesses such a diseased, infected mind? Corpses feeding on the living.”

Sizma knew, but retained the information. The clues were in the parchment, she had seen it before in Bagg’s cottage. The faded cream parchment with its delicate texture that gave body to the ink, and the ink which suggested a hint of blossom. Sizma sniffed the parchment and detected a hint of blackberry. The fruit Bagg no doubt used to create the blackness of the ink forming the terrible words that threatened to disinter Atymos’s breakfast.

“I suspect the culprit may be known to us, Majesty.”

“Who?”

“Joseph Bagg, Majesty. He is one of the names on the headstones in the cemetary. He has a prinitng press at his cottage and this is the same paper and ink I found there yesterday.”

“The name is familiar. He is a publisher. I have his books on my bookshelves.” Atymos stood up. “Burn them.”

“Your bookshelves? As you wish, Majesty.”

“Not the bookshelves. The books. Bagg’s books. Burn them all. And then, when you find him, burn him too. Burn him here first and then transfer him to Dolometris to finish him off.”

“Yes, Majesty. There is one slight problem.”

“Is there ever not a problem in this realm, Chamberlain?”

“He was not at home when I visited his cottage. It looked to me as if he had been gone a while.”

“Find him.”

“Yes, Majesty.”

“Bring him back here. I’ll set fire to him myself.”

“You have a Royal Torturer to do that kind of thing, Majesty. My sister is quite adept at using fire.”

“Whatever. Find him. Find Bagg and bring him back here. Here’s what we’ll do, Chamberlain.” Atymos wagged his finger at her. “We’ll build a bonfire with his books and throw him on the top.”

“A superb idea, Majesty. I’ll arrange for staff to find all the books published by Bagg, ask my sister to order the fuel and then the bonfire can be lit in the courtyard. Roasted chestnuts and mulled wine, Majesty?”

“I have to say that sounds rather splendnd. Yes, let’s make a celebration of the fellow’s punishment.”

“Every cloud shall have a silver lining, Majesty.”

“Right. Good, Well, be off with you, Chamberlain. see to it.”

Sizma relished seeing to it. In the kitchens, chestnuts were ordered and mulled wine selected. She informed her sister of the inferno’s location and complementary attractions and after selecting several Royal Guards headed off on horseback to Joseph Bagg’s cottage. Of course, he wouldn’t be there, but now there was an urgency to find him, neighbours to question, clues to follow. Bagg couldn’t hide for long. Atymos had a network of informants, big ears and busybodies lurked behind every curtain, skulked in every corner of the realm’s inns and taverns.

When Sizma and the guards arrived at Bagg’s cottage the man was there waiting for her. He wore a heavy coat to protect him from the lingering chill, broom in hand to sweep away frozen leaves, a shovel leant against the wall next to his front door. He stepped along his newly cleared garden path and bowed when he recognised the royal insignia.

“Joseph Bagg?” Sizma remained on horseback.

“Yes. Are you the Chamberlain that called recently?”

“Yes. Where were you?”

“Visiting my sister in the village of Grovening. I was delayed, but I’m here now. What can I do for you?”

“You can come with us. His Gracious Majesty would like to speak to you.”

The blood drained from Bagg’s face when he realised he wasn’t being taken in a carriage, but on foot with his wrists tied together with rope. Walking behind the horses Bagg kept his head down when the neighbours began to emerge from their houses. One of them was the man who had spoken to Sizma.

“Not happy about his headstone, is he?”

“It’s a little more complicated than that.”

He returned to his house, but before Sizma could rejoin the guards the man’s wife hurried out. “Excuse me, excuse me.” Sizma stopped. “Is he in trouble?”

“Joseph Bagg? Yes, he is. A lot of trouble.”

“Not before time, if you ask me.” The woman lowered her voice. “Thinks he’s better than the rest of us.”

“Does he?”

“Yes. Calls himself a publisher. Have you read his work? Rubbish. And he sits in judgement of others.” Her husband came back out of the house. “How many times have you submitted stories and poetry to him?”

“Lost count.” The cold air was too much for him and he went back inside.

“Here, read these.” His wife handed Sizma a small leather satchel. Inside were small notebooks, slim journals and loose sheets of paper. “My husband won’t shout about his own work. He asked Bagg to publish some of it, but he said it was weak, insipid, called it all sorts of names. And who is he? A man with a printing press. Show some of this to his Gracious Majesty. Let him decide.”

Sizma was already holding the satchel and the woman wouldn’t take it back. “I’ll . . . let him see it. He is quite contrary sometimes, so I can’t guarantee he’ll like it. But, who knows?”

“Just knowing he’s cast a royal eye over it. Thank you.”

Her mission complete, the woman rushed back into the warmth of her house, leaving Sizma and the guards with the slow walk back to the palace. She opened the satchel and pulled out one of the sheets. It contained a poem: The Lure of the Gossamer. “Lure of the gossamer?” It was awful. Flowery language, didn’t get to the point. She wondered if the man even knew what gossamer was. As she put it back into the satchel, careful not to tear or crease the corners of the paper, she pulled it out again.

“Wait a moment.” The guards halted. Bagg shivered in the morning cold. The poem was handwritten, like the story of the corpses that had put the wind up Atymos and threatened his breakfast. And like the story of the corpses the handwriting was the same. She rode her horse back to the neighbour’s house and ordered them to come out. Man and wife appeared at the door.

“I think His Gracious Majesty should meet the author of this work.” She held up the satchel. The woman’s face lit up with a wide beaming smile. She apologised to her husband who had frozen, but not from the chill.

“His Gracious Majesty is going to read your work.”

Sizma called to the guards. “Release Joseph Bagg.”

“Is there something wrong?” said the woman.

“There’s a celebration later at the palace. You’re both invited. Roasted chestnuts and mulled wine. You can read your work to His Gracious Majesty and I can guarantee you’ll be the centre of attention.”

Bagg watched from the lane, rubbing his wrists where the roap ties had scored his skin.

“Jospeh Bagg,” said Sizma, “next time you go away, lock the doors of your house.”