The Stone Spies


 


Body: Just when I think things are settling down, life happens and I'm late posting. Again. Also, I discovered that I posted the previous scene too early. This one happens before it, not that the particular order matters that much, other than timeline stuff.

Anyway, you know the drill. :)


**The following excerpt is first draft narrative, likely full of errors, and many changes are yet to come. Please do not quote or assume this is final text. All words are ©2007, Tamara Siler Jones, all rights reserved.**

The Stone Spies
Part One - Journey
Chapter 1, Scene 8

Daylight
Village of Caria

He knew her name before she rapped upon his door: Blasia, formerly the digger’s wife. Her arrival was expected and worthy of celebration; her dear departed husband had expired that very morning. How delightful. Dorjan smoothed his thinning brown hair over his wide round pate and settled a sad, understanding smile on his face.

“Come in, come in,” he said in the awkward tongue of the people the moment her knuckles touched the cracked and warped wood of his door. He rose from his chair and trotted his rotund body across the vestibule hold the portal for her. As he moved, a light scent of nutmeg glimmered in the air from the sachet he kept in his armoire to perfume his clothes. For some reason he had yet to fathom, sweet cooking spices seemed the most soothing to his clients. He delicately touched her bony shoulder. “I am Gathemort Dorjan, your undertaker and most humble servant. Whatever I can do to help you, please, do not hesitate for one moment to ask.”

Blasia nodded and crushed her tattered kerchief as he herded her into his office and out of the chilly twilight of the evening. A worn, wiry woman with long braided hair, she smelled like grease and sweat and dirt and blood of the recently deceased. Much better than the nutmeg. “Thank ye Mister Dorjan fer yer kind words, but right now I needs me a cheap funeral, not kind words.”

He smiled kindly and guided her to a chair. “I am here to provide, Ma’am. It is a pity that Maur has passed on and left you and the children alone.”

Blasia nodded, her eyes neutral. “He was a fair provider, I’ll give ‘im that. We al’ays had enough blankets in the winter and food in our bellies. But I can’t say that I’ll miss ‘im. He was a hard man.” She drew a single harsh breath and put away the kerchief, ending her brief foray into the weakness of grief. “He dug holes all his life, he did. Fer privies and ditches, even fer plantin the dead. Now it’s his turn and he ‘spects someone else to dig his durned hole fer him. An I hafta pay fer it.”

Dorjan nodded and pretended to rummage through a drawer on his desk. He produced a single sheet of parchment and a quill pen. “Did he have any last requests, Ma’am?” he asked as he opened a vial of black ink.

She snorted and shook her head. “Not about ‘is plantin, if that’s what ye mean. ‘Blasie, get me a cuppa cider!’ he’d say, or ‘Hurry up wit my dinner!’ or ‘Clean my boots, woman!’ But as fer last requests, nah. There wer’nt none. He died sudden like, a wolf jumpin in the well wit him an all.”

“That is an unimaginable tragedy,” Dorjan said, knowing neither a tragedy nor wolf had killed Maur. He made a note on the parchment: Shovel. Blasia glanced at it as if it were gibberish, which to her, it was. “Do you have any requests for Maur’s, ah, internment?”

“I don’ want no ternment. I just wants ‘im planted.”

Dorjan smiled without showing his teeth. “Certainly, Ma’am. A plain and simple funeral.” He moved his pen over the parchment. “Will you be in the need of a casket? We have several inexpensive models.”

“Nah. I gots me a box. Ain’t mucha him left anyways. The wolf ate a good hunk.”

He wrote again. “That will be fine, Ma’am. So you merely require me to dig the hole?”

“Just plant ‘im an say a kind word er two. How much’ll that cost me?”

He smiled and tapped the quill against his chin. “I can have my man dig your hole for a mere quarter crown. The kind words are no charge. Your Maur was the salt of the earth.”

She nodded and stood. “I can barely afford it, but it will hafta do. Thank ye.”

As she turned to go he said, “I offer a free service, Ma’am. I can wash and wrap thee, ah, remains, and ensure a peaceful rest. No charge.”

She turned to stare at him, suspicious. “Are ye sayin I canna tend to me own dead?”

His smile was sweet and consoling, practiced for countless hours before the cracked mirror in his rooms. “Oh no, Ma’am. I know these times are trying, and you’ll have so many things to do, to prepare for the funeral. Even if only a few folks stop by...” he shrugged and shoved his bulk to his feet. “Surely the children need consoling, and there are always other matters to tend to. I intend to help our community with this one last chore whenever I can. It is my job, after all. My calling.”

“Outta the goodness o’ yer heart, you’ll tend a corpse?”

He bowed slightly, for his ample belly would let him bow no further. “Of course, Ma’am. Why else would I?”

She shrugged. “If yer so eager to get the mess all o’er ye, that’s yer doin.”

He bowed again. “It is my privilege, Ma’am. I’ll send my man to retrieve your husband and his box. Shall we plan on the service for tomorrow morning? Perhaps just before lunch?”

“I can be ready by then. Thankee, sir.”

He beamed.


Posted: Saturday - October 13, 2007 at 04:11 PM         |

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