Page 50 of The Daughters of Avalon
—German Proverb
“Buryhim deep so he cannot claw his way out,” I say, sensing Bran’s presence. The raven is watching from his perch nearby, cocking his sleek black head at the gathering in this copse. “Not so deep you’ll crush his bones, please.” But I wonder:Will he suffocate?Fresh from my bath, the cool night air teases the still-damp wisps at my nape as I consider this possibility.
Mordecai suggests, “We can put him in a box?”
The innkeeper peers back at me in question, shovel poised in midair. “I’ve still the one ye asked me to build,” he says timidly, and I smile, because it is his casket, made by his own hands—a task I set before him some years past to make a salient point.
“It’ll do,” I say, and add very sweetly, “You’ll have plenty of time to build another.”
“Aye, m’lady. Should I go get it?”
“Nay, my dear. I’ll send Mordecai.”
But I have no need to speak the command. Without a word, Mordecai turns and heads toward the stable, his gait unhurried. He knows the digging will be slow with only two men. It is not as though this is his first time.
“Aye, m’lady,” says the gravedigger, and without another word, recommences shoveling. Following his lead, the kitchen boy lifts his shovel as well, and the two men fall into a rhythm as ancient and titillating as a Beltane song.
Whoosht. Thwack. Crunch. Whoosht. Thwack. Crunch. Whoosht.
Their shovels, both in cadence, glimmer where the metal is worn to a shine—costly tools, used too oft to settle for cheap wood.
By now, the gravedigger has grown accustomed to this task, but tonight will be different. I want this man to remain alive, and more; I want him to be so very grateful for the gift of his life that he will serve me in perpetuity. I think of him rolled in his shroud, laying in a box, beneath the dark, cold ground, and I smile,reveling in the fear I know he will feel as heap after heap of soil is tossed upon his grave. Darker, and darker. Darker and darker.
Whoosht. Thwack. Crunch. Whoosht. Thwack. Crunch. Whoosht.
I fan myself over the thought, realizing that he must think himself dead already, because his muscles have been paralyzed to the point his lungs will not soon fill, and his heartbeat is so timid that his extremities are growing cold as the ground surrounding him.
I fiddle with my ring, thinking it past time to hunt more newts and moon snails. If this works, I will, indeed, have succeeded in creating the first of mymeirw byw—my living dead. Men whose lives will be indebted to me and only to me. Men who will remember the utter and overwhelming terror of their own deaths and remember…always remember…
It is I who will resurrect him.
It is I who will return him to the cold, dark ground if he should defy me.
Of course, he’ll never know ’tis a ruse. He will remain in that state of suspended animation until I return for him, aware of every lengthening second down in that deep, dank hole.
Whoosht. Thwack. Crunch. Whoosht. Thwack. Crunch. Whoosht.
I will be his delivering angel. I will be the one who returns him to the light, gently brushing the worms from his shroud. And he will love me, even as he fears me.
I shall be his Maker.
I spy fear in the eyes of the kitchen boy and realize he’s seen too much.What a terrible pity.Alas, he refuses to look at me even though I stand half-clad, with my breasts high beneath my gossamer gown and my dark hair shining beneath the pale halfmoon. I sigh loudly. And soon enough, when Mordecai returns, wheeling over the casket, I wave him forward, andwhisper quietly into his ear. “Let the boy finish, then dispose of him. I shall have no need of him, after all.”
“Won’t you be returning to your room for a bath, m’dame?”
“Nay,” I say. “There isn’t time. I would fetch my daughters and return before the poison fades.”
“Very well, m’dame,” he says. “I will see it done.” And then he turns to leave as I hear a squawk from the nearby trees.
“Oh, and Mordecai… please see that Bran is fed.”
As though he anticipates the feast to come, a shadow passes over the moon as my familiar, my sweet raven, Bran, soars overhead, wings outstretched.
Blooded biscuits are his favorite and there will be plenty to share.
Chapter
Twenty-One
