by Mike Allen
The first of the thanes set himself to undertake what the god-man could not do, and bring low this weird thing. Fastened he his feet upon the ground, and put the heels of his hands upon the body, throwing against it all his weight. So might he have struggled against the mightiest tree, what little harvest had he for his work. Sought then the next of his fellows, and then the third, and then the three together, but all their strength could not shift the life-left flesh so much as the span of a hair.
Unrestful were their hearts at this, but hid they their fear with laughter, saying that the wight wanted only the freshness of the wind.
And so they left him there, for they could do naught. Came the children of the town to scorn at the thing, daring one another to feel the dréag’s dead hand, and their mothers pulled them away.
Seven days after, came there a rider upon a horse, an errand-man for the eorl. As it went by the barrow his horse bolted in fear, dashing up the slope and hurling its burden to the ground. But struck the horse’s hoof against the head of the man, and came thus his blood, soaking the loam at the lich’s feet.
When came the thanes to gather up the errand-man’s body, the dréag was not as he had been. Thick now were the arms withered by winter, ripe as the beginning of rot. But not like life was this; sick-swollen was he, full with the foulness of those who dwell with worms.
Among them were none with will enough to strike the wight. Frightened, left they the errand-man where he lay and rode back to their hall.
Then went out word from the eorl, that he would give rich gold to the man who rid him of this wicked thing. To this call came Aescwulf of the east, a warrior bold whose deeds men heard in tale and song, and said he that his sword would cut down what the god-man’s words could not.
Therefore went Aescwulf to the top of the barrow with his sword in his hand, to meet the risen wight. Dry was his mouth and cold his blood at seeing dead flesh stand, but held he to his meaning and his end, lest he shame himself and his good name lose in the eyes of his fellow men.
With keen edge he cut, striking at the sticks of the wight, and meat and bone gave way before his blade. But fell too the sword from Aescwulf’s hand: stopped had his heart at the start of his strike, and now he lay dead beside the dréag.
For Aescwulf was great mourning and great thanks, that he had freed the folk from their fear. To his kin gave the eorl the plighted gold and meed besides, for the loss of their fellow in so worthy a work. The wight his men graved in the ground once more, and gave yield to the gods that he should not leave another time.
But when waned the moon, stood the shape again on the height of the hill, the dréag as he had been.
Darker then were the days, grey the sky with clouds, and colder waxed the wind even as the summer grew. Came again the god-man, and four strong men with him, weaponed with whitethorn. For then was it the month of three milkings, and with the wood of that month might they steal the strength that fed his soul. At the god-man’s rede bound they the bone-home and broke it from the earth, and once more laid it down where it should keep.
But in this doing, pricked the thorns of the wood into the men’s hands, so that their blood fell onto the skin of the wight. Drank the grey flesh these drops and thereafter grew white, shining lich-sick as they steeked the barrow shut.
Still darker dimmed the sun, so that churl and thane and eorl alike dwelt in grave-gloom. Came then the rain almost without halt, drowning the home of seeds, killing the year before it lived. Empty were the keeps of corn after winter’s end; hunger was man’s dish, and want his drink, and the wolf of death came for many.
Thin grew the sky-sickle and withered into black, and when darkest came the night, rose again the dréag to stand upon the ground.
More gold gave the eorl, and clubs of the crabapple tree, for the boldest men to bear. Now this is the soul-strength of apple: that it is the tree of life, whose wood is bane to things of death. Hewn was this wood from a holy tree, and marked with runes by the god-man, to give it might against the dréag.
Rode forth six men who climbed the hill, and with reckless hearts put themselves against this threat. Scathed their clubs the skin, and with the first blow came the breath of the wolf, the wind of winter, from the wounds they made. Twice struck their arms, and crumbled the blossoms of the hedges into dust. At the last blow, fell the birds from the trees, their feathers breaking against the ground.
From the skin of the dréag wept tears of black blood, that froze the hands of the men. Numb-fingered, took they the raven’s food and thrust it into the ground, stopping the way with stone. Then came the women and children, half-starved and scared, with shale from their houses and flint from their fields, to roof over the barrow so naught might grow upon it again. But beneath the blood, the hands of the men were white as midwinter snow.
Long then were the nights, though summer should have made sweet the sky. Brought the day little sun and no hope, and dwindled horse and kine for lack of grass. All kept watch for the waning of the moon, and what they knew it must bring.
When saw the watchers the wight again, it was the death of hope. No strength of sinew nor holiness of heart could drive the dréag down whither it should be, and its foulness drained the life from the land. Dim were the days and dead the fields, and the men with white hands walked about with empty eyes, stopping neither for food nor for sleep. Dread they woke in those who saw them, and in fear some sought to fight them; but when their foes their hands met, numb went their limbs, as if winter’s cold bent their bones. And so left they such men to wander, and those who had not forsaken hope kept far from their path.
But unaware the eorl was not, and had readied himself for this rising.
On the ground before his hall stood a stone. Into this carved the god-man his strongest runes, and wrote over them with his blood, begging the gods, the great ones of the other worlds, to make the stone the stopping of this bane.
Sent the eorl the last of his thanes to the bone-home’s bed, where the wight stood again. Dragged they the dréag thence, the white-handed ones walking after, as if they were the thanes of that thing. But stopped they at the stakes that marked the ground of the eorl’s hall.
On that ground one woman came forth, having kissed her kin and bid them farewell; Saehild was her name, and well she knew this work would be her death or worse. But for the well-being of her folk, put she her hands to the lich’s flesh, cutting it loose with an iron knife. Ulfcytel, best of the thanes, took the body-sticks she bared and laid them upon the stone, that the god-man had named the grinder of the grave. With other stones he broke them, stones carved also with the runes and blood of the god-man, while put Saehild the flesh into a churn of oak, whose staff then beat it soft. White grew their skin where it met bone and meat, but their word they had given, and break it they would not before they were done.
When ended their work, stood they with the empty-eyed ones; but their word they had kept, and so the eorl gave wergeld to their kin.
What abided still they put into a box, whose lid they nailed down with iron. At ene fell dead the god-man, and his body rotted where it lay. At this ill foretoken, more gave in to fear, but said the eorl that all his strength had gone into the spell, and his death was a mark of its might.
Few then yet stood at the eorl’s side. Frost-bitten was the wind and dim the light, and held many to their homes; of those who did not, too many walked about bearing white skin and empty eyes. But yet lived hope in the eorl’s heart. Took he the box and rode to the wealth-house of the dead, shifting aside the stone to bury his burden where first they had laid the lich, in harvest-time so long before. Then, having roofed the room anew, set he a watch, to see if things would now be well.
The end of this, all men know. Upon the dark of the moon, rose for the last time what men had thought to rid themselves of, fed full by the blood of the god-man, witlessly given. Came then those who yet lived, herded before the white-handed ones, to see the doom of the eorl, torn asunder for seeking to stop this thi
ng. Fell his wound-flood upon the watching ones, waking hunger in their hearts. Crawled they up the barrow’s side to beg the blessing from the dréag; cut he his arm, and from it drank they the wolf-wine, which gave to them knowledge of their wyrd, and new ravening.
* * *
And so has it been since that day. Never came the sun over this land after that; dwell we therefore in darkness, that men from without hold in fear. From our new god take we our gift, and do his will however he bids. All hail to the holy one, the bestower of blood, the gainsayer of the grave, whose life and might shall be everlasting.
THE WANDERER KING
Alisa Alering
It is Day 90 and most all are dead. Wanderers are dead, Fixers are dead, but me and Pansy are alive today, and we both want to be alive tomorrow. We want to find a way out of this deep dark bottom hole the world has fallen into.
We are in the potato man’s house. He is dead on the floor and we look for something to eat. The potato bins stack top and top along the cold stone wall. It smells cool in my nose like dirt and mud, starch and flour. The potato man is not long dead, and smells sour coppery wet.
“Gone,” Pansy says, her arm in the bins up to the elbow, fingers crawling on the bare boards.
“All?” I ask. There is one window, small. But we are in the forever days, and the light from outside shows the dark space of the potato man’s life. The hard chair with the folded blanket. Pegs on the wall hang mattock, fork. I take down the mattock, swing and heft. Old dirt cracks off the head and crumbles on the floor.
Pansy gets down on her knees and leans under the bed. She drags out the trunk, goes through the clothes and blankets. “We’re not first,” she says, finding nothing worth having.
I tuck up my skirt and go up the ladder to the cramped loft under the musty eaves, where I find a dead bird, its feet in the air, its beak so still I can see the holes of its nostrils. “Nothing here,” I say, backing down.
As we leave Pansy spots the crown, hanging from a nail above the door. It looks to me like a pair of antlers, stuck on some skin, tied with string.
“The King,” Pansy says. She comes from Wanderers, so she knows things differently. She says the King can lead us back to the top world, where things are right side up. She says we have to try it on, in case one of us is secretly the King.
I think we would already know, but she says you can’t tell until the crown is on your head.
“You go first, Chool,” she says. She rubs her palms across her eyes in that way that I have got used to.
“You,” I say, because she wants me to say it. We have been together now since Day 45 when we hid from the Fixer men in the same storage shed among the grease drums and the fertilizer. I know how her wheels wind. I lean the mattock against the stone wall and take the crown. The antlers are sturdy, stubby prongs the color of a polished walnut, stitched with oiled thread onto a dark leather cap. Braided cord trails down over the earpieces, with a catch to fasten under the chin.
Pansy is taller than me. I reach high to hold the antlered cap over her head. She stands so still that I know she is listening all hairs on end. She is waiting for whatever form the magic takes. She is waiting to be King.
I push the cap down over her springy hair, holding out the earpieces. I balance the weight of the antlers between my open palms, then let go. I see the exact moment when she realizes nothing is going to happen. And maybe I see her think about pretending. But Pansy is honest. She puts her hands up beside her ears and pulls off the crown.
“Your turn,” she says.
I know that I’m not the King, because I know what I have done. But that’s not something I’m going to tell. So I stand still. I feel her breath on my neck, and then the lopsided weight of the crown settling along my head, the cap bending down my ear on one side. I give it a few beats, so she thinks I take it serious. I lift my shoulders, let them back down. “Now what?”
I give the crown back to Pansy. “What would a real King’s crown be doing here?” I am looking at the rope bed and the tin teapot and the stack of turf beside the cold stove. Kings don’t live like this.
“This King’s not like that,” she says. “Besides, maybe he—” meaning the dead potato man “—is come from the Kings’ family line, maybe he’s been keeping it. Maybe the King put it here for us to find.” She holds the crown close to her face, letting the horns touch her cheek. Wanderers trundle the woods sniffing after invisible things. They know about finding. She looks into far distance, then back at me. “We have to try him,” she says.
“But he’s dead.”
“Everyone’s dead, Chool. We have to find the King.” She takes the crown from me and goes over to the dead man. His wool vest is buttoned up straight to the chin. The slice starts there, halfway round his ear and into his hair. He looks up at the mud roof with his one eye left. Pansy picks his head up off the floor and rests it on her lap. She sets the cap on his head and holds it there, watching his ruined face.
Nothing happens, and Pansy closes her eyes. I hear the breath go out her nose. She eases the man’s head down to the floor, where it rests with a little thunk. She stands and wipes her hands on the back of her skirt. Careful, she carries the crown.
We go out to look for the King.
* * *
We steer clear of the mines—that’s Fixer territory. The Wanderers are dangerous, too, ever since they came fighting back around Day 30. But there’s always been less of them—less in all, and less because they scatter through the woods on their business instead of fixing to the towns and mines.
We step along to the city, fitting the crown on all we come across. We sleep in the darkest part of the day when the sky dips to dark blue. At first, in the country, there aren’t many heads to try. But we come up on the city, and we slow. We even try it on Fixers because Pansy says the King is the King and it doesn’t matter whose body he’s in. “The King is for all,” Pansy says. “Anyone can carry the King.”
We start down a back street at the edge of town, all trampled gardens and the backs of shops, bordered on the other side by the crumbled rocks of the old Wanderer’s wall, tumbled down and the gaps slap-patched with crankling sheets of corrugated tin.
In the first ten days, the Fixers rounded up the Wanderers as they came into the bureaus with their gleanings to sell, and killed them all at once. These bodies are blown up big like water bags, gurgling and gassing and covered in flies, and we pass them by. We can’t stand to get close enough to test them.
Up ahead, behind a garage, three women lie together in the road. Scarves flutter loose around their heads as if they had tried to hide their faces when they left home. Fixers or Wanderers or some other, I don’t know. Two are huddled together, dying with their arms wrapped around as the knives bit into their backs. Glass glitters at the base of the wall, a broken bottle of soured milk. The third is farther away, stretched out flat. Slashes are on her legs and chest, and the flesh of her cheek split wide. A black-spotted pig has squeezed through a gap in the wall, and forages at her side, snuffling and grunting.
“Get away,” Pansy shouts. She runs at the pig, waving her free hand.
The pig turns and charges her. Pansy leaps back. The crown tumbles out of her arms as she scrambles up the stone wall out of the reach of the pig.
I pick up the crown by the antlers, ready to leap up the wall next to Pansy. We can run down the length and find other bodies to test.
“No,” Pansy says. “Try them first.”
Keeping my eye on the pig, which has settled down to slurp clots of milk from the broken jar, I try the crown on the two women lying together. When I get to the separate one, I see where the pig has chewed two fingers from her hand. I crouch down beside her and pull back her scarf, peeling it loose from her scalp. Her hair is razored close to the skull, a soft fuzz. She has sharp black brows that wing together above her puffed eyes in a way that accuses.
I rock back on my heels. “This is stupid,” I say. “No one’s going to save us.”
“Just do it,” Pansy says. She wipes her hand across her eyes, digging at the invisible blood.
“There is no King,” I say, mostly to myself. But I lower the antlers onto the woman’s head, and as it skims her brow some force reaches out for the cap, sucking it down, gripping it against her skull. I try to snatch it back but it sticks fast. I drop the antlers like they’re on fire and jump to my feet.
Red blood pumps out of the woman’s pig-eaten fingers. The woman’s eyes blink open, dark gold like the polished antlers on the crown.
* * *
A hot wind blasts us in the face, carrying voices. Men talking and shouting on the other side of the garage.
Pansy stares at the dead woman wearing the crown of antlers and bleeding from the stumps of her fingers.
“We have to get gone from here,” I say.
The woman sits up, gets to her feet. The antlers reach above her head, poking the sky. The cords dangle unfastened along her jaw. She wears a man’s jacket, the rolled-up sleeves sliding down her scabbed arms. I can’t tell if she sees us or not.
The men’s voices come closer. They are in the street on the other side of the shops. The air carries the smell of their sweat and the dust they stir up from the road. I hear the stamp of their feet and the zsh-zsh swing of their knives. I look down the alley, then back at the woman. I am sure she was dead. Not just slightly dead, but very dead.
“Pansy,” I say, “What is she doing standing?”
The woman takes a first step but her dead legs won’t hold her and she stumbles. She reaches out a hand for the garage wall and gets herself right, leaving red finger smears on the yellow painted blocks.
Pansy leaps down from the Wanderer’s wall, vaulting past the pig, which is rolling the bottle down the pavement with its nose, trying to get the last licks of sour milk trapped inside.
