"The dead rising!" that loud cry continues assaulting my ears.
My body trembles, my gaze shifting up from the earth below stares through the smog.
Not close, nor far either lies the faint outline of what appears to be a tall silhouette. Ragged as it looms forward wreathed in the blooming smoke.
Their thick leather boots crunch heavy cinders beneath deliberate resounding steps.
Weighed down by the clinking of crude implements hanging from their side, their patchwork of dirtied pants tells a legacy; each stained seam being a testament to years of trudging through mud and mire.
Their hunched but stouted posture seemes to agree with this assessment. However, by the time I could verify this guess, they already emerge before me. With hair grey as grave-dust and facial stubb too unkempt for a meticulous man in his middle-ages, he halts, and with his two large but emaciated hands he lights a stubby cigarette with slow ceremony, squinting through the purple haze.
"Boy, you better not be playing!" his raspy voice projects, carrying well despite the smoke.
After finishing his words a smaller shadow also appears, hiding behind them. The bigger man ruffles what appears to be the thick curls of this younger boy's brown hair.
The touch is not gentle, but purposeful, like a mason correcting a crooked piece.
Flinching, I watch the boy's face contort, discomfort clearly etched within his every crease. Yet, he doesn't resist. No, instead he mutters a stiff but begrudging, "Thanks, dad," before his gaze returns to the ground once more.
Sighing with a wry grimace, the man turns towards me and clears his throat.
"You. Yer the dead one, eh?"
Deceased? That was mere moments ago. Now I'm alive and you will take full responsibility for me.
"Dead?! Can't you see I'm alive, old man?" I snap, rising stiffly as I brush the dirt and ash from my tattered knees.
At this, he looks at me more intently. His lone eye narrowing beneath the weathered shadow of his shaded brow grows increasingly dark.
This pressure, I've felt before… in those beasts who called themselves men.
"Yer a corpse. I've seen it with my own eye!" Yanking up his cracked leather, he makes a show of flicking his patch down then up again as if mocking my perception of reality.
"The dead risin'... ain't never been nothin' natural about it." His hollow socket remains disgusting, staring me out. Dry, empty, yet somehow still observing me in my total inadequacy.
And I'm the corpse. Hmph.
If this bastard really thought me as one, why is he trying to talk now? Bluffing? Or trying to give me psychological stress. Nah… I can't risk it if he isn't. How the hell do I convince this miser?
I know.
My hands clasp togeather. A haunting smile creeps across my cracked lips. My once-trembling fingers rub against each other like a merchant about to hawk miracle tonics to the needy.
This trick always works.
"Ahem... I was merely sleeping."
"What?" He blinks.
"..."
"..."
"Sleeping… dead corpse? Never 'eard of it. Even those evil cultists of the Bloodbourne Ascendancy never came up with that kind of cultivation nonsense. You're speaking yonk shit, and I know it." He breathes out a trail of second hand smoke.
'Cultivation' you say. I understand. You had me there for a second. But now? Hehehe
Leaning in, my voice speaks low but steady in tone, only determination remaining in my gaze.
"Ahem, look here, sir. It's a rare condition. Born with it actually. They call it the 'Nine Serenities Spiritual Body'. When I'm in deep meditation, there's no pulse. No breathing. Easy mistake to make. Honestly, these blunders like yours happen all the time to me. This is okay, I almost forgave you too… But now, I hear you slandering my good and reputable name and smoking in my presence!"
Shameless.
His eyes lose focus as if in deep thought.
"Nine Serenity? Sounds like some more Eastern crap," Jimson mutteres, his singular eye darkening even further. "You sure you aren't just a filthy corpse-eater?"
Shrugging, I feign ignorance.
"If I were a simple ghoul, as you so obnoxiously claim, then how come I'm here talking to you?" I snort smugly in patronising retort.
Checkmate. This man is simply in the palm of my grubby hands. Mwhahahah.
His smiles grows unusual, revealing the sides of his stained teeth, and then, he flicks that homemade cigarette of his toward the very mound I'd clawed my way from.
Instantly, it catches. A purple flame writhes from the ashes, its reach extending upward towards the empty cosmos of black infinity.
I feel the heat as it radiates hot, listening to the sounds of the burning dead bodies cackle obnoxiously, as they mock my desperate efforts of escape.
"Why didn't you speak so earlier?" His beady eye now stares at me curious, before his head tilts ever so slightly.
"..."
What do I even say here.
"Name's Jimson Plank, and this little scuttler, is my son, Timothy Wood." He interrupts. His Tim's back arches forward after receiving his hard slap. Scowling the boy mutters a defiant, "Sorry," before walking away with his head still hanging low.
"Old man, don't think I've forgiven you. You nearly burnt me, alive. I need compensation for… psychological damages." Flicking my fingers, I clearly indicate the universal sign for money.
"Here."
Cutting me off he rolls out a circular stone and drops onto it, setting down what appears to be a cup with a practiced hand.
From his belt, he unbuckles his flask: old, dented, but polished where the fingers groove.
"I save this for special occasions. You're lucky… night," he mutters, glancing around as if checking the time.
Finally, his hand pours out the drink with patient reverence. Its liquid amber catches on the mossylight, glistening in molten memory.
Resting the cup on the stone beside next to a pair of used boots, his knuckles rapp against the boulder with a dense sigh.
A peace offering. Or a bribe?
Shrewd man. It's your personal flask; either way, I should drink it. If it is poison, shame on me.
Sitting down, I slide the boots on with minimal effort.
Paying me no further heed he kisses a pendant around his neck, then, removes it, placing it across the nearby stone pile.
One second. Two. Three. A ritual, maybe? Some sign of respect for the dead. I make a mental note to remember it.
Sitting in this moment, my mouth interrupts his silence..
"So... what you do here?"
"Ta-ta-ta." He clicks his tongue, wagging it provocatively before he gestures at the cup clasped between my hands.
A moment later our once-full cups clink against each other with hollow resonance.
Carefully, he rests his empty cup upside down on top of the flat column of the nearby rocks that same sad look.
That stone again? A mural? No…
An unmarked grave.
For the dead, I presume.
---
Here, we sit, sinking in the remembrance of the burning dead.
Faint rustling can be heard as he lights another cigarette, shielding its flame against the gentle wind.
A long inhale.
He leans back, eyes clearly tracing the ash that drifts like dirty snowflakes: filthy, heavy. Loitering.
A long exhale.
"Now you're going to tell me?!" I raise my query, eyes locking on him.
"We're burning corpse piles, as you can see," he replies curtly, voice gruff as ever.
The purple flame continues to yell. Crackling, singing maniacally in the background.
"Why?"
"To honour the fallen of course... This is, the way."
Taking another drag of smoke, he pauses, building suspense for what appears to be some long-winded tale.
"When people die, sometimes… they return. It's our job to prevent that from happening."
"That doesn't sound too normal." I lean forward continuing to watch his every movement.
"Do I get paid to know why?"
Squinting, he taps his cigarette in my direction.
"You… What's yer name, young man?"
My name?
I glance down at my muddy hands.
"Out with it then."
"Desmond," I manage to blurt out, looking back up at him sheepishly.
Incredulous, the man shakes his head.
"Well then, sir… 'Desmond.' To answer your question real polite and proper: I don't know why, and I don't much care neither. All I know is, I have to do it, and it pays like utter shit." his feet crush the leaf litter before he stands back up.
"From the sound of it, you don't like cultivators." I mutter.
"Cultivators," holding a singular finger to his lips, he lowers his voice standing above me, "they're the 'transcendent ones' here—you mustn't let them hear you speaking like that, or I might just have to add you to the pile too."
He gestures forward.
In it, Tim struggles with a loaded barrow. He hauls it across the decayed ground feeding the fire the remains. Corpses, stiff and hard after their total deaths, land with the meaty weight of butcher's refuse, striking in a grotesque but percussive rhythm.
Skulls clank, limbs scatter—Pound Pu-pound Pound Pu-pound.
"That sound!" I choke out, but Jimson shushes me quick.
With a wet nose and puffy eyes, my last lick of compensation pours out into the scratched bronze of my empty mug, of which I take a sip of brew.
His head slowly nods, arm resting on my neck as he sits next to me whispering sweet nothings into my ear, then he gestures forward as if showing me his family trade.
Presumptuous.
"Beautiful," he breathes softly, his wet words brush against my ear like an invasive feather, tickling but also uncomfortable all the same.
Crossing my arms around my chest, a loud puff escapes from my nose.
This man has no morals. Hand on my shoulder. What am I, some hooligan in need of spiritual guidance? Tries to burn me alive one minute, comfort me the next.
Tsk. Well, at least his embrace is somewhat… comforting. It's not all hopeless.
Then gently he clears his throat. And just like that, my attention diverts towards the tip of his guiding hand. Past the flickering light of the yellow moss torches in this certain direction, I see groups of ashen smoke plume skyward before the wind claims it, dragging it over a cliff's edge like a funeral shroud torn from the pyre.
The debris trails behind in endless grey streams, cascading down into the abyssal crack beneath.
"What!" my brows furrow.
His stone rolls beneath his weight, tilting backward as he folds his arms. That same wrinkled face splits with a crooked smile, eyes gleaming with clear amusement.
"First time… We call it the Great Expanse. Few of us left out here, so the name just stuck."
Well, that describes it... Glancing down, my jaw chatters in quiet agreement.
"Might be wise for me to do something for that," he grumbles.
As I attempt to grunt back, my effort is rendered useless; distant howls reverberate across the nocturnal ether: wolves and nameless entities alike, all entwined in a singular but mournful lament… deep, guttural and seeped in drooling hunger.
Standing, he drops his fresh cigarette on the dirt track treading out its firelight.
"They hunt in the morning soon."
"What—" my throat, parched from all the drinking, catches on itself, making my tone sound all that more desperate.
"Few have returned and told the tale, we know they are the 'Prowlers', creatures born from nightmares themselves."
"Sounds scary, good thing it's… night," Gesturing up, my nose snorts loudly.
"It's always dark round 'ere."
Well shit, you should've said something sooner.
Pausing, he gives a parsing look at the distant cliff before gesturing ahead.
"Where do go?" I cough loudly into my elbow.
"Settlers' Camp. Six-hour trip, give or take." Standing back, he slings his sack over his shoulder nodding to himself
"First and only town run by us normal folk." After finishing, he then shakes himself clear from his daze and lets out a piercing whistle. Lifting his hand, his fingers carving circles around the smoggy air.
"Timmy-boy! Pack up, we're done here!"
He takes a step forward, then returns back grabbing my arm.
Guiding my stumbling legs toward a lonely carriage, his face remains ever tense as we move forward. My fingers fumbling, find their way around to play with his eye's patch.
After settling me inside its wooden womb, an old dog, scarred but also coated in grey furr, trots along to the front with Tim. Leaping up it curls up next to the riders seat, as the boy finds his place within.
Jimson pulling himself up front, shakes the entire wagon as he settles on, leaving both me and Tim to face opposing each other in the back.
Tim's small fingers dance over a crude hatchet. His eyes, sharp as fangs, bore through me with silent venom.
"It might be useless," Jimson pipes up from the front , "but us Morts need at least some protection from these potential threats."
His grip tightens around his torch, as his singular pupil narrows in the corner of the flame, with me set dead in its sights.
We shudder forward.
"'Mort?'" I burp. "Never ever heard of it."
He barks out another hoarse but wheezing laugh.
"Bwahaha; Mort's just what they call us. You ascended ones, that is. Short for 'mortal.' But it also sounds like Yonk shit, and they can't get enough of it. I guess it's kinda funny."
My lips twitch, the laugh clawing its way up my throat demands my full effort in biting it back.
"Pft... Yonk shit Ha!" I clear my throat.
"Sorry."
My neck hangs low, my throat still twitching under its tight breath.
"It's fine." He chuckles back bitterly. "From your eyes, we probably look even more useless than yonk mort. And ain't nothing we can do about it."
My head tilts sideward.
"So… what's this yonk thing?"
He jerks his chin toward the front. There two creatures strain against a primitive harness, dragging us forward: hulking shapes, like bulls, with furry mains, but much, much faster.
"Them's a yonk."
He pats at the beams side before adding, "Cindy and Samuel. Word of warnin', make sure you never let me catch you disrespecting the almighty yonk near my ears."
"All hail teh yonk then," I mutter, sarcastically.
"Haha ain't that the truth," his curt reply ruins my sarcastic attempt.
Silence hangs for a moment. The cart shakes on, bumping against my bruising butt.
"Say... you're not from around here, huh?" He glances back at me, eye narrowing slightly.
"Where is here, huh… nowhere; all I know is, you almost burnt me alive."
"Pft. Yer, right, sorry about that." He waves his hand dismissively.
"But that hurt me. In here." I slam my chest exasperatedly. "I saw him again, death, he was mean. I'm lucky you're so nice to me, or else I don't know what I would've done." I shudder at the thought.
Taking a longer moment he delays his reply.
"I understand, greatly. No more questions offered, no beatings received, right? Ain't that right, Timothy?"
The boy's grip loosens slightly. His stare softens, not by much, but by a noticable little.
"We'll just take ya back town. You can tell whatever higher-ups you answer to, that we took good care of you here; don't need none of your yonk business."
Awkward quiet returns, as the boy still stares like he wants to say something but just won't.
Is he afraid his father might get angry? Or of me?
What should I say about this? I usually enjoy silence, but now that I'm in front of people again, I want to speak, to say something.
Below, my shadow shimmers, urging me: Go on... do it, say something. I dare ya.
I hiccup..
"So… you come here often?" I blurt out before I can even stop.
"No."
Flat. Dead. Tossed to the pile and burned. The conversation with the boy is over before it begins.
My gut wrenches… It's shame.
Embarrassed, I curl onto my side and retreat under the ragged veil of the burlap quilt, clearly woven for the dead.
Cold. Hungry. Tired. Drunk. I close my eyes.
Darkness welcomes me.