The Resurrectionist
Andrew Nathan Roberts
Blood leached into the worn chopping board, much like the rain soaking the moonlit soil outside the hut. The old man sliced into the slab of venison and smiled. His favourite part of the day.
Raindrops dripped from the leak in the roof and into the rusted saucepan the old man had put down. The storm bent the gnarled branches of the trees outside towards the hut, skeletal fingers scraping frosted glass windows.
But the old man didn’t mind. He had survived storms worse than this.
He whistled as he cut the meat into thin slices, a low mournful tune. Outside, something whined.
‘Hush now,’ the old man said, concentrating on his cutting. ‘Show some patience. You’ll have your dinner soon.’
He wore tattered, filthy robes that once might have been grey, but were now they were a brownish green of old stains and soil. His long hair was tangled with knots, greasy and thin. A bushy beard the colour of midnight threatened to consume a hollowed-out face, gaunt and ridged, while scabs covered his skin like boils.
The hut was not in much better shape. The timber was swollen with moisture, riddled with gaps where cold wind swept through. The candles cast deep, foreboding shadows across the bookshelves of mouldy scrolls and moth-eaten books, their pages covered in specks of black and green growth.
Only his medicine cabinet seemed well cared for, placed in the driest corner of the hut, the various elixirs and ingredients sealed away, free of the damp and decay that clung to the remainder of the cramped dwelling.
The creature outside growled. Then, the sound of carriage wheels over muddy earth, the panting of exhausted horses.
‘A visitor this late?’ the old man mused. ‘Your best behaviour now, my dear. We can’t be scaring off customers.’
An armoured fist banged against his rickety front door, almost freeing it from its rusty hinges. The old man stilled himself, permitted his body a considered breath, before opening it.
‘Well, hello there,’ he began, ‘and what brings you to my – ’
Two royal guardsmen burst through the door; swords raised in warning. They were covered in wet armour, their faces barely visible through the thin slits in their helmets. The old man raised his arms in a sign of peace and spoke softly, a smile of toothless diseased gum greeting the anxious guardsmen.
‘Easy now,’ he cautioned. ‘There is nothing to fear here. Please, lower your weapons.’
A low, dangerous growl from outside.
‘What’s that?’ the first guardsman demanded.
‘A loyal hound,’ the old man said. He gestured toward the slab of meat on the kitchen bench. ‘I was preparing her supper when you arrived.’
‘Anyone else here?’ the second guardsman asked, his eyes surveying the small hut, seeking threats.
The old man shook his head. ‘None but me.’
Satisfied, the guardsmen sheathed their swords, then stood on either side of the opened door, giving a stiff salute as a lean man, middle-aged and handsome with a thick beard peppered with grey, entered the hut. He wore a finely trimmed cloak that bore the sigil of the Iron Bear and the Holy Sceptre.
The old man bowed low. ‘Duke Telmon. It is an honour.’
‘You know me?’ the man asked. His eyes were bloodshot and heavy bags underlined them. This man had not slept in many days.
‘Of course, sire. I have met you once, though you were very small. During your grandfather’s reign.’
The duke raised an eyebrow. ‘That was a long time ago. You must be as ancient as they say.’
The old man smiled gently. ‘Not as ancient as some, sire. How may I be of service this dreary night?’
The duke frowned. ‘I was advised against coming here. They say those who dabble in the Old Ways are cursed.’
‘Curses are all about perspective, sire.’
The duke paused, hesitating to speak the next words. ‘The townsfolk say you work wonders… That you can make failing crops grow, turn poisonous waters clean. Heal mortal wounds.’
The old man bowed again. ‘Yes, sire. For a price, of course.’
The duke sighed. ‘Of course.’
He fumbled in the folds of his cloak and produced a sagging bag whose contents chinked together.
‘One thousand gold pieces,’ the duke declared.
The old man’s heart raced. That was more coin than he’d seen in decades. He tried to remain calm.
Softly, he asked, ‘For what service, sire?’
The duke’s eyes were wet with tears. ‘To bring my daughter back from the dead.’
♦ ♦ ♦
The guardsmen carried the small coffin into the hut. They laid it down gently in the centre of the room, nestled between the kitchen and medicine cabinet. Inside lay a young girl, golden-haired and pale-skinned, blocks of ice surrounding her body like a picture frame.
She appeared to be sleeping, her hands placed on her chest, steepled together as if in prayer. Only the thin line of shredded skin across her neck suggested her true state. She was so young, the old man thought. Had barely experienced the world. Perhaps it was for the best. This world would only make her suffer.
‘They murdered her,’ the duke explained through choked words. ‘Cut her throat.’
The old man shook his head. ‘I’m sorry for your loss, sire, but what you’re asking for is something I no longer do.’
‘I have heard differently. They say you resurrected Baldor Griden ten years ago, so Captain Chalmers could help find his killer. I need to know who murdered my child. You can bring her back to me, for a time. And she can say who did this to her.’
The old man shuffled uncomfortably. ‘The incident with Captain Chalmers was different. I owed him a debt. A debt that has now been repaid.’
The duke slammed his hand against the kitchen benchtop, rattling the cracked, unwashed dishes.
‘I am your duke,’ he declared. “You live on my lands and thus owe me your servitude. I expect nothing less.’
The old man saw how the duke suffered. The pain radiated from his body in crimson waves. His emotions hummed in the air, invisible to those without the Sight, brimming with sorrow and fury. With mindless bloody rage at what had been done to his sweet young daughter.
Outside, something pulled against its chain and whined.
‘I have served many masters throughout my life,’ the old man finally said. ‘Most of them older and far more powerful than your royal bloodline. If you believe you can order me to do your will, then you are truly a fool.’
It was stupid to say such a thing and he regretted it as soon as the words left his mouth. The duke stared him down, jaw clenched, eyes unblinking. The guardsmen tensed, reaching for their weapons. But the old man stayed their hands, offering his own naked, unarmed palms.
‘But I speak hastily. Forgive me, sire. I am old and witless. You are generous with your coin, and I see the pain in you. It is deep and unrelenting…’ The old man paused, looked down at his feet. Was he really going to do this?
He looked at the young girl in the coffin. It would only be for a short time…
‘I… will help you,’ he finally said.
The duke exhaled. ‘Thank you.’
‘Save your thanks, sire, until the job is done. This enchantment is not simple. It comes with risks, some physical, some less so – though dangerous all the same. Are you still willing?’
‘I would not have come here if I wasn’t.’
‘I know you believe yourself willing, sire. That is admirable. But I will give you one last chance to walk away from this.’
The duke became very still. ‘If you knew what it was to be a father, you would not have to give such a chance. I will not walk away.’
‘It is because I am a father, sire, that I say these words.’ The old man steadied himself against the young girl’s coffin. ‘Or rather, because I was a father.’
The duke studied him. Then gently, said. ‘What was her name?’
The old man swallowed. ‘Mia.’
‘A beautiful name,’ the duke said. ‘How did she pass?’
‘Barbarian raiders from the Far Coast. Some time ago now. And I would have been able to manage the grief if they had simply cut her throat. But I’m afraid they did much worse to her than that.’
The duke looked over at his daughter, contemplating what further horrors could have been done to her. He crouched beside the coffin, brushed his fingers across her still pale cheek.
‘At least you knew who was responsible. I must know who did this to her.’
The old man spoke softly, ‘If I perform the enchantment, and all goes as it should, your daughter will be able to recount her last moments. But after the telling she must return to the Void. Agreed?’
The duke’s face reddened. ‘Do you think my mind is that of a beast? I know not to interfere with the ways of old. I agree.’
‘Swear on it, sire.’
A guardsman bristled. ‘How dare you speak to your duke that way.’ He took a step forward. But the duke laid a firm hand on his loyal servant’s shoulder.
‘Easy, son.’
The duke stared at the old man, at his rotting gums, tangled greasy hair and scab-covered skin. At his frail, wire-thin body and hollowed-out face.
‘I swear on it, mage,’ the duke finally said. ‘Now bring my daughter back to me.’
♦ ♦ ♦
The old man opened his medicine cabinet and prepared the ingredients. There was thistle weed, dried rose petals, nimblewood tree roots, and fire shrub leaves. They were placed in a mortar bowl and then pestled. A sweet yet sour aroma wafted through the cramped, soggy hut.
Then, very delicately, the old man picked up a small glass jar spiderwebbed with cracks. A blue, gel-like substance sat in the bottom of the jar. It glowed unnaturally and made the guardsmen shuffle with discomfort.
There was little left of it, this precious, godly substance. It had taken the old man centuries to cultivate. Decades more to work it into a usable form. Inside it lived things that no longer existed in this world. As far as he knew, it was the last batch of its kind.
A guardsman made the sign of the Saviour. ‘This is dark magic, my duke. We should be running our blades through this conjurer, not letting him practise his vileness.’
The duke smiled at the guardsman, but it contained no warmth.
‘Speak again before being asked and I shall cut out your tongue.’
The old man felt a twinge of sympathy for the young guardsman. He knew what it was like to be chastised by one’s master. He bore the scars of such treatment up and down his withered arms. Welts and cuts that ran so deep they never had properly healed.
It’s the only way you’ll learn. That was what he had been told during those early years of his apprenticeship. It had taken the lifetimes of many men to learn that such wisdom was simply not true.
He poured the glowing substance into the bowl and gave the mixture a vigorous stir. He remembered the last time he had done this. Standing in the very same hut with a frantic Captain Chalmers who had been asking him – no, begging him – to bring his secret lover Baldor back to life. Chalmers wanted to know who had gutted the man he wasn’t allowed to love openly. He wanted names. He wanted revenge.
‘You owe me,’ Chalmers had yelled, tears welling in his eyes. ‘After everything with Mia, I deserve this.’
Ah. Mia. It had been the captain’s card to play, and he did so bluntly, but effectively. Yes, he had owed the captain. For not only tracking down the barbarian raiders who had killed Mia, but for everything that came afterwards.
The good captain had been dead for many years now. A victim of the plague. The old man had left flowers by his graveside long after the funeral procession had left. He had stood there, alone with the cold and unfeeling headstone. The old man had wondered about the decisions he and Chalmers had made. If they had been just. If they had been decent or decadent.
Standing in his rain-soaked hut now, the old man wondered what Chalmers would think of the duke’s request. Would he have recognised a kindred spirit? Would he have smelled the same desperation that had afflicted him?
‘What happens next?’ the duke asked.
The old man smiled and raised the bowl to his lips. ‘To your health, sire.’ He then drained it in one gulp.
‘What are you doing?’ the duke asked, bewildered.
The old man coughed, then burped. ‘I’m doing as you asked me to.’
A biting chill went through the hut then. The candle flames seemed to darken despite staying the same size, as if a shadow had seeped into the structure, absorbing light as it passed through.
The old man’s eyelids fluttered rapidly and in a voice that sounded like many, and also like fear, joy and rapture wrapped in a single tone, he began to speak words more ancient than the tombs of the First Emperors of Arnveleon. Older than the Lands of Krinsi’s Dawn. Words from a time when the Amber Sea had filled the inland Toriin Valleys. When the Roreel Mountains had been mere foothills.
The guardsmen could not help themselves. They knelt, bowing low in prayer as blue smoke left the old man’s mouth and entered into that of the duke’s pale, beautiful daughter.
The duke looked on, eyes wet with tears, hands twisted into tight fists.
The unnatural chill left the hut. The candle flames returned to their normal radiance. No one spoke. The only sounds were of the rain and the wind outside.
The old man exhaled.
‘It is up to her now, sire,’ he said with a hint of sorrow. ‘Her spirit must be willing.’
♦ ♦ ♦
For a long time, they waited. They watched the ice blocks melt around her body, soaking the fabric of her dress. The duke kept his fists clenched the entire time while his teeth ground against each other. It soon became the loudest noise in the hut.
The old man finally stirred. ‘I’m sorry, sire. But it appears – ’
‘Wait,’ the duke said, his hand clenching the old man’s own, his eyes on his daughter.
The young girl’s eyes fluttered open. She stared up at the ceiling for some time before saying, ‘It’s cold.’
The duke rushed to her, enveloped her in a hug, tears wetting his cheeks. The guardsmen were speechless while the old man watched on, his mouth firming into a sad frown.
‘Where am I?’ the girl asked. ‘Papa, please. Let go. You’re embarrassing me.’
The duke pulled back, laughing. ‘Sorry my dear, it’s just that…’
He noticed her eyes then, like the old man knew he would.
‘What, Papa?’
Her eyes were a clear grey, like a smoggy morning mist. Faint specks of glowing blue floated among the grey, like grains of sand.
‘What does this mean?’ the duke demanded of the old man.
‘It means that you ask your questions, sire. And then let her spirit rejoin the worlds of the dead.’
The duke looked at this daughter, her skin still so very pale, porcelain-like.
‘Papa? Why are you crying?’
‘Because you are so beautiful, my dear. And it breaks my heart.’
Without turning away from his daughter, the duke spoke to his guardsmen. ‘Prepare the carriage. We are leaving.’
‘Sire?’ the old man asked.
The duke stood. ‘I thank you for your services, mage. But that is all I will be needing from you tonight.’ He placed his hand out towards his daughter. ‘Come my dear. Let’s get you out of that chilly thing. Let’s go home and warm ourselves by the fire. Would you like that?’
The young girl touched her throat, her fingers brushing the wound there. She recoiled as if burned.
‘I remember…’ She shook her head, confused.
The duke caressed her cheek. ‘It’s okay. You don’t need to think about that right now. We’re going home, Clari. Focus on that. Focus on me.’
‘I must insist, Duke,’ the old man said firmly. ‘This is a mistake. She must go back.’
The duke was already lifting his young daughter from the confines of her icy and wet coffin.
‘We’re finished,’ he said bluntly. ‘You got your gold. Let it go.’
But the old man shook his head. He suddenly looked exhausted, like the weight of mountains had been heaved onto his thin shoulders.
‘I cannot, sire. I know what it is you do. I have been in the same position. Stood where you stood. Witnessed the glory of a life cut short suddenly returned to me. But there are consequences to the summoning of such magic. Not just in this mortal plane, but in our hearts, sire. In our very souls.’
The old man grabbed the duke then. The guardsmen tried to intervene, but the duke dismissed them with a wave of his hand.
‘Do you see me, sire?’ the old man pleaded. ‘Look into my eyes and tell me I lie. Say I speak untruth. But if you cannot, then you must know that my words only seek to save you. To save her.’
The duke stared long and hard at the old man, at his dirty robes and scabby, oily face. He stared into his eyes, a deep tragic blue, like that of the substance that had brought his child back to the living realm. The duke did not see untruth there. But he wanted to. Wanted it more than was his right.
‘You do not lie, mage,’ the duke said. ‘And though I may live to regret it, I cannot do as you ask.’ He squeezed his daughter’s hand. ‘I am sorry.’
The old man sighed and hung his head. ‘Then I am sorry too.’
Just as the duke ushered his child away and towards the door of the hut, the old man acted.
He pointed at the duke’s daughter and uttered the Words of Return. Her body jerked and her head snapped back as if she had been hit. A thin burst of blue smoke left her mouth, dissipating into the air. She fell into the duke’s arms, unmoving.
‘What did you do?’ the duke bellowed.
‘What I had to, sire.’
The old man made no attempt to defend himself as the duke ordered his guardsmen to kill him. As the first blade entered his flesh, the whining creature outside let out a deafening howl.
♦ ♦ ♦
Once the duke and his men had left him to bleed out alone in his hut, the young girl and her ice-filled coffin gone with them, there was a tremendous tearing of metal and wood. Of chains being broken off, shackles being destroyed in desperation.
Ah, she is still so very strong, the old man thought. He knew that if she had been there at the same time as the duke and his men, she would have ripped them into pieces.
Finally, after freeing herself, she staggered through the doorway, moaning. Crying out for him.
‘I’m here, my dear,’ the old man said, hoping his words sounded soothing. Peaceful. He held a hand over the wound in his chest and whispered, ‘Mia, my darling. Daddy’s here.’
Her grey eyes stared at him from beneath the last remaining strands of her once pristine black hair. She groaned, a sorrowful sound that broke the old man’s heart. Her tongue had rotted out many years ago, around the same time she had started to forget things. The memories of her former life had become less concrete, slipping away like autumn leaves on a strong breeze.
Instead, the memories had been replaced by the Hunger. That was when their situation had become tricky, when he had called upon the good Captain Chalmers’ help in covering up Mia’s crimes, in burying the townspeople who had happened to stray into the dark woods where they had kept her hidden from the rest of the world.
Mia knelt beside him and laid a maggot-infested hand on the old man’s knee. The other hand had disconnected from the bone sockets last year after several months of hanging on by a single tendon. The old man could see through one side of her jaw, out the door and into the moonlight beyond. Mia followed his gaze and then looked back at him, stared at the blood flowing down his chest, at the blood forming at the sides of his mouth. She moaned a question.
‘It’s nothing my dear,’ he said. He patted her good cheek, the one that still had a decent layer of rotted skin attached. ‘I just wanted to see the moonlight.’
He coughed and blood spurted from his lips, landing on Mia’s own. She did not react. She never had when it came to his own blood. Like she knew her creator, despite the carnage of her mind.
It had been a mistake of course. He had known that from the first moment Mia had reopened her eyes and the old man saw the grey with flecks of blue. He should have told her he loved her and then taken the spark away. One last commune to cherish and hold dear. Many in this world should be so lucky to say one final goodbye. But he had turned it foul. Desecrated such luck. And for what?
‘I’m so sorry, Mia,’ the old man said. ‘This is no life for you, my sweet girl.’
She cocked her head like a beast, trying to decipher the sounds coming from his bloody mouth.
The old man gripped her arm then and said, ‘Forgive me.’
Then he spoke the Words and pulled his hand away. Blue smoke left her decaying mouth and faded, swept away by the wind. Her body collapsed in a heap by his feet, the grey and blue leaving her eyes, like water from a broken vase.
The old man smiled and patted her head.
‘It’s okay, Mia. I’ll be with you soon.’
He closed his eyes and counted his breaths, his vision going blurry, fading. Outside the rain stopped and somewhere a distant animal offered a lonely cry.
But inside the hut, all was quiet.
