October 31st, 1795 aex

Mak Garde

South of Picklewood, Watateje, New Alben

The Garde family hadn’t the time to burn Daun’s body, nor did they deem him worthy of the respect. Instead, they brought him across the road to lay with the others. It was odd to drag the body with Sherik. Mak had studied the dead man’s face as they pulled. It was a ghastly sight. The bullet had made a real mess of things, but what was left of Daun’s face was peaceful and unbothered, like the old Daun had been. Mak remembered stories of demonic possessions up in the North and wondered how real they might have been, and how many were simply a man in a position similar to Daun’s.

He’d no more rage, at least not toward Daun, who’d been driven to his madness by the whip of a spoiled young man who failed to see people as living, equal beings. It was that same whip that would undoubtedly turn on Mak next.

After a short rest, Mak dug Skylde’s grave. A nice spot beside Mak’s pa. He was sore in every bone, and his energy was nearly depleted, yet he refused Sherik’s offer to take over. Mak needed to dig the whole thing himself. Sherik’s help would’ve spared him the back pain he felt now, but he needed to do it alone. He blamed himself. He’d doubted himself since he’d first refused Guvson’s offer.

Konni arrived with a bucketful of river water, necessary for a funeral under God.

He wiped his brow with a rough old rag, more pushing the sweat aside than absorbing it, and dropped his shovel. The hole was much bigger than what he’d dug for Milli’s calf and much more difficult to dig. There hadn’t been the constant tears blurring his vision with the calf. There hadn’t been the sharp sobs taking his breath suddenly with the calf. Most importantly, he’d had Skylde’s lamenting song to break the sorrowful silence last time.

Sherik built a makeshift coffin with some of the wood from the Westen Freight crates with Net’s help. Mak’s youngest carved Skylde’s name into the wood. Konni knelt before it and wept. The top was open. Skylde’s body was covered with thick woolen blankets, her wounds cleaned. Only her beautiful, fair face showed. She looked as dead folks often did: peaceful.

Konni’s weeping ceased. She sniffled and locked eyes with Mak. Her once beautiful eyes had been plagued by the red of excessive weeping and the rings of sleep lack. She moved her brows in a way Mak understood. After being married for so long, certain conversations could be had without words. “Is it time?” Her eyes asked.

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

Mak nodded and wiped a tear from his cheek. He stepped forward, intending to prepare the casket for burial, but froze half-way there. “She was dancing, Kon.” His voice barely managed. “Just last night. She was dancing and fiddling.”

New wrinkles formed around Konni’s eyes. Her gaze returned to her daughter, and her chin quivered.

For a flash of a moment, Mak thought he might have seen an accusing look in her eyes just before she looked away. Sherik stood behind Net with both hands on his little brother’s shoulders. Both of their lips trembled in the same way as they stared at the open coffin.

“We should bury her with her fiddle,” Mak suggested.

Sherik nodded and started for the house.

Mak knelt beside his daughter’s body. Konni left the moment he came. The gesture hurt him, but he ignored it. Skylde was more important. “I’m going to miss your songs, darlin’.” He brushed her brow with the backs of his fingers. It was cold. Unnaturally cold.

Rage burned within him. He didn’t want to feel it. He wanted the sorrow. It was a softer emotion. One that suited the situation better. Guvson’s face flashed in his mind, adding to the rage. He slammed his eyes shut and squeezed his daughter’s frozen hand.

“Here, Pa,” Sherik handed him the fiddle.

Mak snatched it. He stood and cracked the fiddle over a knee and held both halves in different hands. The others jumped and regarded him in shock.

“This is Daun’s.” Mak threw both halves into the river. “Get her fiddle.” Sherik stared at the river, nodded, and returned to the house. He was on the little bridge when Mak called out again. “The one I never got to fixing!” Mak fell to his knees again and wept.

Sherik returned with the right fiddle. They put it beside her in the coffin and said their goodbyes. Net placed a small flower from his garden on her chest. “I’ll miss fighting with you. I was never really angry.” He sniffled. “I liked your songs.”

Sherik stepped forward and knelt beside the casket. “I should’ve protected you.” Tears flowed the moment the words left his lips. “I was your big brother and I failed you.” He grabbed her limp hand. “I failed both my sisters.”

It tore at Mak’s heart. He’d been so occupied with his own guilt and feelings that he’d forgotten about everyone else’s. Sherik stepped away and wiped his face with a bare arm. They closed the top. Konni wailed. Her weeping was that of a mad woman. Loud, long, raspy cries that echoed over the river and through the fields and trees.

Mak and Sherik gently lowered the casket into the hole. They prayed in unison as they dropped handfuls of dirt over the casket.

Great and mighty God,

He who traveled to the foul lands and returned,

Accept your daughter into Your Kingdom of Akwarea,

so that her path to peace lead not through darkness, but light.

Konni gave the bucket of holy river water to Mak, and he poured it gently over the dirt. He peered across the river. He’d had enough. He’d already killed, Sherik had, too, and he knew Konni would have no issues taking another life after what they’d been through. You’d better send your worse, Guvson. He added a final line to the prayer that he kept to himself. “And please, grant me one more chance to meet that little northern prick. It’s all I’ll need.”