“Friends, people of Glovedom. Rebeka was one who… who it pains me to speak of as dead. She was nineteen when she came to us. A young woman with an extraordinary talent. She made Glovedom into the proud town it is today. Because of her our bridges stand, our roads are level, and our lanterns glow through the night. She was our foundation.
“Now… she is gone. Without the foundation, the mortar crumbles and breaks. Our lorddom will—,” Lord Glove paused, opened his mouth to continue, then frowned, and began his speech anew.
“She was not from our lands, she came from far away, from a kingdom to the north; bordering the sea. Those whose memories stretch back as far as mine might well remember her longing to return,” Lord Glove smiled, “she was always going on about it. Never stopped insisting how much better fish born in brine tasted.”
The smile left his face, “Of course, in later years she gave up on her dream. She even gave up on the surface world. She never saw the sea again, not once in all her years. For that, and seven score further offences, I am steeped in regret.
“She wished to be buried beneath the waves, and this we cannot do. We have not the funds to return her body to the ocean, nor the time to spare in the journey. I would attempt to honour her nonetheless, to give her a funeral of highest honour. Her people followed the old ways, the rituals of death and true name. I will speak the ancient rites in addition to our own as Rezel drives the nails.”
Lord Glove beckoned and his six guardsmen took up the board bearing Rebeka’s uncovered body. He stared at her face as it drew level with his own; old, bitter, sad; so different from the young girl he had once known. She wore the clothes she had died in, as was custom. A shapeless white tunic stained with mud, grey trousers in a similar state. Lord Glove had given her a dozen fine suits and another half dozen beautiful dresses, but she was attending her funeral in rags.
Lord Glove turned abruptly, taking several hasty steps before falling into a dignified march. His guards lurched into motion a moment later, matching Lord Glove step for step. In turn, the seven men were followed by the citizens of Glovedom. Lord Glove led the procession north, past the wooden huts of the village, past the outpost and border, turning west before the bridge. They approached a grove of empress trees, blossoms not yet in bloom, branches still wet from the storm. The tall grey-brown trees stood in solemn silence as the party passed beneath their bows. Lord Glove stopped seven paces from a young empress tree, bark smooth and free of whorls. His guard drew up beside him with their burden. The citizens of Glovedom arrived. All bowed their heads in reverence.
The leaves of the empress trees swayed from a sudden breeze, filling the air with rustling sighs. A man clothed in light pink robes emerged from deeper in the grove. His thin lips were pale, nearly white, his cheek bones high, and his face austere. He would have been imposing if not for his gently balding head and sparkling green eyes.
“This empress was planted halfway through last year. This spring will see it grow to mighty heights,” he said softly. Rebeka would be honoured. His words lessened the pain in Lord Glove’s heart. The words were meant to be kind, but they were kind because they were true. He was the Grove Keeper Rezel, and he did not lie.
Rezel spread his muscled arms wide and walked to the men bearing Rebeka, “The grove will take your burden. Today and always.”
The six guardsmen lowered the body to the ground and stepped aside. Rezel took Rebeka in his embrace and bore her to the base of the empress. He lifted her into a standing position and placed her back against the tree. Then he took five wooden stakes and three lengths of rope from the tan belt about his waist. He placed Rebeka’s arms behind her to encircle the tree and clasped each of her hands about the wrist of the opposite arm. This completed, he wrapped the first length of rope around her arms, binding them together.
Rezel lifted her once more and drove the first stake into the tree between her legs, resting her body atop it. Then he placed stakes above and below each elbow, and used the remaining two ropes to secure each elbow to their stakes. Rezel stepped back from the tree and studied Rebeka’s bound body. Her chin was bowed low to her chest and she sagged slightly in the ropes, otherwise remaining upright.
Rezel nodded to Lord Glove then turned to the citizenry,
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“Rebeka is now bound to the tree; she is become its burden. The stake supporting her is Shanna, who lends her strong arms for the 43rd time. She will need much of your strength Shanna, but she is worth it seven hundred times. The stake beneath her left arm is Will, who redeems himself for the second time and shall know rest after he opens his heart five times more. Let Rebeka know all may be redeemed, even yourself, Will. The stake beneath her right arm is Lily, who will act as guardian for the eighth time. Keep her healthy and strong Lily. Above her right arm is Seraphmun, who is ready to learn after 400 deaths. Guide Rebeka for us Seraphmun.
“Above the left, Altar-by-the-Water,” at this a few in the crowd gasped and several girls were raised onto shoulders to view the stake, “who cries once more after the Age of Death, and will for the 823543rd time lend his honour. Give Rebeka pain that she might find peace.”
Whispers erupted among the crowd, but cut off immediately as Lord Glove and his guard knelt. Rezel held the silence for seven heartbeats before speaking, “I will now place the seven wooden nails taken from seven unburdened empress trees.”
Lord Glove rose, still facing Rebeka. His tone was quiet, rushed, and rough, yet all gathered heard him in the absolute silence.
“Rebeka, your true name, revealed to me, is Averse. Thus said, place a nail through the left forearm.”
Rezel took up hammer and mallet and drove a wooden nail through Averse’s left arm and into the tree.
“Averse, you worked all your life. Now is the time to put up your tools and rest. Thus spoken, place a nail through the right forearm.”
Rezel moved around the tree in a counterclockwise motion, facing forward the entire time, then turned to her right arm. He took another pinkish grey nail and hammered it through.
“Averse, your will has been worn down. Draw now from this tree, for your burden is its own,” Lord Glove bit back a sob, “Thus uttered, place a nail through the left leg.”
Rezel drew one of the two thickest nails and circled back clockwise to face her leg. He rested it against Averse’s thigh. Then he began to chant, quick and high. He gulped in air and the breathing became part of the prayer. The tendons on his neck popped. His arms bulged. The mallet in his right hand began to tremble. Abruptly, Rezel cut off the chant and swung his hammer. A loud crack resounded in the glade as the nail split Averse’s femur in two and was followed by a thud as it drove into the tree.
“Averse, your legs have carried you for a life time and can carry you no further. Let this tree do the walking for you. Thus asked, place a nail through the right leg.”
Rezel moved to his left and swapped the mallet to his other hand. Then he chanted a new prayer, this one slower than the first, and deeper. This time his shoulders eased. His arm hung lose, as though Rezel were sleeping. When the prayer ended, however, he struck with more force than the first time. The crack startled a brilliance of white watchers from the trees. As one, they let out a wavering cry. It resonated through the glade and filled all who heard it with sorrow.
Seven minutes later, at the sun’s zenith, the birds returned. Instead of returning to their perches amongst the grove, they all settled in Averse’s tree. Each bird was a tiny white flower among its branches. So many were their number it appeared as if the tree was in bloom.
Lord Glove continued, “Averse, your pain is too much to hold. No one can hold pain. None save this tree, which will take your pain now. Thus intoned, place a nail through the hidden light.”
Rezel straightened and lay three fingers below Averse’s collarbone on the left side of her body. Rezel took one of the nails with thin shaft and wide head and gently pressed it between her ribs to find the tree.
“Averse, you are made from lightning and thunder. This tree pays the cost of being burdened and so receives your power to sustain it. Thus declared, place a nail through the lucid darkness.”
Rezel shifted to Averse’s right side and again placed three fingers below her collarbone, this time with his right hand. Then with his left he pushed the nail between her ribs, fixing her torso to the tree.
“Averse, this is your true name. It is a sad name. You lived your life in reclusion, only venturing out when duty called. You never loved, never asked for anybody. Upon death you lose your mask, and so too does your name. The beginning ends now.”
Lord Glove paused for a moment and swallowed, the start of tears evident in his eyes, “It’s time for us to bid you your last, Averse. It is time for the world to greet the inner melody of your true self.”
He knelt, “Welcome, Verse.”
Rezel took the final nail and drove it through the center of Averse’s abdomen. Then he stood and placed his lips against her forehead. When he backed away, Verse’s eyes were closed.
The crowd waited for the first cries of the white watchers. A slight breeze stirred dead petals to dance one last time through the legs of the gathered. The first sonorous calls came an hour later. The people left in ones and twos until only Lord Glove and his guard stood with Rezel. At the second cry of the white watchers his guard left.
Much later, a knave child was sent to the river to fetch water for his parents. While filling his bucket he saw Lord Glove on his knees, framed by the setting sun. Rezel’s hand rested upon the ruler’s shoulder while the seventh cry of the white watchers echoed about the glade. Then the sun slipped below the horizon, and the girl lost sight of them.