Even with the wind whipping at his ears, Lennon refused to rush to the barrow. The stones paving the bockedy path were slick with autumn leaves, and it would be easy enough to take a slip. No, he did not rush to the grave. He’d arrive standing on his own two feet. Wind-bitten and shivering, drenched by lashings of rain.
A lone tree welcomed him as he strode towards the entrance of the hill, its bare branches creaking in the storm, hanging low as a widow’s dress. Closer now, close enough to catch the scent of smoke from his office’s chimney for the briefest of moments before the breeze snatched it away. A visitor.
Lennon reached for the simple stone door cut into the side of the barrow and pushed it open. Gently, with a firm grip ensuring it didn’t catch in the wind, then swiftly closed it behind him, dripping as he did so. His guest had clearly lit a candle in Lennon’s office, and so he followed the light’s path into the side room that served as such. He was thoroughly unsurprised upon seeing who the man making himself at home in his seat was. There weren’t many willing to trudge out to the Resting Willed if there wasn’t a funeral to attend, but Jerome had been making his way to the grave before even Lennon’s father could crawl, and perhaps had more right to be here than anyone else could claim.
The old man’s hunched back faced the hallway, one hand dropping nettle leaves into a bubbling pot while the other clutched a sturdy walking stick. The light from the fire shone through his sopping hair, thin as it was where he wasn’t bald. And as he turned, meeting the newcomer’s eyes, Jerome’s gaze held the same glint.
“Terrible host, y’know. Had to heat the tea myself.” Jerome stated, jerking a thumb behind him at the kettle. Lennon took a moment to look pointedly back at the carved walls of the corridor before responding. “None of the residents ever seem to complain. It’s only ever my ungrateful guests.”
“And you know how the Ancestors feel, do ya?” Jerome said, first poking a finger towards Lennon, then tapping at his own ear. “Think you’ll find I’m the one that listens to ‘em.”
The old man held his stone countenance for a second. A grin spread across his lips, his harsh expression cracking into a bevy of wrinkles. The younger of the two held out not much longer before following suit with a wide smile. Lennon moved forwards, making to sit in the chair next to the one Jerome occupied.
“What brings you out here on a day like today, then? You could’ve caught me in town if you wanted to pay me a social visit.”
“Aye, it’s blowing a hoolie, chill’ll go right through ya. ‘S’important. Can wait till we get a little warmth in our bones, though. No good talking soggy.” Jerome filled two mugs, proffering one towards his companion. Lennon felt a difference just holding it, and sipping the hot drink he thought it could make him forget the weather, if not for the howling over his head. He leaned in towards the fire, grateful now that it had been lit before he arrived. Neither man continued the conversation as they sat there, simply basking in the glory of the hearth. Only once they had both dried off was it picked up again.
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“S’pose I’d better start then, hadn’t I?” Jerome began. “I’ll be seeking lodgings soon. Permanent ones.” Lennon started at that, opening his mouth to speak, but was silenced by a look from his elder. “Yes, I’m sure. Been hearing the Ancestors’ murmurings for a couple weeks now. Not just when I use the Will. Can’t quite make out what they’re saying; muffled, ya see. Like they’re talking through a thick wall. I feel I’ll be with them soon, though.”
“How soon?”
“Before the first snowfall lies on the ground, by my reckoning.”
“That soon? A few weeks is all? My friend, you’ll be missed something heavy.”
“Ah sure everyone knows I can’t be staying about forever. But I’ve business with you before I go.” He gave a wink as he spoke. “Show me where I’m to be buried. You’re to make me look handsome when you carve my likeness. Here, hold the candle as we walk.” He hoisted his stick and stood with a spryness unusual in men in their eighties, walking into the corridor and brooking no dissent.
Lennon took a deep breath to steady his nerves, the candle off the table, and finally himself out of the room, following Jerome. The light gave a better look at the carvings in the tunnel, though the pair were familiar enough to know them without so much as a glance. The Willed. Resting. Dead. Most of the walls seemed unused, smooth. Depictions of the Ancestors’ vocations stood at regular intervals. Two of them stood out in the moment. A body lying on a hill, the Barrowsman, appeared at least once a generation; the very image he would put on Jerome’s wall. Lennon’s image, too, was not uncommon; a person surrounded by stone slabs. A Sculptor.
They walked until they reached the first gap. A room yet unfinished, unfurnished. To be completed once the town’s next Willed died. When the man in front of Lennon died. Jerome didn’t seem too fussed about the whole thing, acting as casual as a day at the market. He poked his head into the room, gave a quick glance around, and nodded to Lennon. “Good, you’ve not skimped on the size of the room.”
“You and I both know that each and every room is the same. No coffin is more comfortable than the next.”
“I wasn’t sure you’d not prank me one last time.”
“If I’d had more notice, you can be sure that I would have, you old bastard!” Lennon said. “I can’t believe you’re just dropping it on me like that. Who else knows?”
Jerome coughed before his reply. “Theresa knows.”
“Just telling the funeral organisers?” Lennon narrowed his eyes. “Going to Davin after here, then?”
The man tensed up, staying conspicuously silent. “Jerome?”
“If he worked his Will more, he’d know by now. Hear their whispers! It doesn’t take much effort to listen to this sort of thing. I’m not asking him to lead the town through war, famine, and plague, just to pay a bit of attention!” Jerome snapped.
Lennon sighed. This reaction was not unexpected from the old git. Whatever patience he’d had in his youth had dissipated in the later years of his life. Waiting to dry by the fire might have taken all his reserves for the day. The Sculptor put one of his heavy hands on his friend’s shoulder. “He’s a boy,” Lennon said, speaking with deliberate pace. “Barely 17. You might have forgotten what that’s like, but I know what I was like 20 years ago. Reckless, feckless, and highly interested in anything but what authority figures told me. He’ll come round. He’ll be angry if you don’t tell him, and it’s not you who’ll be here dealing with his wrath, or tantrum as it may be. You know he’s a good kid. Tell him.”
Jerome sagged. “You’re right. It’s just frustrating knowing that he’ll be the only Barrowsman in town once I’m gone. He doesn’t take it as seriously as he needs to.”
“And if you tell him, he can be ready for that reality. You’re as much of a father figure to him as his dad was. Having it fall on him like a landslide is only going to harm the lad. Come, grab another mug of nettle tea and then I’ll walk you to back to town. Sounds like the storm’s beginning to join its ancestors, too.”