Behind me, the ancient slabs of stone shut tightly as I pull on Duchess’ reigns, slowing her stride. A shiver crawls up my spine as the last slivers of natural light disappear into a smoky darkness. Without sight, the heaviness of the air turns claustrophobic, stagnating in my chest.
The coarse thunder of her hooves suddenly pitches high, striking marble, reverberating in short bounces across the tunnel entrance. No end was in sight. I carefully follow Duchess’ guidance as she balances with slips and slides over the smooth minerals beneath her worn out horseshoes. Finally, far ahead, I see a pale light, drawn to it as moth to flame.
To my discovery, the light source is just around the bend of the tunnel, which opens into an expansive palatial dome. The clomping rhythm that had accompanied us on our journey now slows into a matted hush across red plush carpeting, a welcome change. What a sight to behold. My gaze trails the sea of scarlet that adorns the grand staircase bound by steep railings, following the impressive columns and walls of shining Calacatta marble, tracing across arching balconies with elaborate fixtures, and landing on the moving statues at the bottom of the spiral flanking stairs.
I stare, entranced yet horrified, at the golden sculpture to the right - a terribly wounded child, dancing with boyish laughter as his entrails sway with his movements to the silent melodies. Equally mesmerizing is the silver figure on the left; a lady bends over weakly as she pushes a knife deeper into her abdomen, twisting upwards towards her diaphragm, with a twisted expression of despair and silent gasps for air. Seeing this, I am reminded of those nearing inevitable death, either embracing the pain with joy or sorrowful until the bitter end.
Perhaps the most striking piece is a perversion that hangs off over the main balcony. Its distorted torso, long and thin, has hundreds of ribs poking just underneath its hide. These extrusions swim in a sea of internal flesh and probe for traction, allowing the creature to propel a far distance. The micro-movements under its skin give the illusion of a school of fish, picking at invisible feed hanging inside the undercarriage of its shiny, translucent belly. It arose from its resting position upon my entrance, swinging up and over the rail to face me. Its pale face with bottomless abysses for eyes and mouth is framed by an executioner’s hood, of which the tapered end hangs droopily and lopsided.
It peers at me curiously and springs into action to take a closer look. The centipede-leg-like ribs clicker and clatter away furiously, swiftly skirting along the railing, climbing up the column, reaching the ceiling and hanging from the crystal chandelier like a chrysalis.
It speaks. “What is thy business, outsider?”
I unbuckle my satchel, revealing a Death Mask in the shape of Abigail’s late son, Prince Viktor. The mask is molded in impression of the expression at the exact moment of death. Viktor’s mouth was agape, lips cracked by the stretch. It had been death by fire iron, staked through the throat in betrayal. The stench of burning flesh that the mask gave off made my eyes water, selling the story of grief.
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Abigail’s letter had expressly stated the importance of bringing the mask, which serves as proof of invitation. Those in attendance of the wake are to wear the same pitiful face together in hopeless sorrow. Her letter had echoed this sentiment, reading, “We are all equal through death.” The young, brazen Oleander would be donning the face of his brother, whom he had slain to gain control of their kingdom. Oh, the irony.
“Even with an invitation, entrance requires a contract, enforced by hex.”
The guardian begins listing the forbidden acts, punishable by immediate death and corpse disposal to the Weeping Wallow. Its ribs poke out one at a time, as it rattles off the crimes, “Sacrilege, murder, arson, grave-robbing…” I stop paying attention as it drones on. It matters not for me.
“Do ye agree?”
“Aye.”
Upon consent, the creature instantly drops down from above onto me, wrapping around my head. I recoil a little at the touch, trying to control my reaction to the clamminess of its belly snaking around my forehead.
It’s touching me? I think, before the utter disgust settles in. The sad, pathetic thing must not know of the origins of my clan.
The weight of the beast feels like a full-face armored helmet multiplied by tenfold, knocking me off my stirrups. My cloak loosens behind me as I fall downwards, revealing the Residual that I had carefully stowed away by wrapping it around me, beneath my heavy cloak. The creature has not yet noticed, its body focusing on imprinting the hex. Surely, it will soon see my hidden cargo, with nowhere to hide it.
As the wrapping tightens, the heat of its squeeze feels incinerating, culminating in a final spiral hex branded on my forehead. No sooner than the warmth dissipates from the cool trace of my finger, the creature scurries away to its original perch.
I stand, feeling a curved blade nicking at the edge of my throat, stopping before drawing blood. The sensation pulls me up promptly, urging me to rise faster to avoid decapitation. I caress my neck to check for the source of danger, but feel nothing. This timing is no coincidence - it must be an aftereffect of the hex, a remembrance of the potential punishment of disobedience.
“Ye may carry forth.”
I quickly re-mount Duchess, giving her a friendly pat in appreciation of her service and company.
“Stop!” It lifts its belly, jiggling its ribs at me and pointing in accusation. “What is that?”
I look behind at the Residual, feigning innocent surprise.
“A gift for the grieving.” Really, a necessity for my mission.
“A gift? For a funeral?” It asks dubiously.
“Unusual, would you not say? Few do provide favor; furthermore, your package is disturbing.”
It hesitantly crawls back to the floor to investigate the Residual closely. To an untrained eye, the object strapped behind me appears to be a mummified humanoid figure devoid of upper torso and head. The upper outline of the hollow bandaged shell is scooped in the shape of the leftovers of a canon ripping through a foot soldier’s sternum. The guardian suddenly arches its back in apprehension, cracking its spine in quick succession and rotating its many ribs in a twirl.
“It emits no signature of the soul.” For it is neither dead nor alive. But I keep that to myself.
“Thy gift is denied entrance.” I had a suspicion this might occur. Nonetheless, I am prepared. I lay the Residual down carefully at the base of the carpeted steps, ready for my future retrieval. The plan will continue forward.
As the cemetery entrance gates swing open, I press the Death Mask firmly in place. It fits as if it is my second skin, a false face true to who I have become.