"The dead are rising!" a loud cry assaults my ears. I tremble.
Slowly, after recovering, my gaze shifts upward. Through the smog, a ragged silhouette limps forward, wreathed in smoke and bloom.
Its thick leather boots crunch cinders beneath deliberate, heavy sounding steps. Weighed down by the clinking of crude implements hanging from their side, their patchwork of ragged trousers tells a legacy, each stained seam being a testament to years of trudging through mud and mire.
He emerges, with hair grey as grave-dust, and facial hair too unkempt for a meticulous man in his middle-ages.
After stopping, he lights a stubby cigarette with slow ceremony, squinting through the purple haze.
"Boy, you better not be playing games!" his voice projects, deep and sonorous, carrying well despite the smoke.
Halting before a smaller shadow, the man ruffles what appears to be the curls of a younger boy's brown hair.
This touch is not gentle, but purposeful, like a mason correcting their work.
Flinching, the boy's face contorts, discomfort clearly etched within every crease, yet he doesn't pull away. No, instead he whispers a stiff but begrudging, "Thanks, dad."
Turning towards me, the man spits.
"Yer the dead one, eh?"
Deceased? Huh. That was mere moments ago. Now I'm alive and you will take responsibility for me.
"Dead?! Can't you see I'm alive, old man?" I snap, rising stiffly as I brush the grime and ash from my tattered clothes.
He looks at me more intently, that lone eye begins to narrow beneath his weathered shadow of darkened brow.
I've felt this pressure before… in the beasts who called themselves men.
"Yer a corpse. I've seen it with my own eye!" Yanking up his cracked leather eye-patch, he makes a show of flicking it down and up again as if to mock me.
"The dead risin'... ain't never been nothin' natural about it," he mutters. That hollow socket still stares out at me too. Dry, empty, yet somehow still observing me in all my inadequacy.
If this bastard saw me as a corpse, why is he trying to talk now? Bluffing? Nah… I can't risk it if he isn't. How the hell do I convince this miser?
I know.
My hands clasp. This trick always works.
A haunting smile creeps across my cracked lips. My once-trembling fingers rub together like a merchant about to hawk miracle tonics to the desperate and needy.
"I was merely sleeping."
"..."
He blinks.
"Sleeping… dead corpse? That's a new one. Even the Cultists of the Bloodbourne Ascendancy Sect never came up with that cultivation nonsense. You're speaking yonk shit, and I know it."
'Cultivation' you say. I understand. You had me there for a second. But now?
Leaning in, my voice speaks low but steady in tone, only determination remains in my gaze.
"Look here, sir. It's a rare condition. Born with it actually. They call it the 'Nine Serenities Spiritual Body'. When I'm in deep meditation, there's no pulse. No breathing. Easy mistake to make. Honestly errors like yours happen all the time to me. This is okay, I almost forgave you too… But now... I hear you slandering my good and reputable name!"
His eyes lose focus as if in deep thought.
"Nine Serenity? Sounds like some Eastern technique," Jimson muttered, his eyes darkening. "You sure you ain't a filthy corpse-eater?"
I shrug and feign innocence.
"If I were a simple ghoul, as you so obnoxiously claim, then how come I'm here talking to you?" I snort smugly in patronising retort.
Checkmate. This man is simply in the palm of my hands.
His smiles grows with an unusual, toothy grin, then, he flicks that homemade cigarette toward the very mound I'd clawed my way from.
Instantly, it catches.
The purple flames writhe, their reach extends upward into the shaded black of night like some long-forgotten myth.
Heat radiates from this scene, as the piled, burning dead all crackle, as if mocking all my previous efforts of desperate escape.
"Why didn't you speak so earlier?" His beady look now stares curiously at me before continuing.
"Name's Jimson Plank, and this little scuttler is my son, Timothy Wood."
The boy's back arches forward after receiving a hard slap. Scowling he mutters a defiant, "Sorry," before walking away with his head hung low.
"Old man, don't think I've forgiven you. You almost burnt me alive. I need compensation for… psychological damages." Flicking my fingers, I indicate clearly the universal sign for money.
"Here."
Cutting me off he rolls out a stone and drops onto it, setting down what appears to be a cup with a practiced hand.
From his belt, he unbuckles a flask: old, dented, but polished where the fingers groove.
"I save this for special occasions. You're lucky… night," he mutters, glancing around as if checking the time.
Finally, his hand pours out with reverence. Liquid amber catches the firelight, glistening in molten memory.
Resting the cup on the stone beside him next to a pair of old boots, his knuckles start rapping against the boulder with a dense sigh.
A peace offering. Or a bribe?
Shrewd old man. It's his personal flask; either way, I should drink it. If it is poison, shame on me, I guess.
Sitting next to him, the boots slide on with minimal effort.
Paying me no further heed, he kisses the pendant at his neck, then removes it and places it on a nearby stone.
One second. Two. Three. A ritual, maybe? Some sign of respect for the dead. I make a mental note to remember it.
Sitting in this moment, my mouth interrupts the silence..
"So, what is it you do here?"
"Ta-ta-ta." He clicks his tongue, wagging it provocatively and then gestures at the cup in my hand.
A moment later our once-full cups clink against each other with hollow resonance.
Carefully, he rests his empty cup on top of the flat column with a bowed head too.
That stone again? A mural? No…
An unmarked grave.
For the dead, I presume.
Here, we sit, sinking in the remembrance of the burning dead.
Faint rustling can be heard as he lights another cigarette, shielding its flame against the gentle wind.
A long inhale.
He leans back, eyes clearly tracing the ash that drifts like dirty snowflakes: filthy, heavy. Loitering.
A long exhale.
"Now you're going to tell me?!" raising my voice, my eyes lock onto his.
"We're burning corpse piles, as you can see," he replies curtly, voice gruff as ever.
The purple flame continues to burn. Crackling, humming in the background.
"Why?"
"To honour the fallen. This is how it is."
Taking another drag, he pauses, building suspense for some long-winded tale.
"When people die here, sometimes… they come back. And it's our job to prevent that from happening."
"That doesn't sound normal." I tilt closer.
"Do I get paid to know why?"
". . ."
Squinting, he taps his cigarette in the direction of my face.
"You… What's yer name, young man?"
My name?
I glance down.
"Out with it then!"
"Desmond," I finally blurt out, then look at him sheepishly.
Incredulous, the man shakes his head but continues speaking.
"Well then, sir… 'Desmond.' To answer your question real polite and proper: I don't know why, and I don't much care neither. All I know is, I have to do it, and it pays like shit." He stops to let out a hollow laugh.
"From the sound of it, you don't like us cultivators," I retort.
His face flickers serious before interrupting,
"Cultivators," holding a singular finger to his lips, he lowers his voice as he continues. "They're called 'transcended ones' here West— you mustn't let them hear you speaking like that, or I might just have to add you to the pile too."
He gestures forward.
In it, Tim struggles with a barrow. He hauls another load to feed the fire raw. Corpses, stiff and hard, land with the meaty weight of butcher's refuse, all striking with a grotesque but percussive rhythm.
Skulls clank, limbs scatter.
"That sound!" I choke out but before I can finish, he shushes me.
With a wet nose and puffy eyes, my last lick of compensation pours out into the scratched bronze of my empty mug, of which I take a sip of brew.
His head slowly nods, arm resting on my neck as he whispers sweet nothings into my ear whilst gesturing forward as if showing his son the family trade. Invasive. Presumptuous.
"It's beautiful," he breathes softly, his wet words brushing against my ear like an invasive feather, tickling and uncomfortable.
Crossing my arms around my chest, a loud puff escapes my mouth.
This man has no morals. Hand on my shoulder. What am I, some hooligan in need of spiritual guidance? Tries to burn me one minute, comfort me the next.
Tsk. Well, at least his embrace is somewhat… comforting. It's not all bad.
Then gently he clears his throat.
And just like that, my attention is diverted elsewhere…
The ashen smoke plumes skyward before the wind claims it, dragging it over the cliff's edge like a funeral shroud torn from the pyre. Debris trails behind in endless grey streams, cascading down into the abyssal beneath.
"What!" I exclaim, furrowing my brows.
His stone rolls beneath his weight, tilting backward as he folds his arms. That same wrinkled face splits with a crooked smile, eyes gleaming with clear amusement at my reaction.
"First time… We call it the Great Expanse. Few of us left out here, so the name just stuck."
Well, that describes it well. Glancing down, my jaw wobbling in quiet agreement.
"Might be wise for me to do something for that," he belatedly grumbles.
As I'm about to agree, distant howls reverberate across the nocturnal ether: wolves and nameless entities alike, all entwined in a singular mournful lament.
It is a sound both primal and profane in nature… deep, guttural and seeped in drooling hunger.
Standing, he drops his cigarette and treads out its firelight.
"They hunt in the morning soon."
"What does—" my throat, dry from all the drinks, catches on itself loudly, making my tone seem all that much more demanding.
"Few have seen them and told the tale, all we know is they are the 'prowlers', stuff of sheer nightmares so the folks back at camp warn."
"Sounds scary, good thing it's… night," Gesturing up my nose snorts with snot.
"It's always dark around these parts."
Well shit, you should've said something sooner.
Pausing, he looks over the cliff-edge uninterested with me before gesturing ahead.
"Where do go?"
"Settlers' Camp. Six-hour trip, give or take." Standing back, he slings his sack over his shoulder nodding to himself
"First and only town run by us normal folk." After finishing he then shakes himself clear from a daze and lets out a piercing whistle. Lifting his hand, his fingers carving circles around the smoggy air.
"Timmy-boy! Pack up, we're done here!"
He takes a step forward, then returns back to take my arm.
Guiding my stumbling walk back toward the carriage, his face remains tense as we move forward. My fingers fumbling around, find their way and play with his eye-patch.
After settling in, an old dog, scarred but also grey-furred, trots along to the front.
It leaps up and settles next to the driver's seat. Jimson pulls himself up, shaking the wagon as he settles in, leaving both me and Tim to sit opposite each other in the back.
His small fingers dance over a crude hatchet's haft. His eyes, sharp as fangs, bore through me with silent venom as we shudder forward.
"It might be useless," Jimson pipes up from the front, "but us morts need at least some protection from threats."
His grip tightens around his torch, as his singular pupil narrows in the corner of the flame, with me set dead in its sights.
"'Mort?'" I burp. "Never ever heard of it."
He barks out another hoarse but wheezing laugh.
"Bwahaha; Mort's just what they call us. You ascended ones, that is. Short for 'mortal.' But it also sounds like Yonk shit, and they can't get enough of it. I guess it's kinda funny."
My lips twitch, the laugh clawing its way up my throat demands my full effort in biting it back.
"Pft... Yonk shit!"
"Sorry."
My head hangs low, my throat still twitching under heavy breath.
"It's fine." He chuckles bitterly. "From your eyes, we probably look even more useless than yonk mort. And ain't nothing we can do about it."
My head tilts sideward.
"So… what's a yonk?"
He jerks his chin toward the front. There two creatures strain against a harness, dragging us forward: hulking shapes, like bulls, with furry mains but not quite, and much, much faster.
"Them's a yonk."
He pats the side rail and adds, "Cindy and Samuel. Word of warning, make sure you never let me catch you disrespecting the almighty yonk near my ears."
"All hail teh yonk then," I mutter, sarcastically.
"Haha ain't that the truth," his curt reply ruins my mood.
Silence hangs for a moment, the cart shakes onward.
"Say... you're not from around here, huh?"
He glances back at me, eye narrowing slightly.
"Where is here, huh… nowhere; all I know is, you almost burnt me alive."
"Pft. Yer, right, sorry about that." He waves his hand dismissively.
"But that hurt me. In here." I slam my chest exasperatedly. "I saw him again, death, he was mean. I'm lucky you're so nice to me, or else I don't know what I would've done." I shudder at the thought.
He takes a long moment before responding.
"I understand, greatly. No more questions offered, no beatings received, right? Ain't that right, Timothy?"
The boy's grip loosens slightly. His stare softens, not by much, but little enough.
"We'll just take ya back to town. You can tell whatever higher-ups you answer to, that we took good care of you here; don't need none of your yonk business."
Awkward quiet returns, but the boy still stares hard, like he wants to say something but won't.
Is he afraid his father might get angry? Or of me?
What should I say about this? I usually enjoy silence, but now that I'm in front of people again, I want to speak, to say something.
Below, my shadow shimmers, urging me: Go on... do it, say something. I dare ya.
I hiccup.
"So… you come here often?" I blurt out before I can stop it.
"No."
Flat. Dead. Tossed to the pile and burned. The conversation with the boy is over before it begins.
My gut wrenches… It's shame.
Embarrassed, I curl onto my side and retreat under the ragged veil of the burlap quilt, clearly woven for the dead.
Cold. Hungry. Tired. Drunk. I close my eyes.
Darkness welcomes me.