It's the next morning, and yes I slept like a log.
I stretch out my shoulder blades, and test the mobility of my hips.
The beds were stiff and the blankets itchy, but I'm not complaining, warmth is warmth.
The surrounding crowd talks amongst themselves at various chairs and tables, stocked with bottled rum and dried meats all served on small hand-carved skewers.
I was worried about getting Tim out of bed this morning but he got up before me, and when an entourage knocked on the door he let them in and dragged me out of bed. I guess he couldn't wait any longer for this.
The chatter slowly dies down around us as I let out a yawn.
"Father Jiord will now say a few words to the deceased" A voice announces.
Two steady footsteps can be heard but the crowd blocks the view of his entrance until he stands up on the makeshift podium and he begins projecting his prepared speech.
"I will not greet his passing with sadness nor mourning — that is not what he would have wanted from us. His death was expected, timely. Honestly, I'm only surprised his constant yammering and sacrilege didn't kill him sooner."
A ripple of wild laughter rolls through the crowd.
"We all knew the second we came here that our time was up. This job… Well, you don't need me to explain it. He was one of us — a friend in passing to some, a brother to many, and to more than a few… a dear nuisance who touched our hearts in ways we didn't even want him to. But God knows he did so anyway. He was one of us. Family, through and through."
"Artie — as he was known back then, by his pen name. He told many stories over the years to those of us who worked alongside him. Here are a couple worth sharing.
He was too clever for the world, and a menace to the social order. He was fifteen when he wrote the so-called Heavenly Scripture we still joke about and use to this very day.
He titled it A Charmer's Sutra, supposedly after obtaining an Eastern manuscript. From it, he acclaimed divine inspiration, something about 'the ineffable visage of God and how His love could sway the masses.' Or at least, that's what he told Mistress when he got caught. She wasn't having any of that yonk-mort."
A lone Chuckle squarks through the audience.
"He said his beating was especially rough that night. And yet, despite the risk, he still sought out to share that same forbidden knowledge to the world.
Some of you might question whether that book truly belongs in the House of the Lord. But I assure you — the bosom described and illustrated in that very book is indeed… heavenly.
Even though he limped from his room the next morning, it didn't stop him. Oh no — the worst part of this story has yet to come. After weeks of effort and persuasion, he slipped the book into the church library, past all the wandering eyes of the Sisters of the faith.
Righteously confused I can imagine they were, when word of its existence spread, having more than half the congregation showing up in their inconspicuous attires, participating in premeditated tactics discussed over scattered beer mugs the night before, trying to deceive their gaze and divert suspicion. All to obtain the holy grail of forbidden knowledge."
"Though they were like hawks, they couldn't stop everyone. Their number grew so vast the library was busy for weeks. He said the demand was so great that even Reverend Ming himself was caught with a copy.
I can imagine the shock of the church's cleaners when they found it open in his prayer room to the legendary page thirteen… And yes — it was 'that' page. On this matter, I will say no more, lest I tarnish a fellow churchman's legacy.
He wipes his brow and mutters, half in jest, half in prayer:
"Lord, why did you test me so? You granted us free will — of course we'd have a gander at something new and intriguing. Forgive me, and my fellow brothers and sisters, for our idle curiosity. Perhaps it was that same foolishness in me today that led me here, standing before you all. Talking about this makes me too ashamed to look at you further."
Laughter breaks out across the audience — especially among the men.
"Regardless, I digress, afterall Jimson is what this speech is about — and let's just say, you couldn't meet anyone as nice yet as antagonising as he was. If we were a flock of chirps, only he would be the one to ruffle feathers."
"He was the kind of man who loved yonks so much he even named them. I know, right? They're just cattle! We'd ask, 'Why in the yonk would you even do that?' But that's just old Jimson.
He's the reason we even say phrases like that. It was his persistence — how he'd convince every newcomer to use the word yonk like it was perfectly normal. He said it was for 'a gathering of yonk.' We always thought it was some community event… but none of us dared ask."
"And remember when the yonks escaped their pens last year? Who was it that went out to drag them all back? Who else but him — the renowned Yonk Whisperer. No one was more satisfied than he was.
The worst part was what came after, when he drained us of all our tabs for weeks! Feckless bastard. And he knew we couldn't even say no."
The crowd roars with laughter.
"That was just one of his quirks. He had another skill, you see — a way to read people like the Heavenly Book. He'd pretend to be dumber than you, just so you'd feel smart. Then, when you were grinning at his stupidity, he'd flip the winning hand and clean you out of your last stack of primstone. Shameless bastard.
And when those Eastern cultivators came down west demanding a land tax — who convinced them we'd hidden our beast cores in the Eyeless Lake? Him! Swamp rats and prowlers ate well that night. Legend says their ghosts are still searching for treasure to this very day."
The tone softens.
"Throughout the years, he carried an immense brightness in this camp. And though it's said the brightest lights cast the darkest shadows… the burden he bore was immense. What happened to him back then was beyond horrific.
We all carry scars and stories. But the fire he lit in our hearts will never fade. I won't name names — but let us all remember… Rest in peace, Aisha and Sophia. May you find love and peace again in the eternal afterlife."
The crowd murmurs in unison:
"May you find love and peace again in the eternal afterlife."
Clearing his throat, Jiord continues:
"For those who didn't know him well, he raised two children — beautiful, cared for with devotion that made the rest of us ashamed by comparison. Let me take this moment to offer my sympathies to the young lad left behind.
I've never seen someone with such a pure heart, nor a personality as steady and kind. Tim, we mourn with you. We will be your support through this trial."
Tim's hand finds mine. He squeezes, and heads around us nod in solemn approval.
"I know some of you worry about entrusting this child to a newcomer," Jiord adds. "But remember — no one could find treasure in the stones better than Jimson could. For that reason, I trust his eyes, his judgment, and his heart to do what's right for his boy's future."
Then his gaze hardens.
"And to you, Desmond… we'll be watching you. You're family now. Treat him well."
All eyes turn to me; some with scorn, others with curiosity, a few with reluctant acceptance.
Someone puts a glass in my hand, to which I raise.
"For Jim," I preach.
"For Jim!" the crowd cheers back.
A faint dissatisfaction crosses Jiord's face, but he masks it, announcing further to guide the function along.
"Well, that begins our ceremony. Please line up in an orderly fashion and be courteous to those behind you. Thank you, and may the Lord bless us."
Corks pop and crackle.
Two well-dressed priestly sisters pour red wine into silver-lined glasses.
One by one, each mourner kisses their hand, pressing it to the stone for three well drawn-out seconds, they pray and take another shot. After which they return to the seating area to chat.
We hear the crowd murmuring behind us. Glasses clinking, soft laughter mixing with whispered condolences. As the last two in line, we finally reach the open pit. Jimson's body lies there, serene, almost too peaceful.
I look up, a black stone plaque bears his name, with a small, empty section beneath it that awaits for the mark of the next life.
"He looks peaceful," I whisper, squeezing Tim's hand.
He swallows hard, holding back bloated eyes. "He really does"
"Cry. Cry all you want. I won't let them see you" I murmur, stepping closer, pressing my hands onto his shoulders, shielding him from the view of the others.
His heart shatters—collapsing onto the grass, an ugly spillage that cries out, through every breath, every sniffle and snort that emerges from the inside of his remnant heart. From this he discloses his most ugly emotions to me. Vulnerability. Grief. Desperation. Sharing it all with me. Teaching me what it's like to be human again.
Every piece of your pain will allow me to slowly reveal the puzzle of you, Tim. To understand you better, who it is exactly that is under my charge of my care, so that I can fill that gaping hole in both your heart and mine, to let us move on together and be stronger too.
I don't hesitate to get on my knees and hug him from behind, rocking from side-to-side.
This is what helped me when I was at my lowest, I hope it can comfort you too.
After five minutes, I lift him up, holding him to my chest.
Gently I carry him, methodically, carefully, murmuring, soft self-prepared hymns I thought up the previous night. Words that he probably can't hear over his heartfelt sobs anyway, but words, only for his ears.
Borrowing a handkerchief from a passing table, I cover his face up with it, carefully wiping away the glistening stream of tears.
He leans into me, shaking, and for a moment the world narrows around the two of us, the distant chatter and blank noise all fade into nothingness. His grief is my own, and I just hold him, feeling, following the emotions as they run their course; being there in ways I wish I had myself received.
After some passing duration, when my arms tire blue, and my legs give in. Gently I am as I ease him into a nearby chair. I ease him down and stand my guard.
My senses, keen. My ears strain, around us. I listen. Hearing words all but distant.
"Isn't it strange for him to be this sad?" someone mutters behind me. "People die all the time—what's so different now?"
Another voice judges: "He's immature. Naive. Is that guardian really what the boy needs?"
"That's why we have these gatherings," a third adds. "Not to celebrate the dead, but to reward us, the living."
"A toast to that." Glasses clink.
How despicably ignorant.
My fists tighten against my palm.
Bastards the lot of you.
You're nothing but small, brittle cacti in my eyes, loitering around their starving niche of stagnant personality.
Your words roll off your parched tongues like rolling tumble-weeds; aimless, dry and hollow. For a place meant for grieving, this is truly a desert. At least a cemetery carries the liveliness of the deceased, but here everything seems vicious. Only made worse by the hypocrisy.
It is evident, almost everyone here I can see carries around their own buried roots, masked by coarse, thorny exteriors, hoarding all that personality and emotion inward, afraid to be seen. But longing to be noticed for being different or interesting. So inside it is, you hide.
You lot are a festering poison growing first from the smallest concentrations, a mounting dosage equal only in measurement to the depth of your own untended growth of insecurity.
You lash out in contemptuous envy, a most tribal defence mechanism to protect your unraveling instability.
I am aware of my privilege, yes, with the experience of my previous life as a reference can I really judge them fairly. Of course not, but this.
To a child no less, not even that he's a child but that he's a person, living in clear struggle…
And that's your response!
Incorrigible.
This is too much for me to bare. It's sad to see them all like this, scared beasts cowering in corners poised to strike.
But I suppose I have to adapt, don't I?
Jim, you were an oasis in this desert. Every memory of you reminds me of something I can't reach anymore.
'Be the change you want to see in the world.'
Where did that come from? Your voice? Mine?
Doesn't matter. A belief is pointless unless you act on it.
Another lesson from a dead man.
Or I pass onto me,
Shit nothing make sense now.
I lament, paralysing my unbridled rage as I further hear their venom-laced chatter.
- "They say he made Zeke cry."
- "That bastard won't last long here with that attitude."
- "They also say Jiord is covering for him — that he convinced the boys not to attack."
- "Never liked that priest anyway. He always seems… I don't know how to explain it."
- "Hush. You might not like him, but he's done so much for the community."
My teeth rub sparks against each other.
Who here has some basic empathy, is it really so rare Jimson.
Another thread of conversation pierces through the hum:
- "Are children supposed to cry like that? I didn't when my old man died."
- "Some grief is allowed. This… this is extravagant and pathetic. Like he wants more from us than we already gave."
- "He's just a child. Give him his space."
- "He's almost an adult — almost looks fifteen. If he stays soft like this, I worry for his future."
I feel a hot strike of anger rising—then a soft-gripped hand taps at my shoulder's tense ligaments, disarming my malicious thoughts.
"Ah, Desmond! Just the man I wanted to talk to." a voice lets out.
He takes off his ceremonial flat sock-like black hat and gives a slight but considerate bow.
Taking a second to calm down, I think of my response.
"That was quite the speech, Father. I must say, in the little time I knew Jimson, he too touched my heart in various unasked-for ways, and now I carry his little burden. Not that I'm complaining."
I look down at Tim and put my hand on his mangled hair.
"He was indeed like that. I offer my condolences to your family and hope you can look past yesterday's… incident."
"What is it that you said? 'Is all in the past now'? Truer words couldn't have been said at that moment.
So, Father… how can I help you here?" I keep my arms open in a gesture to hide my shaking revulsion.
"Well, two things we need first is a phrase to carve into the stone and immortalise the memory of your father. We thought about asking you yesterday but we as a group decided that you two needed that day to grieve so, we chose to prolong it to after the ceremony, and carve the words while everyone is present."
"Well we seem preoccupied with that for the moment, could you please reconsider the timing" I chip through clenched teeth.
"Certainly it is times like these that the world hits the hardest but we must persevere for our goals!"
At that I let out a fake smile and nod at my strained neck.
"Wise words from a wise man, now tell me what's the second thing"
Jiord, very attentively wipes away at some dusty discolouration off of his hat, his tone shifting deeper.
"It goes like this… People think this is a haven free from the influence of the Transcended. But we... are not sadly. The Heavenly Protection Board and Heavenly Sky Palace still have control here. We sit between their jurisdictions; belonging to both, yet officially claimed by neither.
It's good for mobility and freedom… but bureaucracy buried under further bureaucracy, all that writing and documenting that's where we struggle.
And people talk too.
Every so often, those who plan rebellions suddenly disappear. There are few trustworthy folk left to help manage things — you catch my drift?
Jimson — God rest his soul — was a pillar of our organisation: the Office of Good Order. We handle the town's responsibilities: logistics, disputes, and finances, you name it. He was one of the few who could write in the Power of Word."
"The what now?" I ask.
"A semi-ascended inheritance that is usually passed on by blood. But there's another way to share it."
"And Jimson had this?" I interrupt.
"Yes. Though little is know, all who possess it descend from an Eastern calligrapher who served an ancient emperor and God alike. After he ended the Holy War, he was granted one wish—he asked for religious freedom. The Power of Word was God's reward."
"What does it actually do then?"
Jiord's eyes glint.
"With this sacred ability? You can hide, transport, and share information of all sorts. To speak truths — and supposedly, even speak to God himself. But that is yet to be seen.
You see, the Messages written in the Power of Word can't be intercepted. They don't travel through paper, nor mana, but through voice itself. Only another wielder — or one who bears the inheritance of one of the Three Spiritual Parts, has the ability to intercept it.
This is like a form of encryption no?
"So only two other people in the entire world can intercept it."
"Precisely, that's why his role mattered. His work kept this camp alive. Without it, foul play, political leverage, and bureaucratic collapse would follow."
He leans closer, eyes suddenly dangerous.
"Does the boy have it?"