"Maro!"
Madeira watched the ghost's wrists disappear into the Kelvic's chest before he sank to his knees with a sharp stutter of air. The ghost's shriek and Madeira's yell were magnified in the enclosed space, and a cloud of flies took flight in the disturbed air. Just as Madeira was about to raise her bow and demand that the spirit get away from him, he held up his own hand to ward Madeira away.
Caught between protecting him and trusting him, the Spiritist wavered for a long tick before finally dropping her bow to the ground with a muffled curse.
But Maro, even on his knees gasping for breath, spoke with empathy. Madeira could not help but watch with admiration as he spoke for the people she had left behind; and for the friend that was no doubt looking for her.
And for whatever reason, Djamila seemed willing to listen to him.
Madeira left her bow where she dropped it, and put the jar of the death bell down quietly by Maro’s splayed hand. With one last moment of hesitation she looked between the Ghost and the Kelvic, before ducking into the narrow cave and out to the beach. She left them alone to speak to each other, and for Maro to soothe her exorcism with his particular kind of empathy. There were other things Madeira could do. They still needed a pyre.
There was a beached log a couple meters from the waterline. It’s bark had been smoothed by waves and bleached by sun until it looked like some monstrous bone. That would be her coffin. The young blonde shaded her eyes against the encroaching midday sun looking for other such treasures to decorate Djamila’s final resting place.
Many chimes later, arms aching from load after load of smooth, salt-gorged sticks, Madeira stood back to admire her work. She had never built a campfire before, much less a funeral pyre, but she was proud of her work. Over the original log she had used the longest of the wrapped sticks to steeple against each other. The sticks too short to reach had been broken over her knee into the smallest possible pieces to be used as kindling. And the greenish-black seaweed left dry and crispy from the last high tide was laid on top of the log as a crackling bed.
Madeira brushed the sand and salt from her hands and returned to her abandoned pack. From it’s depths she produced her flint and steel. Both pieces were as smooth as the day she bought them. She’s never had to use them before.
The return to the vibrating, fetid cave was made all the worse by her brief break to the fresh, open air. Unable to manage the short journey with backbreaking dignity again, she crawled through the narrow passage on her hands and knees, the stone and steel cutting sharply into her palms.
When she reached the cavern she paused for a shallow breath of the rotting air.
“Djamila? It’s time.”
Madeira watched the ghost's wrists disappear into the Kelvic's chest before he sank to his knees with a sharp stutter of air. The ghost's shriek and Madeira's yell were magnified in the enclosed space, and a cloud of flies took flight in the disturbed air. Just as Madeira was about to raise her bow and demand that the spirit get away from him, he held up his own hand to ward Madeira away.
Caught between protecting him and trusting him, the Spiritist wavered for a long tick before finally dropping her bow to the ground with a muffled curse.
But Maro, even on his knees gasping for breath, spoke with empathy. Madeira could not help but watch with admiration as he spoke for the people she had left behind; and for the friend that was no doubt looking for her.
And for whatever reason, Djamila seemed willing to listen to him.
Madeira left her bow where she dropped it, and put the jar of the death bell down quietly by Maro’s splayed hand. With one last moment of hesitation she looked between the Ghost and the Kelvic, before ducking into the narrow cave and out to the beach. She left them alone to speak to each other, and for Maro to soothe her exorcism with his particular kind of empathy. There were other things Madeira could do. They still needed a pyre.
There was a beached log a couple meters from the waterline. It’s bark had been smoothed by waves and bleached by sun until it looked like some monstrous bone. That would be her coffin. The young blonde shaded her eyes against the encroaching midday sun looking for other such treasures to decorate Djamila’s final resting place.
Many chimes later, arms aching from load after load of smooth, salt-gorged sticks, Madeira stood back to admire her work. She had never built a campfire before, much less a funeral pyre, but she was proud of her work. Over the original log she had used the longest of the wrapped sticks to steeple against each other. The sticks too short to reach had been broken over her knee into the smallest possible pieces to be used as kindling. And the greenish-black seaweed left dry and crispy from the last high tide was laid on top of the log as a crackling bed.
Madeira brushed the sand and salt from her hands and returned to her abandoned pack. From it’s depths she produced her flint and steel. Both pieces were as smooth as the day she bought them. She’s never had to use them before.
The return to the vibrating, fetid cave was made all the worse by her brief break to the fresh, open air. Unable to manage the short journey with backbreaking dignity again, she crawled through the narrow passage on her hands and knees, the stone and steel cutting sharply into her palms.
When she reached the cavern she paused for a shallow breath of the rotting air.
“Djamila? It’s time.”