by James Palmer
I found him in one of the darker corners of the city, an alleyway
splattered with vomit and disposable diapers, where he had coughed out his
last blood. I'd heard his dying across the city, sensed the hungry ghosts
gathering round him as he slipped away. They always circle around the
dying, drawn by the lowness of the tide there. As I parked my car and
hurried across the street, ignoring the streetwalkers and the familiar
revenant that lurched in front of me, clutching at my face with
ineffectual spectral hands and pleading for forgiveness (maybe later, but
I knew what he had done in life, and he was not one of my highest
priorities), I wondered if I was too late, if the enemy had already gotten
there.
I was just in time. As I switched my flashlight on I heard them scuttle
away, denied their food this time. I sniffed their secretions, smelling
their bitterness and frustration. I marked a warding circle around the
corpse anyway, in blue children's chalk, just in case they decided to
return, then knelt down to examine my latest patient. Pulling on my
gloves, I turned the body over. Thankfully, he was old; the young are
always the worst, but the old, at least, are understandable. He looked
in his seventies, was probably younger, but marked by a long life on the
streets. Wrapped in numerous layers of clothing, a ragged red overcoat on
top, and with a full, unkempt white beard, he looked like a twisted parody
of Santa Claus.
I whispered words beyond the sea, calling up a ghost I knew to distract
the whore outside. I watched him conjure up a body from mist and air
before me, solidifying it into a pretty good impersonation of his human
form, complete with business suit and slightly worried look, a perfect
imitation of a middle-aged john. If you looked down, you would have
noticed that he was going barefoot, and that his toenails were over two
inches long, but in darkness, he would pass. He left the alley and
engaged the prostitute in conversation, drawing her away within thirty
seconds. The poor woman would get a shock later when he dissolved,
leaving only salt and tears, but such is life. I hauled the corpse up with
a grunt, not being a strong woman, and hefted him back across to my car,
slinging him in the well-sealed boot.
When I got back to my countryside home, I had only a couple of hours of
night left, and I didn't fancy having him sitting around my house for the
day, so I decided to dispose of him asap. I had a grave fresh-dug, hidden
from prying eyes by the shadow of large trees, and keep four or five
coffins in the shed, so I had no preparation problems save the name. I
checked for any ID - nothing, so I had to take the hard option. I tried
to sing up his spirit, but it was reluctant to come, so I drank a slug of
whisky, pissed on the ground around him, kissed his open lips and asked
Them for his name. William Vonney. They should always be put in the
ground named; the Scuttlers can find them otherwise, which is one of the
many reasons I don't leave this job to the town authorities. Every
nameless soul they take is a victory for the dark.
I blessed him, gave what absolution I could for any sins he might have
committed, wished him a safe and speedy voyage, and lowered him into the
ground, covering him with the forgiving earth. Some use an assistant for
this, not willing to break taboo by touching dead flesh, but I find a pair
of gloves work well enough I sighed as I felt the reassuring covering of
power across me from the just-finished ceremony, and went back inside to
cook my supper, just as dawn was breaking One of the many bad points of
being a necromancer is largely having to work nights.