The Witch and The Dead

The Ceremony

They made their way to the village as the sunlight above them waned. Torches lit the path, shielding the fragile village from the coming darkness. There was an unmatched silence to their homes that day. The clacks and scrapes of stone tools rang out in eerie clarity.

Most nights, the plains were the domain of desert beasts, who dug out of their sandy burrows as the blistering sun fell. But not this night. This night belonged to another master, one above.

Anna looked up. The midday sun was carved into a slimming crescent. Its strong rays strained against the power of the waxing moon.

Soon they would be assailed by that unfathomable blackness, and the ring would open. The day the moon ruled as night; the eve of stolen souls.

Small processions emerged from every hovel. Family, when family could; friends, when they could not. The bodies were carried with delicacy and respect. They were carried like they were alive. They were alive.

After all, they spoke.

Samantha's sister, Patricka. Died before her first child. Lay four rains. She knew every secret in the village. Laid to rest every guilty heart, with ears and hands and familiar warmth alone. Her hands were still now, cold, but were clasped fondly against her sister's, ears still open, warmth too familiar to forget.

Bernard's son, Henry. Stillborn. He cried and sobbed, but loved the stories of the plains. On the cooler days they had taken him to see the gorges and the mountains. They had shown him all the wonders life never could.

The alderman's son, Martin. Died before he could succeed his father. Lain for six rains. He was still listening, always. Still learning from the father who loved to teach.

And more. Many more. More than last.

Anna watched with apprehension as they lay the bodies on beds of thistles and precious timber. Friends and family dipped their fingers in small vats of fluorescent fluids, painted patterns of meaning along skin and bone as dry as parchment. They smudged the paint with scented leaves, which clung to the bodies like natural jewels. Every ingredient she'd scrounged all year was available to all.

The witch hovered behind her back, observing with an unseen expression.

Anna turned to them. On this, the darkest of days and the dourest of nights, the demon, witch, monster, bringer of terrible death, or whatever or whomever it was, seemed oddly out of place.

The villagers dimmed the torches one by one until only two remained. Their voices hushed. The moon rose higher; the sunlight dimmed. The borders of light and dark grew thinner, sharper, and ever more severe.

Between the two torches, hung from a great, wooden pole, loomed her father. His arms were crossed over his chest. His gaze was drawn downward like a falcon's perched above its prey. Bands of fluorescent blues, purples and reds gleamed on his face. These glowing lines traced down his arms and legs, drew him in the night like a skeleton from another world. His eyes were painted a milky white.

Amongst everyone in the village, her father now stood tallest of them all.

Something creaked in the witch's shoulder as it moved. "What is this?" they asked.

"The Rite," explained the alderman. "The Judgment of the Dead."

"The dead can't judge anything," the witch snapped.

The alderman furrowed his brow. "A strange thing for a demon to say."

Anna stared into her father's blank gaze. The light from the torches danced against the florescent designs on his skin. Above their heads, the sun continued to lose ground to the moon. Anna stepped forward into her father's blank gaze, blank judgment. The witch moved to follow, but the alderman stood in the creature's path.