It's the next morning, and yes I slept like a log.
Stretching out my shoulders, I test the mobility of my joints.
The bed was stiff, the blankets itchy, but I'm not complaining, warmth is warmth.
The surrounding crowd chatters amongst themselves. Stocked with bottled rum and dried meats, various chairs and tables are all organised around a central aisle.
I was worried yesterday about getting Tim out from my bed this morning, but he got ready before me. What surprised me more was that when an entourage of strangers knocked on our door, he let them all in.
Strangers: singing, dancing and playing with whistles all before you're out of bed. When you complain, they drag you out still in your night gown and carry you out to the middle of town.
Thank god I was half asleep otherwise the memory of it would've killed me with embarrassment.
But now, I still don't know how to react.
The chatter slowly dies down around us as I let out my morning yawn.
"Father Jiord will now say a few words to the deceased" A voice announces followed by two steady footsteps that march towards the makeshift podium at the front.
Though the crowd blocks this entrance, his body comes into view from above as he begins his speech.
"I will not greet Jimsons passing with sadness nor mourning. That is not what he would have wanted from us..."
"His death was expected and 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 us special 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. A bond over blood." He pauses to look directly at me.
Confused, I wave back.
"Artie—as he referred to himself back then by his penname, has told many stories over the years to those of us who worked alongside him. Here are but a few worth sharing.
Being both too clever and unbound from the world, he was nothing but a menace to his town's social order. At barely fifteen, he authored that so-called Heavenly Scripture we still joke about and use to this very day, titled 'A Charmer's Sutra'.
Supposedly, he claimed divine inspiration to create the masterpiece after reading an Eastern manuscript; or at least, that's what he told his Church Mistress upon getting caught.
She wasn't having any of his yonk-mort."
Light chuckling from the audience continues to ease the tension.
"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 wider world.
Some of you more pious folk might question whether that book truly belongs in the House of God. I assure you, as a pastor myself—the bosom described and illustrated in that very book is indeed a heavenly image."
Whistling wildly, someone in the front begins to feverishly clap.
"Even though he limped from his room the next morning with a sore arse, nothing would've stopped what came next. He dedicated weeks of effort to persuading and hiding multiple copies of his book directly into the local church library's book catalog.
I can imagine the nuns were Righteously confused, when word of its existence spread.
In the following days more than half the regular congregation showed, all draped in their inconspicuous attires.
I'll tell you the scene as he described it to me; hundreds of drunken men, discussing tactics over scattered beer and empty dishes. Planning during both late nights all the way to dawn, all to obtain this holy grail of forbidden knowledge."
"Though the Nuns were few, they were like hawks snapping up various worms that entered their domain. However, this was not enough. The stream of people didn't stop, and the challenge only grew their dedication to the task.
The library was large and the books were even more numerous, anyone could find this treasure.
He said 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 is '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:
"Many fine men lost good marriages that day. Oh Lord, why do you test us so? You grant us the free will to at least know the materials intimately, that me must reject. Please forgive me, and my fellow brothers who couldn't resist the temptation."
Laughter breaks out across the men in the audience, however it quickly dies, met with the angry gaze of their nearby woman.
"Regardless, I must digress." He pauses. "Jimson's life is what we are here to celebrate. He was, putting it mildly, the nicest, yet most annoying fellow I have ever met. If we were all a flock of chirps, only he would be the one to ruffle some feathers."
"He was a strange man, the kind of man who loved yonks so much he named them, even treating them like people.
I know, right? They're just cattle! 'Why in the yonk would you even do that?' We'd ask on many occasions. But, that's just old Jimson.
And remember when the yonks escaped their pens last year? Who was it that went out to the canyons to drag them all back? Who else but him, the renowned Yonk Whisperer. No one was more satisfied than he was at our cluelessness—worst of all, I still remember to this day how he drained us of all our tabs for weeks! Feckless bastard. He knew we all couldn't say no."
Nearby chirps cackle with the crowd, crouching on the nearby rooftops, they watch us with great interest.
"That was just one of his quirks. He had another skill you see. An ability 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 ear to ear thinking you'd finally got one over him, he'd flip the winning hand and clean you out of your last stack of primstone.
But perhaps most vividly this ability was displayed when those shameless Eastern cultivators came down here demanding a life tax and he convinced them we'd hidden all our precious beast cores in the Eyeless Lake? Swamp rats and prowlers ate exotic that night. Legend says their ghosts are still searching for the treasure to this very day."
"Through 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. From what little he revealed 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."
After 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 the 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 and raise the glass.
"For Jim!" the crowd cheers back.
A faint smile crosses Jiord's face, but he masks it, announcing further to guide the function along.
Corks pop and crackle.
Two well-dressed priestly sisters pour red wine into silver-lined glasses.
One by one, each mourner kisses their left 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.
The crowd murmurs 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 within, covered by the casket we can only hope this lives up to his expectations.
Looking up, a black plaque bearing his given name looms over the pit. It is medium in size, with a blank section on its face awaiting for the mark of his legacy.
"There he is," I whisper, squeezing Tim's hand.
He swallows hard, holding back bloated eyes before he manages his final exchange.
"Bye.."
His heart shatters—collapsing onto the grass, an ugly spillage of tears cry out from his nose and mouth. He gasps for breath; it is shallow, reserved as if treading on creaky floorboards.
His every breath, every sniffle and sound that barely manages to escape his heart, are all shared with me. Vulnerability. Grief. Desperation. Longing. These feelings, teaching me what it's like to feel human once more.
Cry. Cry all you want. I won't let them see you.
Stepping closer, I hold my hands over his shoulders, shielding him from the view of the others.
Every piece of this pain will allow me to unveil the puzzle called you. Tim, I want to understand you better, who it is exactly that is dependent on me, who is this precious life I can mold, shape and have influence over regardless of my wishes.
How can I be a part of your life. How can I help you, love you, build you into the strongest person you can be.
I only hope through doing this, through protecting us, maybe, just maybe, I can help fix this gaping hole in both our hearts, allowing us to move on together and be stronger versions of ourselves.
Getting on my knees, I don't hesitate in hugging him from behind and rocking from side-to-side.
This is what helped me when I was at my lowest, I hope it can comfort you too.
After this, I lift him up, holding him into my chest.
Gently, I carry him away, whispering softly the various pre-prepared hymns I thought up the previous night.
Words that he probably can't hear over his sobs anyway, but words only meant for his ears.
'Borrowing' a nearby handkerchief from a passing table, I wipe away what few tears he has left to shed.
Leaning into me, I feel him shaking. For this moment my world narrows around just the two of us, the distant chatter and blank noise all fade into nothingness. His grief is my own, and I just stand there awkwardly. Hoping my presence helps to alleviate his burden as those emotions run their course. Being present in ways I wish I had myself received but in ways all foreign to me.
Time passes and my arms tire blue.
Carefully, I ease him into the nearby chair and stand my guard.
"Isn't it strange for him to be this sad?" I catch wind of a conversation behind. "People die all the time—what's so different now?"
Another chimes in: "He's immature. Naive. Is that 'stranger' 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." Their glasses clink.
How despicable.
My fists tighten against my palm.
Bastards, you lot.
You're nothing but small, brittle cacti in my eyes. Loitering around to starve with that stagnant personality.
Lamenting, my ears listen elsewhere but still hear the same prickly characters.
"They say he made Francis cry."
"That bastard, he won't last long here with that 'tude."
"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 one another.
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.
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 unique or interesting. So inside it is, you hide.
To a child no less, not even that he's a child but that he's a person, living with the death of his family…
And that's your response!
Incorrigible.
This is too much for me to bear. 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 new memory I had of you reminds me of something I can't reach no more.
'Be the change you want to see in the world.' Whose voice was that, yours voice or mine?
Whatever.
Beliefs are pointless unless you act on them, another lesson from a dead man.
Now, I understand what you said earlier about empathy, It really is 'rare in abundance'.
Shaking my head, I eavesdrop on a nearby chat.
"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, he looks fifteen. If he stays soft like this, I worry for his future."
Feeling a hot rush of anger run to my head, all my muscles tense and my fist clenches—
"Ah, Desmond! Just the man I wanted to talk to." a familiar voice interrupts.
Taking off his ceremonial top hat he gives a slight but considerate bow.
"That was quite the speech, Father." I let out a breath. "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?"
"Well, two things. First, we need the a phrase to carve into the Immortal stone to memorialise the memory of your late father. We considered asking you yesterday, but decided that you two needed that day to grieve and settle in.
"Could you please reconsider the timing."
"Of course, 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, straining my neck.
"Wise words from a wise man, now tell me, what's the second thing"
"It goes like this…" he wipes the dust from his hat. "People think this is a haven free from the influence of the Transcended. Truth is, we are not, sadly. The Heavenly Protection Board and Heavenly Sky Palace would still have total control here if they cared enough about us, or something we did.
This approach allows us both mobility and freedom… however, their new monitoring standards have buried us under bureaucracy and even more bureaucracy. All that writing and documentation. I'm glad I'm not the one doing it." He pinches his temple with his thumb and index then breathes deeply.
"You should join us, would make our jobs more manageable. Say, there are not so many people I can trust these days, you understand what I'm meaning here.
Jimson, god rest his soul, was a pillar of our organisation, 'The Office Of Good Order'. We handle the town's administration: logistics, disputes, and finances, you name it. He was the only one who could write in the Power of Word."
"The what now?"
"You haven't heard? How do I explain.." He says something under his breath but I don't quite catch it.
"In this world there are many strange, unusual and mysterious things: Detrimental physiques, mana storms, tribulations and the like, but perhaps the most unknown ability that currently exists, is the three piece spiritual body. Each part has a different role and a different power. The word, the eye and the mind. These inheritances are said to be from god himself."
"And Jimson had this power?" I interrupt.
"Yes. Though little is known, all who possess the word are descendants from an Eastern calligrapher who served both an ancient emperor and God alike. They say after he ended the Holy War, he was granted one wish; The religious freedoms of his people, 'The Word' was God's reward."
"What does it do then?"
Jiord's blue eyes catch the morning light.
"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 exactly what, who knows. Though I know one thing, Messages written in the Power of Word can't be intercepted by normal means. They don't travel through paper, nor mana, but through voice itself. Only another who bears the inheritance of one of the Three Spiritual Parts, has the ability to intercept it."
This is just like a form of encryption.
"So only two other people in this entire world can intercept something written with this power."
"Precisely, that's why his role mattered. His words kept this camp alive. We grew complacent and have relied on it for many things, without it, we are susceptible; foul play, political leverage, and bureaucratic collapse will only follow if we cannot adapt."
"So..."
He leans closer, eyes suddenly turning dangerous.
"Does the boy have it?"