The Wax King, Book One: The Deathtaker’s Daughter: The Wax King, #1

By Robert Miguel Solis

The Wax King

Book One: The Deathtaker's Daughter

Science Fiction/Fantasy - eBook

 

As the only deathtaker in the capital city of Belledon, Berol Lackey is kept quite busy preparing the deceased for burial. That is, until her eccentric friend, Joanne Menker, is discovered sitting in her own window … dead. Things become stranger still when Berol meets an old purple-robed wizard on his way to speak with the king about a plague that is destroying entire towns. Consequently, at her king's command, Berol finds herself traveling with the wizard on a quest to discover the cause of the devastation. Traveling with them is the royal captain of the guard, an archer, a scientist, the royal tinker and an ancient alien robot made of stone. Unfortunately, the answer they seek might be locked away inside the twisted mind of an immortal object known as the Wax King.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Robert Miguel Solis
• Release date: Mar 27, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201441944

Robert Miguel Solis

I'm a California native residing in San Jose working as a graphic designer and volunteer stage performer. In 2006 I decided to write a novel based on stories I told my son. After many years of writing and rewriting the novel, I found that it wouldn't fit into a single volume. So now I'm writing a series of novels to get the whole story in. The project is now going on 16 years and I'm happy to say that Book One: The Deathtakers Daughter is now available as an eBook.

Book preview

1. The Deathtaker’s Daughter

It was an oasis of the dead. Generations of moldering corpses buried in graves arranged in orderly rows covering nearly 50 acres. Among the bodies present, there was one still living and one who would soon join those who resided below. 

That morning, a bland grayness descended upon the Belledonian graveyard. A dull luminescence pretending to be sunlight filtered through dark clouds perched in a cold, humorless sky. Because of this, all the trees, grasses and even the morning mist appeared unnaturally lifeless. All objects bathed in this light abandoned their natural appearance and adopted a solemn shade of gray.

A visitor to Belledon, unfamiliar with this common autumn occurrence, might be surprised to see the landscape imbued with this lackluster dullness. They might begin to wonder if all the colors of the spectrum simply wandered off in the middle of the night and never found their way back.

Dampness from the previous night still hung in the atmosphere leaving the green smell of dew in the air and sparkling droplets clinging to the grass. The air itself remained just chilly enough to raise gooseflesh but not so cold as to make breath appear like vapor.

In the middle of all the grayness was Berol Lackey. From the edge of the old Belledonian graveyard, she looked out at the sea of pale gravestones surrounding her. When she peered down at her hands, they too reflected a corpse-like grayness.

Berol smiled a small, secret smile. Gray skin seemed an appropriate pallor for those who prepared the dead for burial. The correct color for a deathtaker. However, her cadaverous pallor would not last much longer. As soon as the sun broke the horizon, she knew her skin would return to its normal appearance.

To entertain herself while she waited for the day’s mourners, Berol’s sharp eyes searched the grounds for any sign of nocturnal animals returning from their long night’s hunt in the grasses. Like small fleeting shadows, furry creatures would emerge from the nearby fields, scamper around the gravestones and dive into their day burrows. Sometimes, she was lucky enough to get a glimpse of one or two blackbacks coming back from hunting the small cloris in the grasslands.

Like many graveyards, this one was at the edge of the city quite away from the center of activity. Belledon was a large city and needed a large graveyard. The last census showed that nearly 20,000 people lived there, and a few were dying nearly every day.

People boasted that there were more of The First buried there than in any other graveyard in any kingdom. Nobody really knew if this was true. The original wooden grave markings for The First had long since rotted and been replaced with huge decadent stone monuments. Any records proving there were actual bodies under the monuments had turned to dust long ago.

Despite its huge size, the graveyard had become crowded. Other deathtakers joked that the Belledonian graveyard had so many residents it was literally a city of the dead. It was nearly full and hadn’t been enlarged since the time of Berol’s grandfather. She’d already made a request to the castle to have it expanded.

Berol shifted her gaze westward to view the Great Belledonian Plains where she planned to build the expansion. The Plains were nothing more than 80 miles of waist-high grasses with no trees or notable landmarks in any direction. Some people called it the Grass Desert. There was plenty of room to expand the graveyard there.

When she looked to the east, she could see the tall masts from the trade ships docked at the harbor with their bright banners waving. Goods and materials departed from there bound for other harbors and other kingdoms.

To the south, Berol could just see the tops of the golden spires on the towers of Castle Belledon – the seat of all the power in the kingdom. Strangely, the name of the capital city was the same as the kingdom itself: Belledon. Travelers often wondered why they named the capital city the same as the kingdom. The reply from the residents was that all of Belledon was... well Belledon. To all who lived there, it was just called the City, which helped keep the confusion to a minimum.

The sun crested over the eastern mountains and, in an instant, the colors returned from their nightly wanderings and chased the drabness of the morning away. The headstones turned from dull gray to warm amber at the caress of the sun’s morning rays.

Shadows behind the stones and fences grew long as dawn worked its way across the land. At last, the brightness found the corpse of the honored dead. With the warming light, the old woman’s skin took a respite from the sallow pallor it had shown for the past day. Her painted cheeks appeared rosy and alive as if she were blushing from the wayward attentions of a young suitor, and her gray hair seemed to regain some of the blond luster of her youth.

A gentle breeze stirred the multicolored shroud upon her time-shriveled flesh, thus allowing embroidered beads to refract a flitting shower of sparkles onto the faces of the gravestones. The lavish shroud (much more elegant than any clothing she had ever worn in life) would be her final indulgence.

Bits of the night could still be seen clinging to the edges of the gravestone’s shadows and in the depths of the freshly dug grave. The grave itself still looked black and bottomless as if it was in denial that a new day had already begun.

The morning light was accompanied with the buzzing of insects and the sharp chirps of the reptilian lizbirds. The air exploded with color as gold flies left their perches and fluttered into the fields. Lizbirds scrambled from their burrows to perch on the tops of the gravestones. There, they extended their leathery wings to warm their night-chilled blood. Calls from the cowl hawks in the distance and the scurry of small animals in the grasses added to the sounds of dawn.

A soft sigh escaped Berol’s lips. The graveyard was so lovely just after the break of dawn. There was beauty and serenity in every worn epitaph and blade of grass. Even under the fence, colorful weeds sprang into their fall bloom.

With the sound of shuffling gravel, the mourners finally arrived. Almost in a line, they trudged through the worn blackwood gate at the end of the yard.

They were dressed in their finest clothes – worn only for formal occasions such as weddings, celebrations and – of course – burials. Some greeted each other with sobbing embraces while others exchanged cold, resigned handshakes.

Berol took note of the various types of mourners in the group. Those who loved the old woman and were tearful, those who loved her but would not surrender to sorrow and those who really didn’t care but were required to attend the burial anyway. Then, of course, there were the children.

Berol always loved to watch the children. Still innocent from the thoughts of a finite lifespan, they ran gaily around the gravestones. To them, the graveyard was only a field full of interesting things to run around and climb on. They ran about, hid from each other behind the stones and then went chasing after the lizbirds. Their parents eventually would corral them and entice them to behave with bits of sweets or promises of dire punishments afterward.

With the children in hand, the mourners moved to where the old woman lay on her bier near her grave. As was tradition, they acknowledged the deathtaker as they passed on their way to gathering in a circle around the deceased. Many of them held cloths to dab tears from the corners of their eyes. Some simply stood stone faced, while others conversed in hushed whispers.

She looks so at peace, said one woman.

She looks like she’s only sleeping, said a little girl.

An older man said, She better look good for what we paid.

The last comment caused indignant hisses and quiet chuckles from some of the mourners.

Berol stood just close enough to hear the comments but remained far enough away so she would not have to engage in conversation. As part of her duties as the only deathtaker in Belledon, she was required to not only bring the deceased to the burial but also stay and attend each ceremony as a witness. She stood there in her burgundy burial dress watching all that transpired. It was the part of the job she liked least.

Despite her dislike of the proceedings, she learned long ago to hide her feelings from all the mourners. Her face remained a sober mask of sincerity. Quite a stunning mask it was, too. A heart-shaped face with large, bright golden eyes, each crowned with long black lashes. A smallish sweet-looking mouth, which, when relaxed, fell into a contented grin. At times, she had to force the corners of her mouth purposely downward lest she look inappropriately content at a burial service.  

Berol ran a hand through her short ebony hair to lift it from the dampness on her neck. Her hair was kept short for that very reason. It was easy to wash and it stayed out of her way as she worked. She was small in stature, but what she lacked in size, she made up for in sheer strength. Under her delicate lace dress (which accentuated her womanly form), she hid a mass of muscles that could drag a dead body twice her weight and lift it onto her cart with little effort. As a deathtaker, she was quite expert at moving deadweight.

A slight wind brought the scent of damp earth and flowers to Berol’s nose as she turned to stifle a yawn. Oh, how she wanted to go home and get some sleep. She had been up late the night before preparing the honored body for burial, and she was exhausted. In fact, the young deathtaker had been busy all week. It had been full of pleas from desperate family members for her to come, gather their deceased loved ones and prepare them for burial.

How many burials had she attended that week? Was she now at her 10th? She hardly had time to wash her burial dress. After the eighth burial, the dress seemed less than fresh. Now, it was on the edge of being odiferous. Another good reason to keep her distance from the mourners gathered there. Berol had built up quite a sweat hauling the corpse to the burial grounds in her cart. She was really going to have to wash the dress that day or at least before the next burial. Perhaps it was time for her to purchase a second deathtaker’s dress.

Like many traditional burials, the family hired a priest of their chosen religion for spiritual guidance and a local historian to tell again the story of The First. Over the years, Berol had heard this story repeatedly. If the historian didn’t tell the story of The First, the family would request yet another story from the Histories.

Father Kerryman and Masterhistorian Doran stood before the gathered crowd. Kerryman wore the white robes of the Brothers of Unity, while Doran wore the crimson robes and skullcap of the History Guild.

Kerryman began in the traditional way.

Who is this woman? he asked.

This is my mother, replied a middle-aged woman, Ann Chancellor, a weaver of rugs. Mother to three and husband already with The First.

God loves her and will watch over her. What were her good deeds?

She had little thought for herself but only for others, said another daughter. People who came to our door with hunger were sent home with food. When people came looking for shelter, none were turned away.

Kerryman looked at Berol. Who brings this woman here?

I do, said Berol, still a distance away. Death was taken from the house where she lay, and death was brought here to forever rest.

God shall grant her that eternal rest, said Kerryman. Through death, God has taken away pain and suffering and has left only blissful sleep. St. Kelstrom said ‘Mourn not for me for I am now with God. Though life was a sweet gift, we all return to the home from whence we sprang: to the loving arms of the almighty.’ Remember that eternity does not end with the heart’s last beat. It begins there. Amen.

There were quiet amens from the mourners. Next, it was Masterhistorian Doran’s turn to speak. Berol had heard him many times before, and she deemed him one of the tolerable sayers of the Histories. He used his thin, delicate hands to open his book of the Histories and set it down on the lectern at the head of the grave. He gazed at the mourners soberly. Then, he began.

We have come today to bury this woman, he said in his elderly, rattling voice. We come not only to help her on her way to the next life; we also come to remember from whence she came. From whence we all came. We are, all of us, the children of The First.

Doran then looked down at the book and began to read the passage. He looked up from time to time to make eye contact with the mourners.

The First did not start here. No, they came from the stars, read Doran, raising his hands dramatically to the sky. "Our ancestors, The First, abandoned their old strife-stricken homes to seek a new green one. They flew through that endless night in a great space ark named Manifest Destiny. Within their massive ship, thousands were cradled in timeless sleep. The First needed to sleep because the distances were so great many generations of people would have lived and died before the ark finally found a new home. Held within her hold was not only the slumbering First but also wondrous machines of industry and the most bizarre of animals.

"One dark day, the ship itself, the Manifest Destiny, revived one of the travelers, John Masterson. This one day he awoke to find himself surrounded by smoke and flames. He discovered the Manifest Destiny lost and irreparably damaged in the skies above this world. Was this meant to be humanity’s new home or was this simply a refuge for the ailing ark?

"These questions remained unanswered as flame engulfed everything around Masterson. He attempted to awaken the other passengers and crew, but he could not gain entry to other parts of the ship. In all, he was able to wake 349 souls from their slumber.

"With all else lost, they gathered what tools, provisions and knowledge they could find and escaped in flying machines just before the great ark blazed into the ocean and sank into the depths.

"The First never learned the fate of the others remaining on the Manifest Destiny, but some believe they still sleep in the depths of the sea. The few who have gone searching for the ark have been pulled to their deaths by the strong, deep currents or consumed by the mighty beasts in the waters.

The First, those lucky few, mourned the loss of all their comrades. They mourned too the loss of the great machines that were meant to make a new life in a new world fruitful. Finally, they mourned the loss of the vast amount of man’s collective knowledge. Any possible chance of assistance was centuries away. They were alone with few resources.

Doran raised his eyes from the book and spoke directly to the mourners.

From these humble beginnings, The First used their wit, bone and sinew to build a new home for humanity – the home we have inherited. Where, thanks to them, we thrive.

He pointed to the woman’s corpse.

We release you, daughter of The First. Return now to the soil once toiled and planted by those who went before. May your essence seep into the soil and become part of the very planet that gave you life. We shall remember you as we remember The First. Give thanks to The First.

Thanks to The First, repeated the mourners.

Though your body we give to the dust, said Father Kerryman joining in, let your spirit soar to the heavens and to God’s glory that awaits us all. Amen

Amen.

Having arrived halfway through the service, four gravediggers lifted the old woman’s body while the support poles beneath were removed. Using ropes, they lowered the corpse into the grave. Many of the mourners began to sob quietly. Each of the mourners took a handful of dirt and tossed it into the grave and then stood to the side.

The old historian and priest bowed to the mourners and walked away from the grave. The Masterhistorian gave Berol a secret wink as he passed. She had some difficulty not grinning back at him.

The mourners began a few quiet conversations as the gravediggers each grabbed a shovel and began the final process of covering the body.

Berol stood and waited for all the mourners to leave. There really wasn’t much else to do while she waited but eavesdrop on the mourners’ conversations and pretend not to listen. At some point, they would tire of talking about the deceased and start talking about the town’s unmarried deathtaker. Some idle conversation continued for a while but, at last, she heard a familiar comment from one of the women.

It’s too bad she’s a deathtaker. She’s always been such a pretty girl.

Soon she’ll be too old to marry, if any man would have her, said an older woman. What a shame.

Berol’s face remained calm but inside she seethed. There it was again. Deathtakers weren’t considered ideal marriage partners for anyone but other deathtakers. They were unsellable goods to be left on the shelf. After many years, Berol abandoned the idea that someone would see her for who she was rather than what she did for a living. Then, of course, there was the Deathtaker’s Curse to deal with as well.

Finally, the mourners began to depart. As was expected of her office, Berol politely bowed to each as they went through the graveyard’s gate. When the last one was gone, she gave a soft sigh of relief.

Berol gathered her cart and headed for home. It was still early in the day, and she would have enough time to give her dress a good washing. She just might have enough time to wash her hair as well.

2. Grimgold’s Charge

William Grimgold’s eyes snapped open in surprise when he heard a loud rattling noise.

What in th’ hottest of hells is that racket? the old man snorted as he bolted upright in alarm. He calmed himself when he realized the rattling was his own snoring.

Now wide-eyed and disoriented, Grimgold looked desperately around the workroom. He hoped no one had caught him napping at his post ... again. He’d just stopped to rest his eyes a bit, is all. A hardworking fellow’s got to rest now and again.

May the devil’s daughters have their way with me tender sacks! he cursed. How long had he been asleep? He fumbled around his workbench looking for his timepiece. Failing to locate it, he began to explore the seemingly endless array of pockets on his vest. Continuing to spit oaths all the while, he produced small tools, nails, screws, buttons, brushes, scraps of paper, coins, little bottles and nearly anything that might fit into a small vest pocket but no timepiece.

Grimgold glanced down at the seat of his high-back chair where he had most recently been sleeping. To his dismay, he found his watch resting there face down. When he turned it over, he was disappointed to see that the crystal was cracked and the small hands were bent.

Me poor little innocent watch were no match for the likes of me stone-like Grimgold arse. The watch would have to go to the clockmaster’s for repair. The small crick in his back told him that he had indeed been sleeping on it.

May the devil use me backside to polish his boots! he cursed again in frustration. With his timepiece beyond immediate repair, he looked out the window of his small workshop at the sundial in the castle’s garden. The shadow on the dial informed him he’d slept for nearly two hours and the day was nearly done.

More curses emanated from Grimgold as he scooped up his timepiece, stuffed it in one of his many now empty pockets, and hobbled over to a dull brass box on the wall. The old dirty box was nearly invisible among the various racks of items and tools also there.

Reaching into his shirt, he produced a tiny key attached to a chain. He pulled the chain from the front to lift it over his head but it got caught – as it often did – on his rather large nose. This caused him to spout more oaths having to do with being forced to endure his family’s curse of having a prominent schnoz.

At last, he got the chain over his head and used the small key to open the box. His eyes scanned the seven sets of keys within, each hanging on their individual hook. A key for every single lock in Castle Belledon. He selected the ring of keys hanging farthest to the right. Lifting the set from its well-worn hook, he carefully closed the box and locked it again. His eyes fell upon the one key most different from the others. Nestled in between dozens of dull nickel keys was one of bright brass.

Come here, me old friend, the old man growled. Tis feed’n time again, and his Lordship will be want’n his fair share.

With his feeding bucket in one hand and the key in the other, Grimgold lumbered past the crowded walls of his workshop to the storage bins on the other side of the room.

What do you think his Lordship will be want’n this time, eh? he asked the key as he began to fill the bucket with bits from different bins. Will he wants his normal fair or someth’n with a touch of honey in it? Let’s have someth’n special shall we? See’n that I’m so late.

With his bucket filled to a measured height, Grimgold exited his workshop, went through the garden and entered the castle. He wound his way through the castle’s darkening passageways toward the east tower. He stopped for a moment to look at the stone walls, which were rumored to have been built by Stone Giants. The ceilings were set in an arch 10 feet high, and the passages were wide enough to accommodate a small cart.

There were no direction signs through these passageways, which seemed to meander through the belly of the castle with very little logic. If one was not familiar with the various twists and turns at each intersection, you would easily be lost. Grimgold expertly navigated the labyrinth now more by instinct than memory.

The candles set high in their brackets were still cold and yet unlit by the boy who came in the evenings. The few high windows were giving less and less light, so Grimgold was glad he decided to bring along his lamp.

It’s as right quiet as a tomb these days. Hardly a body to be seen, he grumbled to the key. A waste of me breath hav’n to huff up that cursed tower to feed his Lordship when I could just as well keep him down in the shop. Not like anyone would come to peek at him, and it’s not like he could run away.

He became silent when a castle guard came into view. Ephraim Achillus, the captain of the guard, came to see Grimgold after he received a report about the old man wandering about the castle mumbling to himself. The captain wanted to be sure Grimgold’s mental state was still solid after caring for his Lordship all these years.

Him? Round the ruddy bend? That made as much sense as making roof shingles out of toast. His Lordship was one of the reasons Grimgold was still sane.

His Lordship was there when his wife, Ginny, ran off to other parts with a cheesemaker. He was there to comfort Grimgold when his son Toby died of the bloody flux. Through all these years, while others had left, his Lordship had always been there in the tower waiting for him. But then, it wasn’t as if his Lordship had much choice in the matter.

Soon the guard was out of earshot, and Grimgold continued his conversation with the key. T’was a time when this here part of the castle was a buzz’n with souls run’n everywhere doing the king’s bidd’n. Visitors of all ranks coming to visit or bring news from the other kingdoms, he said. Now, noth’n but the breeze whistling through the passages. These days, ‘tis said the king hardly leaves his bed. He only talks to the captain and them what cleans his chambers. His majesty won’t even see doctor nor healer.

The last light from outside was dying as the brass gate of the East tower came into view.

The sun goes abed early these days. Now that it’s autumn, we hardly gets a day’s work out of him. I’ll have to light me lamp. His Lordship will be in a fine fuss about that.

He detached the small oil lamp from his belt and produced a match from one of his many vest pockets. He struck the match against the wall and then lifted his oil lamp to the match and transferred the flame there.

There! That ought to keep them shadows at bay. Noth’n’ like a bit of light to keep yer spirits up!

Grimgold ignored the twinge in his left arm and gently placed the bright key in the lock of the brass gate. The key rotated smoothly, and the latch released. The gate, of its own accord, swung silently inward toward the stone staircase that went up to the tower. Dill, the stable boy he sent here to oil the hinges, had done a fine job. He was going to have to have a word or two with the captain about his future plans for the young lad.

There were 157 stone steps to the top of the tower. No matter how he wished it, Grimgold could not make his ascent up the staircase any easier or his old legs any younger. He’d delayed choosing an apprentice for this job for much too long now. If he didn’t start soon, he wouldn’t have time to give the young man a proper education in what it meant to be a Grimgold.

Darkness finally fell as he made the top step. Although he had climbed these steps for most of his life, somehow it took him longer than usual. And what was that twinge in his arm? He dismissed it, thinking he had slept on it wrong. He hobbled into the small circular room and sat on the single wooden chair. 

Next to the chair, in the center of the room, was a huge ornate brass statue of an eight- tentacled leviathan. Its head was adorned with a jewel-encrusted crown. It was a gift to the king of Belledon from the Kingdom of Smithland some five generations prior. Grimgold doubted anyone remembered its existence as it had spent the last four generations in the tower. Although the statue was rather menacing with its towering tentacles nearly filling the entire room, Grimgold thought it hardly matched the experience of seeing a leviathan in the flesh.

Hanging from one of the leviathan’s outstretched tentacles was a small brass cage nearly covered by a cloth so worn and old its original color was a mystery. Before the cage stood a bookstand with a thick volume half read. Instinctively, Grimgold turned the book to the next page and stared into the icy blue glare of the cage’s single occupant. 

Sorry about the late hour, yer Lordship, he wheezed. But this is getting to be a bit much for the likes of an old sinner like me. I’ll put the lamp flame out as soon as you’ve had a bite.

What paltry offerings have you brought me tonight, Grimgold? croaked the thing in the cage.

3. Another Dead Woman

Glad to have the morning over, Berol lazily pushed her cart through the gravel streets toward home. Like the graveyard, her deathshop was at the edge of the city.

Her sour mood lightened as her small, bright house came into view. Getting out of her less than fresh dress and into some regular work clothes would be a welcome relief. Thank goodness she didn’t have to wear the dress all the time. She was only required to wear it as her uniform for official burials.

The hope of an uneventful midday was abandoned when Berol spied a young girl standing by her front gate. Nobody ever stood waiting at her front gate unless they were there to inform her of another death.

People would never come into the garden and sit on the bench by the front door of the house; they would always just stand outside the gate. Sometimes they wouldn’t even come to the front door and knock when she was at home. Berol made a point of checking the front of her house every so often to see if anyone was there waiting for her.

The girl didn’t come to greet her but stayed at the gate until Berol arrived with her cart. She seemed desperate to tell Berol her news yet kept a good distance away. She was actually hopping up and down in her urgency. Berol recognized the girl as Amy Wilford, who lived two streets down.

Deathtaker! shouted young Amy still hopping up and down, the Widow Menker is dead. Officer Smith found her this morning sitting in her window . . . dead! she said pointing down the street.

Mrs. Menker? asked Berol. The widow of the old veterinarian?

That’s the one, Deathtaker! She died sitting in her window last night. You have to come and get her. She’s just sitting in her window with her eyes open. It’s giving everyone on the street the willies!

Berol’s head was reeling with the news. She wanted to reassure the girl that she would come to fetch the body, but her throat had gone dry. She held tightly to her cart to steady herself.

Will you come, Deathtaker? young Amy asked again.

Yes, Berol rasped out. I need to... I need to... change into my work clothes and then I’ll come to take death away.

Thank you, Deathtaker! I’ll tell everyone you’re coming! shouted Amy, already running off. Berol watched her go off in the direction of Joanne Menker’s house. Berol knew the location of the dead woman’s house as well as her own. She was due at Joanne Menker’s house the next afternoon for tea.

Numb, Berol entered her house and went to her room, stripped off her sweaty dress and changed into her workshirt and trousers. Afterward, she went out the back door into the yard to the deathshop.

The deathshop was where she kept all the tools of her trade: cloths, shrouds, paints, knives, saws, gloves, perfumes, oils, chemicals, needles and threads. Berol went in to get a new pair of gloves and a black sheet to cover the body. Her leather apron was still in the cart.

She stopped and looked at the deathtable in the center of the room. The place she laid the bodies to prepare them for burial. The very idea of placing Joanne Menker on that table gave her a strong feeling of dread.

I suppose I’m lucky not to have had many friends, Berol mumbled to herself as she grabbed the deathtable to steady herself.

Everyone ends up on the deathtable sooner or later, Berol’s father told her when she was 6 years old. Before that, neither he nor her mother talked much about what the family did for a living. He always said he was a deathtaker, but she really wasn’t sure what that was. The bodies came and went, but the subject wasn’t discussed around her. At least Berol didn’t remember them talking about it. When she turned 6, they began to work it into normal conversation.

I don’t like having him in the deathshop, Berol told her father and mother after Toby Grimgold, one of her classmates at school, died after a long bout of the bloody flux. Why does our family have to take care of him?

Her father put a hand on her shoulder.

Does your friend being in the deathshop really bother you?

He wasn’t my friend, said Berol sharply. He was just a boy at school.

But it bothers you that it’s someone you know, said her mother.

I didn’t know any of those people who died last week. They were just some old people.

I’m sorry, dear, said her father, but I have to take care of Toby just like I take care of everyone else. His parents are depending on me to make sure that he is properly prepared for his burial tomorrow. This is how I make my living.

I know that! said Berol as she started to cry. But why do you have to be a deathtaker anyway? The other children in school don’t like to sit next to me anymore. They act as if I’ve got some sort of smell around me. Some of them say that Toby Grimgold died because I touched him and put the Deathtaker’s Curse on him!

First off, there is no curse on you, said Berol’s father as he sat down and put her on his lap. There is no such thing as the Deathtaker’s Curse. As children get older, they become very afraid of death. Most people are. They fear it as though it was clinging to them every time they passed through a shadow. They think by even touching something dead, some part of that death will rub off on them and they will fall dead, too.

So the other children are going to be afraid of me from now on? asked Berol. Even though the curse isn’t real?

Berol’s father looked into her teary eyes. I hope they won’t, but we’ll just have to wait and see. We hope people will see us for who we are rather than what we do.

Did children treat you like that when you were in school? she asked him.

Yes, other children treated me differently when they learned my father was a deathtaker.  But I knew we came from a long line of deathtakers, and we have served this city well. I was proud that my father was a deathtaker, and I wanted to be just like him.

Do you want me to be a deathtaker too, daddy?

Not if you don’t want to. Being a deathtaker is a rather messy, lonely life. I am so very lucky to have your mother and you for company. I haven’t heard of many women deathtakers, but there are a few. Your mother, for instance, was the best deathtaker in our class at the university.

Mommy, you’re a deathtaker, too?

I’m sure I told you that I met your father at the Guild University, said her mother. I was there because I wanted to be a deathtaker like my father, too. Remember me telling you that both your grandfathers were deathtakers?

Yes, but I didn’t think about you being a deathtaker!

When you’re at school and things get busy, I spend as much time in the deathshop as your father.

She helps me with the most difficult bodies that come in, said her father. She has a way with a needle and thread that is the envy of every deathtaker from Belledon to Manscrip.

You said I don’t have to be a deathtaker if I don’t want to, said Berol, feeling that the conversation was drifting away from the most important subject: her. You won’t be disappointed if I do something else? Do I have to tell you now? asked Berol, drying her eyes on her sleeve.

We sent you to school so you could learn about other things. We don’t want to force you into the family business, said her mother. The final decision has been – and always will be – yours. You’re still very young. Concentrate on your lessons, and keep your mind open to possibilities. 

It would be easier if my classmates weren’t so strange about you being a deathtaker, said Berol. Jerry Smith will hardly talk to me anymore.

Sorry about that, said her father, giving her a hug. When your grandfather started teaching me the ways of the deathtakers, I was afraid people would come back and haunt me as ghosts. I suppose I was just like everyone else. Maybe just like Jerry Smith.

Not anymore? Berol asked.

We’ve learned not to be afraid of the dead, said her mother. Do you suppose the butcher thinks a snail ghost will come haunt him after he’s slaughtered it? He’s someone who actually deals out death every day, yet we depend on him for our food. Do you suppose your Uncle Gunar thinks about chicken ghosts?

Chicken ghosts! Berol giggled. Mommy, you are just being silly!

I am not! she chided her. Now off to bed with you. I have some things to finish in the kitchen, and your father has some work to do in the deathshop before the morning comes.

Still standing with her hand on the deathtable, Berol was again in the present day.

This is what we do, she said quietly. We take care of the dead. With shaky hands, she hardened her resolve and took her things out to her cart.

The morning, which started out lovely, now was just too bright and cheery for Berol’s mood. She only saw everything peripherally as if someone else was pulling the cart instead of her. People stood and watched as she made her way down the street with her empty cart – something the deathtakers call the The Parade.

People always stopped to watch and see where Berol was going. They were always hoping the deathtaker would not stop at a house they knew.

She turned the corner by the feed store and started down Joanne Menker’s street. From her vantage point, she could see a crowd of people standing outside, including Officer Jerry Smith.

As Berol walked up with her cart, she could hear the officer tell everyone to disperse. He stood between them and Joanne’s house in his crisp green Belledonian Police uniform – the perfect picture of a dashing officer of the law.

The deathtaker will take care of this situation, he said in an earnest tone. Go back to your houses! You have seen all there is to see here!

This caused the crowd to recede a bit, but a few dedicated onlookers simply backed up but didn’t leave.

Morning, Berol, said Officer Jerry Smith casually.

Like many people her age, Berol had gone to school with Jerry Smith. She remembered a time when he wanted to sit next to her in class. Other kids used to tease them about being an item. Together, they often pretended to be two of the most famous of The First. She as John Masterson and he as Daniel Dullard would go off on a grand adventure. That is, until Jerry learned about the Deathtaker’s Curse. Afterward, he no longer sat next to Berol. He continued to be nice to her, but their relationship was never the same.

Through the years, they always referred to each other by their first names rather than their titles. These days, their relationship was friendly but mostly professional. Jerry was often there when she did a body collection. Sometimes they would have to work together on a murder or a suspicious death.

Good morning, Jerry, she replied quietly, not looking up at the body in the window but concentrating on putting on her apron and gloves.

This is a real head scratcher, Berol, said Smith. I’ve never seen anything like it. I’d say old Joanne Menker took her last breath sometime in the middle of the night and just died right there sitting in her window. I sent Amy Wilford to get you as soon as I found her. I know you and Joanne were good friends. I would have sent for a different deathtaker, but you’re the only one in town.

Thanks for the thought, Jerry, said Berol a bit flatly. I can handle it. It’s what I do.

Berol finally looked up at the window. Her blood froze. Joanne’s eyes were fixed directly upon her. It was as if Joanne died knowing that Berol would be standing right in that spot. She shook off the feeling, knowing it was just a strange coincidence. Deathtaking was always full of strange coincidences.

Joanne’s body was leaning – almost lounging – on the left side of the windowsill. Her chin rested on her chest. Her face was facing to the right as if she were waiting for someone to come down the street. Her hands were serenely in her lap. Her legs were outside the window as if she were perched on the edge somehow.

Sitting on the edge like that I would have thought she would have fallen out of the window by now, said Smith.

Stranger still was the fact that she was adorned in her fine wool traveling cloak. To a passer-by, it might have looked as though she had died while trying to secretly elope with some unseen suitor.

Despite the strangeness of the scene, Berol almost smiled. Joanne Menker had always said you should always dress properly for any special occasion. A traveling cloak seemed more than appropriate for traveling on to her next life. Yet, it all seemed bizarre: her gaze, her clothes and her pose in the window. No wonder Amy Wilford had gotten the willies. The sooner Berol removed Joanne’s body from the window, the better.

Most people don’t die after climbing out of windows in their traveling attire. Berol expected the town gossips would spread some rumor that the old woman was enchanted by some spell or some other superstitious rot.

Officer Smith came with Berol as she went to inspect the body.

First, she checked for a pulse. There was none.

This is just too strange, said Smith. Is there any chance someone killed her and propped her up there like that?

I don’t see any signs of a struggle or any violence. Berol said. It looks like she got dressed, sat up here on the window and just died.

With her eyes open like that? It looks like she was just waiting for death to come and take her. Hey, maybe she was waiting for you to come and take her.

That’s not funny, Jerry.

Sorry, he said, but I was sort of being serious. You don’t think she might have poisoned herself, do you?

Joanne wasn’t suicidal. I was just here two days ago having tea with her.

Did she say anything strange to you then?

Nothing stranger than usual, but Joanne was a bit of an eccentric, said Berol as she began to recall the first day Joanne Menker came to her door. It had been strange from the beginning.

4. The Widow Menker

Belledon had many farms on the outskirts of the city, so there were more than a few animal healers and veterinarians employed to support the needs of the farms.

Berol’s Uncle Gunar had been friends with the Menkers for many years. He often said that Hector Menker was the only veterinarian he ever truly trusted.

Berol remembered the kindly face of the elderly man walking around Gunar’s farm. He always wore his worn workshirt and straw hat, looking more like an old farmhand than a veterinarian.

Hector and Joanne Menker had lived in Belledon since Berol was a small girl. In all those years, Joanne hadn’t said more to Berol than good morning and good day or oh, what a pretty dress. Other times, Joanne simply waved and smiled at her.

Joanne was a small woman with a slight build. The stark whiteness of her long, coarse hair was offset by the limitless depths of her dark brown eyes. Eyes framed by jet-black bushy eyebrows, giving her a perpetual serious gaze. Despite this sober gaze, Joanne’s face was covered in laugh lines that extended to a ready smile.

The old veterinarian and his wife seemed normal to the point of being dull. They had few friends and kept pretty much to themselves.

Although Berol’s father and Gunar had been friends with Hector, neither her mother nor Aunt Sandra befriended Joanne. It seemed Joanne only desired any sort of other company after the death of her husband. Berol thought maybe Joanne reached out to her because they were both single women living alone.

After her mother died, Berol reluctantly joined her father in the family deathtaking business. The one other deathtaker had retired and moved to Bensdale. Berol and her father immediately requested the Deathtaker’s Guild send another deathmaster and deathtaker to replace him. The city was too large for just two deathtakers. The Guild never answered their request.

Years went by, and Berol and her father struggled to meet the needs of the city. Every now and then deathtakers from the surrounding towns would come and help. Then her father became ill and died, leaving Berol as the lone deathtaker in the capital city.

With her father gone, the workload that was problematic before became impossible. Berol did all she could do to keep up with the demands. To Berol, it was something of a blessing because she could distract herself from all her sorrows and loneliness with the abundance of work. Even though she worked at a frantic pace, she could barely keep up.

Berol wrote the king asking if he would make an official request to the Deathtaker’s Guild to send more deathtakers. This time the Guild did answer. They told the king there were no available deathtakers to send and she would have to get by until there was someone who was available. She couldn’t even take on an apprentice because only deathmasters were allowed to train new deathtakers.

Berol began to think it was some sort of test of her competency as a deathtaker. Was the Guild trying to see how long a single deathtaker in a large city could last before dropping dead from sheer exhaustion?

Then something strange happened. For a week, nobody in the city died. Berol kept checking the elder care homes and the hospitals, but there were no deaths. All was quiet. She wasn’t sure which was worse, an unending line of corpses or absolutely nothing.

After Berol cleaned all her tools and reorganized the deathshop for the third time, she went up into the mountains behind the castle to get some fresh air. She hiked to her favorite spot nearly halfway up the mountain. There was a clearing where she could see the entire city. One rock there was particularly comfortable for sitting. So, she sat there and lazily gazed at the city below.

Before her parents died, Berol spent many an afternoon sitting on the rock contemplating her life aloud. It was as if the rock were actually listening to her. Her regrets, passions, thoughts and dreams seemed to cascade from her mouth and sink into the very stones. She always felt better after discussing things in her favorite spot with her favorite rock.

Two days later, Joanne Menker came to Berol’s door asking her to collect Hector’s body. Hector died when a particularly large snail he was treating, panicked and withdrew completely into its shell. It withdrew so quickly that it fell over on its side, crushing Hector in the process.

Joanne dabbed tears from the corners of her eyes with a handkerchief and told Berol that she knew working with large animals would someday be the death of him.

Berol dressed Hector in his best traveling outfit. She also performed cosmetic repair on his visible wounds. The widow insisted on viewing the body to ensure that Hector looked good before he was sent off.

He makes quite a handsome corpse don’t you think, dear? she asked Berol. That rascal kept his good looks until the very end. You’ve done a wonderful job of repairing that nasty gash on his cheek. His color looks good, too.

Berol looked at her in shock. No one had ever reacted to her work like that before. That is, unless they were in the deathtaking trade. Most people were too overcome with grief to even manage a normal conversation.

You have had some experience with deathtaking, Mrs. Menker? asked Berol.

No I don’t, Deathtaker. Oh, don’t be so dumbfounded that I’d talk about how Hector looks as a corpse, said the new widow. I’ve had a long time to deal with the idea of Hector dying. His death was ... expected. I knew he was going to die soon, but I just did not know how exactly. I should have guessed it would have something to do with the care of animals. You know he always had a fondness for the larger snails. When I found out he was going to die, I cried for nearly a month. Hector didn’t have a clue why. I’m pretty much over that now. I guess I’m all cried out.

Berol walked Joanne back out to the front garden. The old woman leaned over to Berol to whisper in her ear.

I found out about Hector’s death nearly two years ago. I was so sad and confused. I dared not tell him. There are some people you just can’t tell these things. It was bad enough that I knew. After I got over the crying, I decided that I would enjoy what time I had left with him and not worry about how he would meet his end.

Um ... are you all right, Mrs. Menker? asked Berol, concerned that the stress of losing her husband was causing the old woman to be delusional. Sometimes older folks were delusional anyway. If Mrs. Menker had been delusional all along that might explain why the Menkers kept to themselves.

The old woman smiled.

They always asked if I was delusional in the town where I was born. But I’m fine. I’m just a bit flustered, dear. I must learn to just stay quiet and keep all these little things to myself.

Berol wondered if she just imagined that Mrs. Menker was responding to what she was thinking. 

Why are you telling me all this, Mrs. Menker?

The old woman showed all her bright white teeth in a glowing smile and said simply, You need to know things like this, child. I don’t know why you need to know them, and I will, no doubt, be dead by the time you know why you need to know them.

She paused.

But I do know that you need to know them. Oh dear me, it almost sounds like an old song. She spied a man walking by the deathshop with a jayolin slung over his shoulder. Why Master Calin. Are you in a rush to get anywhere?

Good day to you, Mrs. Menker, and you too, Deathtaker, said Poetsinger Calin in a warm, resonant tone while leaning over the gate. Do you have need of my service?

Indeed we do, Master Calin! said Mrs. Menker, going through the gate and dragging the poetsinger into the garden. Do you remember that song I taught you a few years ago? It was called ‘The things she knows.’ I was just about to tell Miss Lackey about it.

Ah yes, said the poetsinger. A funny little folk piece that does very well in taverns after the clients have imbibed a bit too much.

Would a pair of coppers be enough for you to sing it for me in this lovely garden? asked Mrs. Menker. It would cheer the heart of a new widow to hear it.

Though a deathtaker’s garden is a venue I have never played, said Calin unslinging his jayolin and strumming the strings to check the tuning, it would be my honor. You’ll join me for the reprise won’t you, ma’am?

If you don’t mind the sound of an old crone’s cackle, said Mrs. Menker.

And what of you, Deathtaker? asked the colorful poetsinger. I know for a fact that you have a sweet voice.

I don’t know the tune, Berol said shyly. I shall let you both be my instructors.

This is how it goes then, said Master Calin beginning to strum his instrument and sing.

She didn’t know why the snows were cold

Or why men’s blood was often bold

Or how many times could a paper fold

Still she knows the things she knows

She didn’t know why the rooster crows

Or why the clumsy fall down in holes

Or why the fish like to swim in shoals

Still she knows the things she knows

Mrs. Menker joined in while singing her own harmony.

She talks quickly but her mind, it slows

Still she knows the things she knows

But still not why she needs to know

Yet she knows the things she knows

But when she became ancient and old

When her youth was used and sold

And all her children were there to scold

Still she knows the things she knows

Then she told her tales in prose

Where the flowers, they like to grow

And why chickens, they won’t wear clothes

Still she knows the things she knows

She talks quickly but her mind, it slows

Still she knows the things she knows

But still not why she needs to know

Yet she knows the things she knows

Still she knows the things she knows

After Calin strummed the last few chords both Berol and Mrs. Menker applauded him heartily, as did a few passers-by who stopped to listen. Mrs. Menker gave the poetsinger his promised coins and sent him on his way.

That was quite a little song, Mrs. Menker, said Berol. It was funny but does it have some sort of meaning?

Perhaps it does, said Mrs. Menker. Perhaps not. I always thought that it had to do with the difference between knowing something and understanding something.

She knows the things she knows but not why she needs to know, pondered Berol.

There are a few things that you do need to know, dear, said the old woman mysteriously.

What is it that I needs ... I mean need to know, Mrs. Menker?

First off, you need to call me Joanne. The rest I will tell you at some other time. You know, I am not just some grieving old woman. You and I should have a chat soon. For now, I will leave you to finish getting Hector ready for his burial tomorrow. I’ll see you in the morning. Good day.

Berol said nothing as the old woman left through the front gate of the garden. Surely it had been her imagination that the woman had somehow read her thoughts. Mrs. Menker was under stress, talking nonsense and just happened to say what was on Berol’s mind by coincidence.

The next morning, Berol carted Hector’s body to the graveyard. Only a few mourners were there: Mrs. Menker, wearing a simple dress; Poultrymaster Gunar Playscale (her Uncle Gunar); and Royal Tinker William Grimgold. The only other people in attendance were the gravediggers.

Berol asked Mrs. Menker if anyone else was coming to the burial. The new widow told her that Hector asked that his burial be a simple affair of slipping his body under the earth: no ceremony to speak of and no reading of a passage from the Histories. The widow didn’t mention anything about their conversation of the day before.

With little else to do, the gravediggers lowered Hector’s body into the grave. Mrs. Menker unceremoniously grabbed one of the shovels and began to throw dirt into the grave until the body could no longer be seen. She gave a resigned nod as if to say a job well done.

She then turned to one of the young gravediggers, Jerol, and asked if he could finish the burial without her. She paid both the gravediggers and Berol their standard fees and headed for the main gate of the graveyard as if she had a pressing engagement elsewhere. Mr. Grimgold offered to walk her home, and she graciously accepted.

Jerol picked up his shovel and turned to Berol.

I ain’t seen a burial this lonely since we buried that old drifter who dropped dead near three years ago. In truth, I seen people make more a fuss about their pets. I remember old Hector being liked by most of the farmers round here. Don’t seem right just stuffing him in the ground like that. They did like each other, didn’t they?

I wouldn’t worry about that, Jerol, said Gunar. They were as good as it gets as a couple, and this burial seems about what old Hector would have liked: just a few of us and no fuss.

Still just don’t seem right... Jerol continued as he began to shovel the rest of the dirt into the grave. Gunar walked with Berol to the graveyard gates.

How are things with you, Berol?

The thin balding poultymaster had been a friend of the family since before Berol was born. To her, he had always been Uncle Gunar. He and his wife, Sandra, were often looking in on her now that her father had passed on.

She sometimes spent her breaks from school at Gunar’s poultry farm and learned early that poultry farming was not for her. She was allergic to feathers.

Things slowed down for a bit, replied Berol, but now it’s as busy as always.

No news from the Deathtaker’s Guild yet?

They wrote back to the king saying they don’t have anyone to send.

You should write to them again, said Gunar. Tell him it’s high time you were granted your own deathmaster status. You’ve been doing the job at that level for years now.

Thanks, said Berol. But they won’t give it to me until I’ve taken my master examination, and I can’t leave here to go to the university to take it.

You would know best, said Gunar. But Sandra and me would like it if you would take some time for yourself. Too much work will be the death of you rather than your clients. The way you been driving yourself can’t be good. Why don’t you come down to the farm for a few days and visit with us. I swear you won’t have to go out there with the chickens and get a snoot full of feathers.

I’ll come over the next time things slow down, said Berol. Tell Aunt Sandra not to just happen to have any young men there for me to meet. She always neglects to tell them what I do for a living.

If truth be told, said Gunar, I can’t tell if she’s really trying to find someone for you or she just enjoys the show when they find out that you’re a deathtaker. I think you’re safe for a while. I’m pretty sure she’s run out of candidates.

Berol looked to see if there was anyone listening to them.

Uncle, you know Joanne Menker pretty well, right?

Sure do, and Hector an’ me go way back.

"Does