I awoke to discover a dead man standing in the garden.

Now I stand near my bedroom window watching him. Mist swirls around his emaciated figure, and obscures his mottled face. Yet, I recognize him even in the darkness of the night.

I scurry across the rough wooden floor to my sister’s bed on the other side of our small room and shake her awake.

“Leave me alone, Ilyse,” she mutters beneath her blankets. She burrows deeper, leaving only the halo of her blonde hair on the pillow.

“Carrie, Schoolmaster Simmons is in the garden,” I whisper.

Flipping the covers down, she glares at me. “Schoolmaster Simmons is dead.”

Returning her peeved look, I say, “I know he’s dead. But he’s still in our garden.”

Lifting herself onto her elbow, she stares at me, her eyes slowly filling with understanding. “Oh. Again?”

“We have to return him to the Perdition Sanctuary before Father discovers him. Hurry.”

My heart is beating so hard in my chest it feels like it will shatter my ribs. How many times will this happen before my father discovers one of the Beloved Dead staring at our bedroom window from our garden and my fate is sealed?

I grab my hooded robe from the hook on the wall near our bedroom door and shove my feet into my leather slippers. Behind me, I hear Carrie doing the same.

“Why does this keep happening?” Carrie’s frustration bleeds into her hushed voice.

“I don’t know.”

I don’t dare share my fears with her. If she knows what I suspect, my younger sister will panic, and my father will certainly notice. She’s an awful liar.

Carrie stretches out on her stomach to pull her control pole free from its hiding place. I do the same, my fingers searching the edge of the bedframe until I find my pole, and dislodge it. I’d managed to trade a traveling merchant for the two poles after the first time we had to deal with one of the Beloved Dead. We’d been forced to use tree branches to usher poor Miss Chao back to the Perdition Sanctuary. Hiding the tools from our father is necessary since women aren’t allowed to interact with the Blessed Dead.

Carrie shrugs on her robe and pulls the hood over her head. “Are we the only ones dealing with them somehow getting out?”

“Maybe.” I twist my light auburn hair into a bun at the nape of my neck and set the hood over it. “If others are dealing with the Beloved Dead escaping the Perdition Sanctuary, they’re not speaking of it openly.”

“Just like us.” She picks up her pole, her expression pensive. “Should we tell?”

I shake my head. “We can’t risk our names being tarnished with scandal. My Bridal Auction is in a week. Yours is in two years. We must be of Pious Standing to secure husbands.”

With a disgruntled look, Carrie hurries to the window next to my bed. “Sometimes I tire of always being in Pious Standing.”

I flinch at her words. I’m much more cautious than my younger sister when it comes to criticizing the way of life in the Atonement Settlement. Over my seventeen years, I’ve witnessed the repercussions that’ve come with falling out of Pious Standing. At two years younger, Carrie is sheltered by our father and aunt. Sometimes I wonder if that’s a wise choice on their part. My father fears that we’ll imitate our eldest sister’s rebellion and bolt in the middle of the night into the Dead Lands beyond the walls of our settlement. He’s done his best to instill fear into our hearts and train us in the way of the Lost Texts, but despite his best endeavors, the world appears to conspire against us. If anyone sees the Beloved Dead in our garden, we’ll be suspected of being necromancers and put on trial.

Armed with my pole, I unlatch the locks on the top and the bottom of the lead glass. Carefully, I swing the heavy window panes outward. I step over the sill and onto the grass. The mist stirs around my feet, cold and damp. Carrie follows in my wake, her fingers tight around her pole. The thick plastic loop at the end of my mine swings back and forth as I approach Schoolmaster Simmons.

My former mentor stands among the strawberries, his head tilted to one side, staring at us with white, empty eyes as we approach. The sleeve of his tattered coat is folded and pinned over the stump of his arm. He was born in the Radiated Lands without a full arm on one side and with missing fingers on the other. Not one week dead, he still retains some semblance to the man he’d been in life.

I miss his gentle guidance in my studies.

I’d been dreaming of our last conversation when I’d awakened to see him in the garden.

Is that why he now stands in front of us?

Have I summoned him somehow?

He does not stir at our approach. Since he was blind in life, I assume he must be blind as a Beloved Dead, yet he appears transfixed by something unseen just like the other three we’d found in our garden. This observation makes me uneasy.

“I’ll go first,” I whisper to Carrie.

The Beloved Dead are sanctified before they are placed in the Perdition Sanctuary, but they’re still as dangerous as the Unblessed Dead. I was surprised at this discovery, for we are taught at the Wednesday Gatherings that they are at peace, unlike the dead beyond the walls. It was when we’d had to return Miss Chao that I discovered this teaching was not the truth. It had shaken my faith enough for me to consider Schoolmaster Simmons’s suggestion I apply to the Academy in The Republic. But now that he is gone, I have no hope of a sponsor into the scholastic world. Instead, I will stand among all the other young women my age and endure the Bridal Auction.

Approaching my old friend, I raise the pole so the loop dangles close to his head. His craggy cheeks and long nose give him a skeletal appearance in the dim light. Fear ripples through me as his blind eyes appear to shift to observe me.

“Ilyse, be careful. Remember the other two,” Carrie whispers before she gingerly steps around the plants to position herself behind our former teacher. “They don’t attack until you try to trap them.”

The mist churns around us, obscuring the walls surrounding the garden and our squat stone house with the thick thatched roof. The Blessed Dead have only appeared in our garden when the fog flows off the river. I wonder over this, but not for long.

My former mentor lunges toward me with an agonized moan just as I’m about to lower the loop around his head. It slides off onto his shoulder, and I scurry backward, keeping out of his reach. He sweeps his one arm at me, slicing the moist air between us. Face contorting with desperate hunger, he again charges me. His coffee-stained teeth champ together, biting at the air. I dread the thought of those teeth sinking into me. Deflecting the attack, I shove the end of the pole with great force into his chest and push him from me. He moans again, a mournful yet desperate sound that reverberates through me like the strum of a harp. The walls of our house are thick, and I pray that my father and aunt don’t hear our struggle.

Behind him, Carrie surges forward and snags his head with the loop of her control pole. He swings about toward her, growling as his three-fingered hand slaps at the metal bar. The stump of his other arm flails in my direction. Despite the blessing oil he was anointed with before he was placed in the Perdition Sanctuary, he reeks of death. I recoil at the smell, but push away my repulsion and hurry to assist my sister. I reposition my control pole near his head and lower the loop. It settles at the base of his neck, and I tighten it around his throat, cutting off his moans. The rod trembles beneath the press of his dead flesh.

With a nervous giggle, Carrie says, “That was a little scary.”

“We did better this time than the last,” I remind her. I still remember the feel of Mistress Trevino’s fingers on my skin when we caught her near our orange trees.

“Let’s hurry. I want more sleep,” my sister whispers.

The Beloved Dead writhes between us, attempting to attack me, then my sister. Back and forth he swings, desperate for our blood and flesh. The staves are a strong alloy and withstand his assault. Sadly, our strawberry plants have taken the brunt of the struggle. We’ll have to blame the raccoons once again.

Keeping my former teacher between us, we drag him toward the iron gate in the far corner of the wall. The mist grows thicker as we near it, and the flagstone walkway is slick under our leather slippers. We rotate about so I can unlatch the gate and open it. Schoolmaster Simmons struggles against the loops tightened around his neck. His three fingers tug at my pole, his pale white eyes seeming to stare through me.

Pushing the gate open, I step onto the long narrow path sandwiched between the high wall that guards us from the outside world and the walls that surround the long line of houses. In the distance, the Perdition Sanctuary waits for us. The iron structure towers high above the houses, the steeple a sharp dagger piercing the fog.

I pull Schoolmaster Simmons into the passage and tug him along the path. My sister follows, her pole pushed into the back of his neck. We keep him between us as we direct him toward his new home. He thrashes about, pulling on the restraint around his neck. My muscles tense as I try to hold him steady. Carrie is smaller than I, but stronger. A childhood illness weakened me, and I have never fully recovered. My sister pulls his head back, forcing him to bow his back. It helps me control him as I pull him down the pathway. The passage is only used during the day, so we trod along without fear of detection. The ominous shadows grant us cover as the fog pours over the high wall to pool around us.

I count down the houses we pass. There are seven between our home and the Perdition Sanctuary. All the windows are dark. The only light piercing the haze is the full moon. A few dogs bark as we pass the enclosed yards, but my sister shushes them. They adore her, and quiet at the sound of her voice. She often gives them treats from her apron when she walks to and from school. I’m grateful for her kindness. The dogs quieting means less chances of us being discovered and hauled before the Board of Crats.

Each step is not without difficulty. The Blessed Dead staggers between us, falling against the walls as it tries to reach me and fails. Thick, disgusting fluid seeps from his neck where the plastic loops hold him captive. My back and arms scream with pain as I tug him onward. When we finally reach the gate at the end of the passage, I’m relieved. My fingers find the latch and I swing open the gate.

Perdition Sanctuary looms over us. Its dark and imposing iron facade seems to reject the dim moonlight, and it’s darker here. Blinking, I try to adjust to the deeper gloom. Sadly, Carrie and I know this area well. We have returned the Blessed Dead twice before, and I dread having to do it again.

We guide the dead man forward. One of the Sanctification Altars is directly in front of us. Abruptly, he twists about to face my sister. It’s as if he understands what we’re about to do. His action startles us, but Carrie quickly darts to one side so we can drag him between us. Maybe it’s my imagination, but he seems reluctant to return.

The Sanctification Altar is a man-size drawer that extends outward from the base of the building. On an elevated platform inside the drawer, iron cuffs are bolted to the surface and await the dead: one for the neck, two for the arms, and two more for the legs. This is the most difficult part of our task. The altar is for the freshly dead who have yet to rise. Carrie and I have had to sort out how to wrestle a writhing living corpse onto the altar. We nearly lost Miss Chao the first time.

Carrie is the stronger of us, so she moves to the head of the altar. I slide my pole’s loop free of the Blessed Dead’s head and press the end into his waist, forcing him to fold over as he attempts to grab me. As Carrie pulls, I push, and we manage to get him seated upon the altar. My sister pulls him backward with the pole as I dare to grab his ankles, and pivot him about so we can lay him flat. He jerks toward me, mouth wide to bite, but Carrie drags him back.

Thrashing about, the dead man fights to escape while I secure his feet with the iron restraints. Carrie holds his head in place with her pole as I grab his arm and try to force it into the restraint at his side. His snarls grow louder, and a dog starts to howl nearby. He fights me, his three fingers trying to grip my clothing and pull me down to his hungry mouth.

“I can’t hold him much longer!” my sister exclaims. “Get his head secure and be done with it!”

His stubby arm smacks against me as I lean over his prone body to snap close the restraint that will hold his head in place. His fingers claw at my cloak, but he is unable to get a good grip. Surging forward against the plastic tightened around his neck, he snaps his teeth in my direction. Desperate to bite, he pulls so hard against the loop it burrows deep into his flesh. Foul smelling liquid pours from the wound.

“Stop,” I impulsively order him.

Teeth snapping shut, he stares at me and does not move.

I’m shocked that he has obeyed.

I can see Carrie is, too.

Hastily I clamp the cuff around his neck.

With a disgusted expression, Carrie jerks the plastic loop free of his rotting flesh and sets her pole on the ground. Since we’re not one of the Brethren of the Sanctuary, there won’t be a sanctification ritual. Carrie pulls the lever that slides the heavy drawer into the side of the building.

The gears of the internal mechanism work flawlessly. The platform lowers into the drawer and the entire thing glides into the side of the building. We ignore his hand reaching for us, trying to stop us from banishing him to dwell with the rest of the Blessed Dead. The drawer locks into place. I reach out to place my palm against the hatch and feel the metal shuddering beneath it as the platform is pulled through an internal safety door to the other side. Next the shackles will be released so that the Blessed Dead will be deposited into the Perdition Sanctuary.

Carrie sags against the closed drawer with relief. “That was gruesome. The others didn’t fight that much.”

The closed metal drawer shudders against our backs as the cleansing process removes any body fluids from the platform and shackles.

“He was taller and bigger.” My arms and back ache from our struggle.

Carrie leans her head against my shoulder.

Silence stretches between us.

“He stopped when you told him to,” she says in a hesitant manner.

I can feel her watching me.

“Do you think...” she falters.

“Maybe I startled him,” I reply swiftly, trying not to let fear seep into my voice.

“Maybe he remembered you? Just for a moment?” Her gaze drifts to the observation window that is currently shuttered. In front of it are flowers tucked into bases left by the grieving. “Do you think Mother remembers us?”

“I hope not,” I answer truthfully.

Carrie picks up her pole and starts to walk back to the gate, but stops. I know what she’ll do. She can’t help herself. It’s a daily ritual which I don’t understand. I don’t know how she finds comfort in it. I start to step forward to follow, but my slipper rolls over something. I squat down to see one of Schoolmaster Simmon’s fingers lying on the ground. It must have been severed when the drawer closed.

Casting a worried look toward my sister, I see her sliding open the panel over the observation window. Her attention is solely focused on seeing our mother inside the sanctuary.

Hastily, I kick the finger over to the wall and dig a small hole into the dark soil with the end of my pole. When it’s a few inches deep, I push the finger into the small grave with the toe of my slipper.

Again, I look at Carrie. She stands with her hands pressed to the thick wall of glass, completely focused on the Blessed Dead.

I scoot the dirt into place with my foot and pat it down. My heart is beating anxiously once again. The final evidence of our sordid adventure is buried. It feels disrespectful to not return the severed digit to my former mentor, but I don’t know what else to do.

“Carrie,” I hiss. “We need to go.”

We need to return home before we’re discovered missing.

Looking over her shoulder at me, Carrie says, “Is that her, Ilyse?”

I hurry over to the observation window to pull her away, but her tormented expression stills my hand on her arm. I force myself to gaze into the Perdition Sanctuary. The Blessed Dead of the Atonement Settlement wander about the huge space inside. Mottled flesh, white eyes, straw-like hair, desiccated limbs, and gaping mouths filled with rotten teeth and black bile renders the appearance of all the older Blessed Dead indistinguishable from each other. Only the freshly dead bear any resemblance to their living faces. Schoolmaster Simmons stumbles along, standing out amidst his brethren. It occurs to me that only the freshly dead have appeared in our garden.

“Is that her, Ilyse?” Carrie whispers.

The dim light inside the building is deliberate. It’s to obscure the worst of the Blessed Dead’s decay. The dead cannot see us. The thick observation window, threaded with bars of iron, only allows us to see them. Through the cluster of bodies, I see the figure my sister is pointing to. My heart hammers harder against my ribs.

Our mother stands alone in the center of the Blessed Dead. Her once rich brown hair is matted to her face and neck. Her long dress is in tatters. Somehow her shawl has remained pinned about her shoulders all these long years. Around her neck is a necklace with a silver rose.

“No, I don’t think so,” I lie.

“I wish I knew which one is her. I don’t remember her face at all,” Carrie says, sighing.

“Should I describe her again?” I ask.

The Atonement Settlement’s disdain for technology is only matched by its hatred of the arts. We don’t own a vid, photo, or sketch of my mother. My memory of her is fading, but every day I try to remember the details of her face.

“Please?”

I move to close the panel over the observation window as Carrie turns away. “She had long brown hair with glints of red. Her skin was darker than ours. Like burnished wood. Her eyes were hazel, and shaped like a cat’s.” My fingers catch the handle on the panel, and I draw it slowly over the window so as not to make too much noise.

Carrie waits for me, her head bowed under her hood and her fingers gripping the control pole tightly.

I continue to describe our mother as I ignore her decayed figure beyond the thick glass. The metal panel is heavy, and I turn to face the window as I use both hands to draw it shut.

My mother’s dead face comes into view as she rushes the window. My voice falters, and my fingers tremble. One skeletal hand rests against the glass she should not be able to see through, and her dead white eyes seem to stare into mine. Her mouth strains to form shapes, as though she’s attempting to say words.

With a whimper, I pull the panel shut, blocking her from view.

“Ilyse?” Carrie is staring at me.

“We need to hurry.” I rush toward her and grab her hand.

“What did you see? You saw something, didn’t you?”

I wrench open the gate and push her into the passage. “I saw the Blessed Dead. Just as you did.”

“But you’re trembling.”

I do not pause in my haste to return home. I drag her along with me. The dogs are silent. The mist is thicker. I feel pursued by the gaze of my dead mother.

“Ilyse?”

Finally, we arrive at our gate, and I push it open for her. She refuses to step through, her chin set in defiance.

“What did you see?” she asks me, anger flashing in her eyes.

“Nothing,” I answer. “I didn’t want to be discovered. My Bridal Auction is next week, remember?”

With a sigh, she says, “I thought you saw her. Sometimes, I feel as though she’s watching me when I visit. But I can never tell which one is her.”

“It doesn’t matter. She’s one of the Blessed Dead awaiting the Resurrection. And we are the living. Her daughters. Awaiting our Bridal Auction and a life of Piety and Serenity. We must remember that.”

I can see my words have dampened her spirits. She presses past me to clean off her control pole with the garden pump. I do the same, then we climb through our window. We hide away the poles, make sure the soles of our slippers are clean, and shake out our robes. Finally, I close the heavy panes of the window, and crawl into my bed.

Darkness dwells in the corners of the room and the mist piles against the leaded glass of the window. Turning my face into my pillow, I hide my tears and sobs from my sister.

If I am a necromancer like our mother was, I am doomed.

Next Week: Choices to be Made

Ilyse discovers that her path in life may not be as set in stone as she thought.

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