Steven George & the Terror
22
Grave
TOM THE GRAVEDIGGER and Steven talked companionably well into the night as they drank wine from the supply in the inn. Steven put a silver coin on the bar for each bottle they took. Tom gravely went behind the bar, tapped the coin twice on the wood, and then pocketed it. Steven laughed at the gravedigger until tears ran from his eyes.
In the morning, Steven was awakened from where he had fallen asleep next to the fire by joyful whistling outside the inn. He staggered to his feet, holding his head. He was not used to sharing such a large quantity of wine and his head threatened to explode with every step.
The whistling proved to be coming from the gravedigger as he scuffled around outside, preparing his tools for another day in the cemetery. He greeted Steven cheerfully and pushed a cup of hot steamy liquid into his hands.
“Drink this,” Tom said, brightly. “You’ll have your head back in no time.”
Steven dutifully sampled the liquid and found that it was surprisingly bitter and pleasant all at once. He burnt his tongue on the first sip, but was progressively able to take more of the liquid down. His stomach began to settle and his headache diminished.
“Are you going back to dig more graves?” Steven asked.
“Yes,” said Tom, solemnly. “A man’s work is never done. I figure I have three more days of safely liberating the treasures of yon graveyard before I need to pick myself up and move far away.”
“Why only three days?” Steven asked. “Surely no one is coming back here while the Terror is terrorizing them.”
“That’s just it,” Tom said, forlornly. “The Terror will be gone in that time, so the people will start returning. They aren’t likely to notice that the ground has been turned for the first few days they are back, but if there were open holes, they’d get suspicious mighty fast. It wouldn’t be healthy for me to actually be digging graves when they arrived.”
“Why do you think they will start returning in three days?” asked Steven.
“Well now,” said the gravedigger, “where did you say you were heading to?”
“Rich Reach,” Steven answered.
“That would be about three days’ journey from here,” Tom said. “Which means that when people see you and hear that you’ve vanquished the Terror, they’ll give you a hero’s welcome and then head back home. By the time they get three days back here, I want to be three days in that direction.” Tom pointed off the way from which Steven had approached the village.
Steven chewed on some dry bread and shouldered his pack as the two walked back out toward the cemetery. Tom was an odd man who had his own sense of right and wrong, but Steven had found his company to be pleasant and entertaining.
“I hope we will meet again, Tom Jak the Gravedigger,” Steven said. “You would be pleasant company on the road.”
“I would come with you now if it weren’t for the work,” Tom answered. “It would certainly please me if our paths crossed again.”
They came to the graveyard and Tom motioned Steven on in.
“There is something else I wish to show you, Master Dragonslayer,” Tom said. “It is a secret that will stead you well when you go to conquer the Terror.” They walked to the far side of the bone yard where there was an open grave already dug. There was no stone near this grave, however.
“Whose grave is this?” Steven asked.
“It is mine,” said the gravedigger. Steven was startled and stared at Tom.
“Do you mean to say you are dead?” Steven asked, horrified.
“You aren’t really very smart, are you?” Tom sighed. “Do I look dead to you? No. I’m very much alive and plan to stay that way for as long as I can. But life is a road that goes ever downhill. You are born in the morning and are dead by dinner. By breakfast the next day, you are nothing but dirt in the field. The living die, but the dead never live.”
“But you said this was your grave,” Steven protested.
“And my grave it is, if I should die where I stand. You could just roll me in and cover me up,” Tom said. “However, if you were to do that, all the silver coins are in a pouch around my neck, and the gold and jewels I’ve found are in my pack. Don’t be foolish and bury it all.”
“Are you planning to die now?” Steven asked.
“Oh no!” exclaimed Tom.
“Then why have you dug your grave?”
“To look into it,” said Tom suddenly serious. “You cannot look into your own grave and ever know a greater terror.”
Tom stood and stared down into the hole. Steven came up beside him and stared down into the hole as well. Tom looked up.
“Doesn’t do you any good to look into my grave,” Tom said. “Yours is over there.” He pointed and a few yards away Steven saw another open grave. “Thought you might need it,” Tom said pleasantly.
Steven looked at the gravedigger and cautiously crossed to the open grave and looked over the edge.
Steven had known all his life that he was born to master a dragon, but it had been a much different experience than he expected. Dragons, after all, never truly have a master. But Steven had embarked on that adventure knowing it was likely he would die. Then, after seven years of traveling with Madame Selah Welinska, he had grown comfortable in the thought of growing old with the dragon-lady.
Then the summons from the king had come and Selah had… vanished. Steven was feeling particularly mortal. He had nearly been killed by a bear. He had met a king. He had journeyed to where a witch attempted to enchant him. He had shared stories with a gravedigger, and now he was at the edge of his grave.
He did not know what grisly death would bring him to this hole in the ground. What was the Terror of Rich Reach? What would it do to Steven when they met? Steven wanted nothing more than to turn and run back the way he had come. Even living as a goose with the enchantress would be better than this unknown fate.
He took a deep breath and stared down into the pit. He stood there for some time. He didn’t know what he expected to see, but it wasn’t this. At last, he tore himself away from the grave and looked at Tom, still standing by his own grave, grinning from ear to ear.
“It’s just a hole,” Steven called over to Tom.
“Well now,” Tom said. “You’ve suddenly gotten wisdom. What else is it you have to fear?”
Steven began to laugh. It hurt his head a little, but he could not restrain himself. Tom tossed Steven a shovel and the two began to fill in their respective graves. When they were finished, Steven embraced Tom and returned to the road. His last sight of the gravedigger was of the man digging into the dirt in front of an opulent headstone. He could hear Tom’s happy whistle long after he had lost sight of the man.
It was late afternoon when Steven approached a crossroads and decided it was a good place to camp. For the first time since he had left the road at the Town of Tornlace, he saw a marker pointing the way to Rich Reach. He snared a rabbit for dinner and built a fire to cook it over. It was not yet dusk when he heard a tumult coming from one of the crossroads.
Coming toward him, Steven saw a ragtag band of travelers pushing and pulling carts, pigs, sheep, and two oxen. The carts were filled to overflowing with goods and the people seemed in near panic. Bouncing around them was a small man in a black cassock, exhorting them to hurry.
“We must make camp before dark at the crossroads,” the man said as he helped push a wagon across the road, “before it comes.”
Steven rose to help the strangers.
“Please, come and join my camp,” Steven said. “I have a fire ready and more than I can eat.”
The travelers were startled to see Steven suddenly appear, but the monk encouraged them on.
“Splendid! Splendid!” he cried. “Our savior. There is safety in numbers. Stay together. Don’t stray from the fire!”
The people pushed their carts into a rough circle around Steven’s campfire and the two dozen travelers hastened to create an encampment inside the circle. Several brought more wood to build the fire up and additional food supplies began to appear.
“Why do you travel so hurriedly?” Steven asked.
“Do you not know of the Terror?” the monk asked. “It is right behind us, bringing terrible things in its wake. We must seek safety in Rich Reach.”
The other travelers seemed too frightened to engage in conversation.
“Who are you?” demanded the monk.
“I am Steven George the Dragonslayer. It is because of the Terror that I have come to the Principality of Rich Reach,” Steven spoke as he smiled at the people.
“Ah, Steven George the Storyteller, as I’ve heard it said,” answered the monk. “I am Cleophas, holy monk and shepherd of my people. We are traveling to Rich Reach for safety. Then I will return to fetch more, to spread word of the Terror and to encourage people to flee.”
When the monk spoke, the people all seemed hypnotized by his voice. He captured the ear, and if Steven had not recently experienced the subtle charm of Cherissé, he, too, might have fallen under its spell.
“Well, there is no terror here,” he said confidently. “I doubt that there is a terror anywhere,” he concluded.
“A storyteller tells us there is no fear,” mocked the monk. “A dragonslayer who mastered his dragon with words. Where is your dragon now, Master Dragonslayer?” asked the monk.
Steven was puzzled at how the monk knew so much about him. It seemed he was set to ridicule Steven in front of these people.
“How do you know me, sir?” asked Steven.
“Your stories go before you, Dragonslayer,” the monk answered. “I know all about your journeys and how you trick people with your lies. You tell them one thing and then go on your way without caring what your story has done to them.”
“I do not tell lies,” protested Steven George. “I tell stories.”
“Your stories are not true,” said Cleophas. “I can tell stories that are true, and they will shake the skin from your bones. For I have seen the Terror, and it is coming for us all.”
“Do tell,” said Steven, settling onto his bedroll to wait. “We shall Once Upon a Time each other and let these poor refugees decide what is true.” The monk stood to tell his story.
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