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Chronic//O7 - Lethe
The garb of a gravekeep was not so different from the garb of any other peasant of the soil, he supposed. A too big rat-quilt tunic, patched over and over again in colors faded from age and darkened from road-dirt, trousers of the same sort of wear, shoes worn-down from the hard road, and a rope belt whose loose strands had become a halo of wispy barbs about his middle, that was all the man wore and all he had kept in his walk. The cloak he had taken from an abandoned cart had fallen apart on the walk, the straw hat he had found off a scarecrow in a black-soiled field had likewise been stolen as a halfway joke. Better it than the boots. The five who trailed behind in a loose gaggle were no worse clothed than he, better in fact as some had spent less time on the road. A dust cloud rose in the distance, riders from the city.
What could but give him away as an oddity to the vast world was a shovel, for any self-respecting farmer would carry a hoe if not have any cart for his work, a tome wrapped in thick clothes from the rain at his waist, for few peasants would deign themselves to lose precious time in the effort of learning to read nor have the coin to procure such a service for leisure, and that he was walking the opposite way any farmer might walk, save to sell their crops in the markets. He had gained a few odd looks here and there whenever the topic had arisen on the walk. They hadn’t believed him for some, others thought he was mad, others still had gotten curious. The gravekeeper supposed he knew exactly who those last few were, for they still trode behind him in the morning sun, the stink of sweat drowned by the dust in the air.
The ground wasn't ground up ahead, turning from smooth fields into the jagged landscape of a shantytown. The city at the end of the world, the center of the world, was no new city to be sure. He had never been there before. Clouds of brown obscured those groups of travelers ahead, as well as the parts of the sprawl itself, though he could hear one of those behind him mutter a thankful prayer through cracked lips. The pilgrimage is over, the man said, with work to be done at last. He snorted at the exultation, though he heard more from travelers further ahead. There was work yet to be done. Hands gripped the shovel and fingers brushed the ledger. Yes, there was work indeed.
They neared it, dust-stained details coming into clarity with each handful of steps. Shacks, cluttered streets, the stink of humanity imbued into the very essence of the air, and a chaos to which the gravekeeper had never exactly been subjected to, that was all there was and more. Dirt kicked into the air until it was all you needed, a hustle from one place to another, and so many souls that he couldn’t tell precisely who was close to their end and who was not. Of course, it was quite likely that far too many nearby would be dead by the day’s end, cut far short from their usual destination.
He stepped off to one side of the road, the others close behind in a cluster as they too were wary of the whole issue. The gravekeeper took a deep breath, steeling himself among all the noise and chaos. They’d need some things to make themselves at home in the new city, things that would be best found further on to the center…the places closest to the Abyss, where the dead were likely more wanting of his services. One of them spoke up, a younger voice ran raw by the road-dirt.
“What now, Lethe?”
“Lodging. Lodging and a yard to work. Come, now.”
