“The mayor is a man accustomed to getting what he wants,” his father said as he packaged the buck’s heart into sheets of used paper. “He sees something in that child he desires. Something dark and powerful. He will attempt to harness it with or without my assistance. For now, I must serve and obey. We are but dirt.”
“What if she doesn’t want to listen to the mayor?”
His father washed his hands, drying them on a fresh towel.
“I suppose the sheriff would have his way, then.”
“It’s not fair,” Samuel said softly. “They catch her in a ground snare and hurt her and keep her chained up like a dog. It’s … not right.”
“You sound like her,” his father said dryly.
Samuel guessed his father was referencing his mother, but he wasn’t sure if it was meant to be a compliment. The kitchen knife sat beside the packaged organ, blood staining the paper. He rinsed the blade before stepping back outside and onto the packed snow.
Unlike the butcher’s quaint and unostentatious burial, Landon Swen’s funeral was a lavish affair. Black streamers and red poinsettias decorated the shops’ display windows. A white-clothed table had been set up near the center of the town square, serving free chocolates and licorice balls to all in attendance. Many of the parents had to restrain their children from taking too much, while others said nothing as their little ones shamelessly stuffed their mouths and pockets full of candy. How many times in their lives would they get the chance to eat packaged candy from the greenlands? Sugary treats were an expensive luxury, typically reserved for the politicians and their families. The large funeral ceremony was a rarity in and of itself. Citizens were not allowed to congregate for any reasons other than labor for the state, unless a ruling politician permitted otherwise.
The patrolman’s closed coffin sat on top of the makeshift wooden stage, and a violinist, no doubt hired from the greenlands, played a somber medley as the citizens of Haid came to pay their respects for the dead. The square was crowded, with hundreds in attendance. People were barely able to move without brushing against one another. The loggers were given the day off. That in and of itself was nothing short of a miracle. Pinewood is what kept the town alive. It was the reason Haid was one of the largest towns in the whitelands.
Landon’s death was labeled an unfortunate accident, but beyond that there wasn’t much explanation as to what had happened to him. The consensus was a bear attack, but most wouldn’t say what they really thought. The sheriff stood beside the mayor, his cheeks flushed as he petted his peppered mustache. He kept turning to Landon’s mother, an elderly woman who couldn’t keep the tears from streaming down her wrinkled cheeks. He must have decided to delay his leave until after the funeral. The mayor smoked his pipe, giving strained smiles and condolences to those in mourning. Perhaps paying for such an extravagant ceremony was his way of making peace with the sheriff. Samuel didn’t understand how the sheriff could get away with disrespecting the mayor as much as he had. A citizen could be punished or even executed for disobeying a direct order from a politician. Citizen compliance to ruling politicians was a necessity for maintaining peace. Or so Samuel had heard. But maybe the mayor needed the sheriff more than most thought.
“The knife,” his father said.
Samuel grabbed the knife from his pocket and extended the handle to his father. They had been waiting along the outskirts of the square until the appropriate time. When the mayor gave the signal, his father marched through the snow toward the stage with the scriptures in one hand and the hunting knife in the other. The crowd parted wide enough for ten men to pass through. Even at such a packed event, no one would dare be caught touching a cleric. Samuel stayed behind, reclining against the walls of an abandoned shack. He’d told his father he didn’t want to risk botching the rites, and the large crowd would only make him more nervous. In reality, however, he hated the glares and the whispered conversations.
“Wait. Is that the cleric’s bastard? He’s gotten big.”
“You heard what they did to the poor bitch who bore him? Religious zealots can’t even keep their own vows. I wish they’d all disappear.”
“You think he’ll be a cleric too?”
“It makes sense; like anyone in their right mind would hire a cleric’s bastard. No telling how messed up that kid is. Can you imagine having that oath-breaking holy man as your father?”
“True. Save our logging jobs for those who need them.”
Samuel looked ahead. His father hovered over Landon’s coffin, cut his own palm, and sprinkled blood across the closed casket. Some gazed with open mouths and furrowed brows, while others refused to watch entirely. Undeterred by the crowd size, he read several passages from the book of Hetsulu, his tone loud but level.
“Blessed are those under the dirt,” his father said. “For they shall be reunited with Azhuel. Their blood shall feed the holy roots, their skin finding life once more.”
Seeing the closed coffin made Samuel think about the girl in the jailhouse.
He tilted his head, looking past the main gathering.
Laura Litten, the old butcher’s daughter, stood in front of the butcher’s shop. A bloodstained apron was tied around her waist, and stray strands of her brown hair were caked onto her cheeks. Sweating was a hard feat to accomplish in the whitelands since summers were mild and short-lived, but somehow, most people found a way. Laura’s daughter came out from behind the shop’s door, and he nearly tasted the bitterness of the coffee she’d served him. Her name was Claudette. He remembered that, and how her narrow face was a younger reflection of her mother’s. Mother and daughter whispered to each other before they both strolled back into the shop. He pulled up the jacket’s hood over his head. The sheriff had been right about Laura picking up the butchering trade, and his father had been right about her keeping the secret of the old butcher touching a cleric. At least for now.
Something tapped Samuel on the shoulder. He turned. Charles stood behind him in a fancy coat and loafers, blinking heavily. “Hey. Samuel, right?”
Samuel froze. He’d touched him. It was only a moment, but it happened. Why did he touch him? Didn’t he remember who he was? Being the mayor’s son must have given him the freedom to do anything.
“Yes.”
Charles took a step closer, and his ankle dropped into the snow, nearly causing him to fall on his face. Samuel almost reached out to help steady him, but didn’t. He didn’t want to touch the mayor’s son. Not on purpose. When Charles regained his footing, he stomped angrily into the icy ground with his shoes.
“I hate this snow.”
Samuel pushed up his glasses.
“You should wear boots. It’ll keep your feet warmer. And it’ll help with your balance walking over the ice.”
Charles shrugged. “Probably right. Not like I want to live in this frozen hell anyway.” He cleared his throat. “I need a favor. A cleric, specifically.”
Samuel paused. “My father is almost done.”
Charles dusted his tan peacoat shakily. “Can’t wait. I need a cleric now.”