Keeping the Fire: Empty Dias

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There had been no bodies. No blood. Nothing missing from the camp save the people that were supposed to be there. Polena had been first up the Barrow said to be Djasho's tomb, first into the encampment there, and first down the ladder into the tomb where they had dug a way in. In her imagining, the tomb had been featureless, dusty, and tight enough that your shoulders would press against either side of he walls. In truth it was much covered over with etchings, damp, and wide enough that three people could walk abreast down it's central corridor. The excavators had cleared out the story hall, a long central hallway that ran from the entrance to the innermost recesses where the body was buried. Symbols, runes, or pictures of events important to the deceased would be carved here. Kings and high Curators might have whole friezes of their lives careful carved in the rock but this tomb, like most must be, Polena mused, was far more homely. Etched borders of triangles were set ever few paces, and now and then runes were carved into the walls but they were well worn and beyond reading. Only a word here or there stood out, “Green haired,” or “before sunset,” or “Endless.”

When the Curator had given his blessing and evicted whatever spirits still remained, the Djaught finally came down to meet Polena. By that time she had wandered to the back of the Story Hall to the place where the casket was laid, or rather, should have been laid. The Internment Room was an oval, set with fired clay tiles. They were of the same clay as the one that Mehethe brought to the Fortress. One long Poem ran the whole length of the chamber, it's end and beginning running into each other. There were several pots, rotted piles of crumpled brown grasses that Polena thought must have once been baskets, and a general stench of mold. But the central dais where a casket pot, or a body, or even a stone marker should have been was empty save for runes carved in it's base.

“It's empty.” Polena said, turning to Mehethe as he came in behind her.

“We found this door way closed. It was not supposed to be opened. Perhaps the body left.” he stood a few paces behind her, as if he were loathe to enter the room.

“I doubt that. If the dead walk then I think they leave some trail. And at any rate I doubt Djasho would be the kind of dead to seek bloody vengeance.”

“It is hard for one to speak for the dead when one has never been dead,” replied the Djaught, “my men will contend that a spirit here has taken away the others.”

“And do you believe that?” asked Polena, turning to him. Mehethe did not answer at first, and looked past her instead, as if searching the room for his answer.

“They were loyal men. They would have died fighting even if they fought a spirit. There would be some sign of that.”

“More likely they left then. Driven off by someone or gone to get help?”

“That was not my orders. But yes, they are certainly gone one way or another,” he came cautiously into the room, watching his feet as he walked. “Polena, you should not have gone ahead of us. This place could have been dangerous without the Curator's cleansing.”

“The People's Creace will protect me, don't worry about that. Though I am thankful that you care.” her words were more common and familiar than any she had said to the Djaught before. Indeed, the past few days of shunning had given her less reason to seek to make him happy.

“Of course I care. I need you and you need me.” Polena looked confused a moment but tried to cover it up. She was getting the better part of any bargain the Djaught struck, she had outflanked him politically, and now she could say whatever she wanted about this tomb without consequence to herself but entirely to the Djaught's detriment. Did he somehow not know this?

“Djaught, what do you think I am gaining from coming with you?”

“Is this a trick?” he responded.

“No.” Mehethe looked her in the eyes for half a breath then spoke again.

“You are gaining access to the Archives for your People,” she was happy to hear him use the same word she did, “you have gained a powerful position in the Council, and you have done so to my expense. But most of all, you have been given the chance to see history. I assumed that was the prize you most sought.” Polena tried not to smile. Here she was in an empty tomb two days out from the most virulent political snake pit she could have imagined and she had run into an honest man. And strangest of all he was the face of a brutal soft power coup from an expansionist empire. She could not help herself. What fear she had left of Mehethe, of that place, of her fragile position in this distant land was lost in a wave of irony and she could not help but laugh.

“What do you jest at?” Asked Mehethe, unaware that his words made it harder for her to stop laughing. When she had regained her composure Polena excused herself.

“It was a passing madness Djaught. Yes, what you say is true. More or less true, and that is a rare thing in this land.”

“And what of the tomb? Is it true as well?” Polena smiled to him.

“Well, the words on the dais where the body should be read: “Djasho, who knew True Joy,” a little different from the name we are used to. But of course there is one big problem.”

“There is no body,” Mehethe said, to finish her thought.

“Well, there is a poem on the wall I can translate,” replied Polena, “but yes Djaught, we have no body. None living or dead.”

From somewhere above the could hear the call of the Curator in the midst of another ritual. It mixed with the clomping of soldiers in the tomb looking for some sight of the missing party that should have been waiting for them above. From somewhere else there was the sound of wind, or perhaps water. If you closed you eyes, as Polena did, you could almost imagine it was the sound of someone whispering a secret. That thought made her eyes snap open. It was like some hidden reflex, or defense she did not know she had. Something in her that knew there are some words best not heard, some mysteries best left unsolved, and some poems that it is best not to read.

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