Psychopomp
XVIII

Once all flesh is charcoal soot upon wall and floor, once consuming silence stills the air and the gravity of this land weakens, once the torch lights of outside penetrate the newly unsullied glass doors, his prayers cease. A mound of pure white ash sits before him, and dictating each movement with slowness, he collects it all into the silver cylinder.

All the bindings and totems made of Norma’s body are no more, he makes sure, and the husks of broodlings and mimics are naught but films of dust on the floor, their legacy to be nevermore. Standing now in her room, Ewain looks around. Here, she danced. Here, she sang. Here, she nurtured dreams. In the endless notes of her notebooks, in the creaking wood of her common area, he sees her chase some greater fulfillment with life.

She still waits for you. S~ᴇaʀᴄh the FindNøvᴇl.nᴇt website on Gøøglᴇ to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

Outside the crowd grows vast, and when the Psychopomp emerges from the building there comes great clamor. Words upon words race and camera flashes scintillate ravenously to claim pictures of the man before them. When his ghostly visage and adornment of filth show, a singular gasp takes the crowd, and their murmurs intensify. To the side, cloaked in the shadow of a nearby building, the Krypteian Anaxander leans as he smokes a cigar and watches quietly. At the forefront stands the Consul, a grim look on his face as he nods toward Ewain then motions his head to the people next to him: Voigt and Klaus Schaderfell with weariness heavy upon their faces and between them an elderly woman…Grace Mortenson.

The recognition stays Ewain’s approach as he veils his surprise. He sees her wide eyes and shivering frail body. The Consul moves toward him with the other two close behind.

“Psychopompos,” the Consul greets, “it’s good to see you emerge.”

“It is done, I presume?” Voigt asks softly, not wanting their words to diffuse to the crowd.

“A Psychopomp emerges from a site victorious or dead,” Ewain answers, his eyes chilling.

“Thank the Ichorians,” the Warden exhales, “We can move forward now. The power will return, yes? And people may return to their domiciles?”

“The anathema was well-entrenched for the site. I only just purged it. It may take another few hours, but the site will steady and power return. As for the residents…clean the building first before rushing them back in.”

Klaus scoffs, “Your people let this mess grow. You should see this through to its end, when life is back in this district and things normal.”

Seeing the exhaustion through Ewain’s thin veil, Voigt raises his hand toward his father, “We will tend it, Psychopompos.”

The Consul breaks his silent examination of his counterpart’s condition, “The mother is here. She wishes to speak to you, Psychopompos.”

“You brought her here?” Ewain asks.

“I did,” Voigt intervenes, “She had a right to know you were entering her daughter’s…trauma site to extract her. She asked to be here, to see you, see this done. She has as much right as we all. Will you speak with her, Psychopompos?”

“She has the constitution to be here? To speak on her own?”

“The nurses gave her some pharmas to help her.”

Ewain sighs, “I will speak with her.”

The Warden signals the guards to keep the crowd at bay, push them away from Norma’s mother as he and Ewain approach her.

“Mrs. Mortenson,” Ewain greets gently, “Madam.” He bows his head.

“M-m-my Norma…is she-,” she struggles to find or finish words, “Is she….”

Low, and soft as he can bring his unbending voice, Ewain answers her, “She is at rest. All that remains is for me to guide her to the Beyond and you to Deliver her remains to the Stygian, so your daughter can wait for you there in peace with our holy fathers and mothers. You will see her again, Mrs. Mortenson.”

Her eyes bear no will to stop the tears, nor her lips the quivers of sporadic breaths, “Y-y-you will see her?”

“I will.”

Fringes of hopeful light come to her eyes, “C-c-c-can I s-see her?”

“I am afraid not,” he forces himself to say, seeing the light extinguish with his words.

“You will Deliver her right away?”

“She will be Delivered very soon, by your hands. The Order will see Norma’s remains are proper and provide the vessel for her journey down the Stygian. We will have a member escort you to our grounds in the Keep and guide you to the riverbanks below to help you reunite Norma with her body.”

Little comfort comes over her as she wipes her face then looks at the items in Ewain’s hands, “Are those her belongings?”

“Yes, madam,” he extends them toward her with both hands, “I found what I could, notebooks, pictures, cards, anything that seemed of sentiment.”

“Her journals?” the mother asks, fragile hands reaching for the possessions.

“I searched everywhere. They were not there.”

“They must be,” she insists weakly, “th-they would have been in a box. A c-carved box. Her friend made it for her, I-I know that’s where she kept them.”

“What friend?” Ewain’s voice suddenly stiffens with his heart.

“Cornelia Petrus,” she answers, “s-she made Norma a box just for her journals, c-carved it w-with cranes, hummingbirds, t-tulips, hibi-hibiscus. I saw it myself. Norma showed it to me, she was so fond of it, she’d never get rid of it.”

“We’ve seen the box,” Art mutters.

Atop a table, surrounded by other wooden items and figurines carved by hand, it was there before them. Air vacates Ewain’s lungs, abandons him to dwell on the memory, the fate it now renders. No, it cannot be.

“It was not there, madam,” he manages, concentrating everything to muster just enough breath for the words.

“They must be somewhere. They must be.”

“Madam,” the Consul’s voice bids as he comes up next to the Psychopomp, “we will search best we can for them, but we should not delay the Psychopompos any further. Your daughter still awaits him. Return to your bed, please, and I promise we will keep you informed of everything that happens.” He looks to the Warden who stands quietly by.

“Escort Mrs. Mortenson back to her hospital bed,” he directs guards nearest him, then to another he commands, “Disperse the crowd. All should be back within their domiciles as soon as possible.”

The men promptly execute their commands, gently taking Norma’s mother and pushing the invasive crowd further and further back. “Return to your homes! This gathering is no longer permitted!”

Ewain remains still, watches as Norma’s mother looks back at him over her shoulder as she walks away. Only a few remain from the dissipating crowd, and from his perch, Anaxander nears Ewain. He keeps quiet, dutifully puffing his cigar.

“We are obligated to tell him,” Art says. “If we do not, we violate the Trust just as much as Miss Petrus did. The Ichorians will hold us in higher contempt than her.”

A welling void of heat inflates within his chest. Voice resists summon, knows not what to say. She made her decision, yet it feels as though his words will be what damn her. “Krypteian.”

Anaxander steps toward him, “Psychopompos.”

“Miss Cornelia Petrus,” he says, “broke the Trust.”

Subtle surprise comes through the Krypteian’s bushy face, “In what regard?”

“There is a box within her apartment, carved with birds and flowers. Its contents were kept hidden.”

“I see,” Anaxander takes a final puff before pinching the cigar out, “Truly a shame, however, I respect your telling me this, Psychopompos. I could see in your face you felt sympathetic towards the young lady. I will retrieve this box and the girl. I will not do her any harm.” He pauses. “Have you any ideas of the killer?”

“Not yet,” Ewain answers gruffly, “but I will soon enough.”

“Good,” Voigt interjects, having patiently stood aside during their conversation, “I am eager to see him made an example of.”

“In due time, Warden,” the Consul assures, “and we must return to the Mission to make it so.”

“Yes, let us delay you no further, gentlemen,” Voigt accedes, “I shall be waiting at my estate for your conclusion.”

“Let’s proceed, Psychopompos,” Art urges. “We must do the Recall before undergoing the Catharsis.”

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