Burying Blunderbore

Take nothing for granted. Ever. At my age, you come to know that anything important must be done today, as there will be few tomorrows. Something had been left undone, and it troubled me.

Blunderbore should be buried. Finally. After all these years.

It wasn’t right to just leave him there. He wasn’t a person, but he was like a person. He could talk. He had thoughts. He might have even had a soul.

I was so young – when it happened – Jack, as they called me then, was just a boy. Blunderbore nearly killed me. I was scared. But it’s been years. I’m a man now. I must go back and bury him.

Summer days are long and good for journeys. At this time of the year, the sun seems to rise right inside my bedroom window. Joan keeps a curtain in front of the window, but any little gust pushes it far away, letting light in.

The rising sun woke me as it often does. Today was the day to bury him. I dressed quietly so as not to wake Joan and went downstairs. Agnes and Sarah were already up, working in the kitchen. I told them quietly where I was going and when I thought I would be back. Agnes looked worried and asked if Robert or Simon should come with me.

“Your father will be fine, Agnes. Please tell your mother … gently.” I can never guess when Joan will worry uncontrollably.

I walked to the stable and looked around. What to take with me? A donkey and that little cart seemed about right. After I made them ready, I put some tools, a bit of lunch, and some other things in the cart and left.

The morning was quiet and fragrant. The breeze was gentle.

The little cart rolled by the church and its yard. I could see what remained of my many friends from this life. There were markers for Jack Pawley, James Church, and Wilkie Smith. Of those friends who helped me collect my fortune by selling golden eggs as Kibworth crosses, only Hudde Cook still survived. Seconds later, my cart passed Kate’s marker and, somewhere near her, our children. Life passes so quickly, quicker still for many others.

Joan and Kate were such different sisters yet so similar. I guess that’s the way it is with siblings. I wouldn’t know. Jack Nash was an only child.

I was glad when the village passed. Now I felt like I was getting somewhere. The day was glorious. The wildflowers were lovely, and a quiet wind whipped down the road as the sun warmed the air.

Travel, especially by oneself, provides excellent opportunities for reflection. I like being alone with my thoughts. Sometimes I almost feel asleep when I’m deep in thought.

I was asleep like that when that old peddler convinced me to trade mother’s cow for those beans. If I hadn’t been so asleep in my own thoughts I would have caught his trick. Well, if it was a trick. Oh, it was a trick alright, but maybe it wasn’t meant to harm me.

It hasn’t been easy trying to lead a good life. I've tried not to hurt anyone. Well, there was Blunderbore. Yes, I hurt him alright. There was treasure up in that cloud. I didn’t know it was his cloud, did I? Did he ask me anything? Did he tell me to leave? No. His first thought was to kill me. Others might have just thrown a rock or maybe sicced a dog on me or maybe just yelled at me. But he was ready to kill.

Blunderbore was clumsy. I guess when you’re that big it’s hard to be graceful. His feet slipped first. I was afraid he would slide down that giant beanstalk, sweeping me along with him. Then his hands started sticking to the leaves. His hands became covered in the leaves, sticky on one side, slippery on the other. So, when he reached for the giant stalk with a slippery leafed-up hand, he lost his grip completely.

He flew by me, his arms flailing, a scream forming on his lips.

He knew he was about to die. Blunderbore must have been very old. I think when you’ve lived long and maybe thought you were going to live forever that your sudden death brings unique terror. But that’s just a guess.

Blunderbore flew farther and farther away from the beanstalk. The last I saw of him, he crashed into those big trees in the thick forest next to mother’s shack. I could hear the great limbs snapping under his weight and then a thunderous crash. Bedding from the forest floor made a little cloud over the piece of the forest where he landed.

That was the last I saw of Blunderbore. I’ve bragged for years about visiting his rotting carcass, but that’s not true. I never saw his body. He was not a trophy but a vague feeling of guilt.

His misfortune made my fortune, which has been the subject of a thousand prayers, many confessions, and countless golden eggs left at our village church.

The priests who know my story never quite know what to say really. Some insist that he was a tool of Satan. Maybe. I don’t know how they could know. I’ve wondered if he had any beliefs. Did he have friends? Did anyone love him? Was he ever a baby? He could speak our tongue but where was he from? Who built that castle he lived in? If he built it, he was a great craftsman. All I know is that he wanted to kill me. That’s all I really know.

I watched Blunderbore’s cloud for the rest of that afternoon. It had just about blown over the horizon by sunset. I thought I could see his castle as the red rays of the setting sun inspected his cloud. But mother told me it was wishful thinking. She was probably right.

I wonder happened to that castle. Is it still empty? He had so many treasures, and the goose was the only thing I took. Oh well, the goose was all I needed. I’m not sure I could have handled any more good fortune - trading those golden eggs for useful things was nearly impossible. If Wilkie hadn’t made them into the now famous Kibworth crosses, I’d still have piles of golden eggs that no one would touch.

As the cart rounded a steep curve, I could see the forest now, just a little way up a small, rocky hill. I remember where Blunderbore landed, but down on the ground and after so many years, it might not be easy to find him. No one came this way when we lived here, and now even fewer people pass this way. Some say this part of our county died with Simon de Montfort. Others say it died when the fairies left. I don’t know. Both are probably true. The little stream where the fairies lived is covered with spiders and their thick webs now, and the water tastes sour.

I got off the cart, walked the mule around some large rocks and up to the edge of the forest where I tied the lead to a large tree. No need to walk home if something scared the mule.

The forest floor was covered with vines, old leaves, fallen branches, small stones, and I don’t know what else. I went back to the cart and took out my broom. I guessed that its handle would make a good probe, and the broom could clear away leaves better than my bare hands.

I poked and swept. The sun was full, and the day was hot. The forest canopy offered some comfort, but this became heavy labor for an old man. I saw a large rock mound and decided to rest for a spell.

I stared deep into the forest as I sat on the rocks. The forest was thicker than I had guessed. The deeper I stared into it, the darker and thicker it was. How could I find Blunderbore’s body after so many years?

Looking up at the limbs and branches, I noticed one large oak with the remains of an old broken branch up high on its side. Just above this stub was a larger, fully grown branch, possibly its replacement. I walked closer to the oak and looked at its neighbors. Some neighbors had aged, died, and fallen over. But I saw a larch almost directly across from the oak that also had the stub of a broken branch now mostly covered by its replacement.

I imagined a line between those two stubs and walked towards their center. The ground was covered with leaves and tangled vines. I waived my broom to move the leaves around. Nothing. But that couldn’t be right. I moved more leaves away. Where could he be? I was so frustrated.

Then I saw it.

The light caught something on the ground that made a little sparkle. I knelt down and brushed the leaves away with my hands. It was a ring, a very large ring, a very large ring holding a very large stone.

I stuck my broom in the ground to mark the spot and walked back to the cart for more tools and my heavy gloves. When I returned, I looked at the spot where the ring lay and the line between the two broken branches, and I looked at the other trees.

If that ring flew off his finger when his body hit, where would that spot be? It was silly, I know, but I kept imagining Blunderbore’s body as still being whole. But it had been too many years. This time, I not only brushed the leaves away, I brushed back some of the soft black dirt.

I found the fingerbone that held the ring, its hand, and then its arm. I found shredded fragments of his tunic. Tendons still sort of held his long powerful arm together. The rest of the body lay under a tree. I doubted the tree fell with him, but maybe.

That tree had been on the ground for many years. Its bark had nearly separated from the wood inside, and that wood oozed that sort of sweet but smelly odor of rotting wood. Every forest creature loves to feast on wood like that, and many of those same creatures slithered away as I rolled the rotting tree aside.

I scraped more dirt away, and there he was. His ribs were smashed, and sharp pieces of bone pointed upwards. His giant skull was still intact. His teeth, some broken. smiled back at me.

I brushed more dirt aside to reveal his full skeleton. Yes, Blunderbore had been a giant. But looking at his bones, he looked very much like just a large, large man. I think he had one rib bone too many, and his head had some odd bumps upon it, but otherwise he looked like anyone else – just bigger. His clothes had rotted away, including the slippers that led to his doom. His giant belt with a huge silver buckle was still wrapped around a waist that was no longer there. The belt held a sheath for his dagger, which was the size of a sword yet thicker, and the belt still held his skin pouch.

I brought the pouch back to the large rocks and emptied its contents. Onto the rocks scattered several large precious stones, a stick of incense, three long keys, the bones of someone’s fingers, some odd looking nuts still in their shells, and a neatly folded piece of parchment written in a language I did not recognize.

I dug a grave close to where his body had fallen, but I made it the proper depth. I slide the bones into a huge sack that I brought in the cart. Blunderbore was a warrior. I put his dagger in the sack. I put his belt in, too, and his deer skin pouch. He seemed entitled to his ring and precious stones, so I put them back in the pouch, too.

I sewed the burial sack shut and lowered it into the grave. I gathered some wildflowers from just outside the forest and tossed them onto the sack. I grabbed a clump of earth and tossed it in, too. I’m not a priest, so I couldn’t make the burial proper. But I could say a prayer, so I did.

I have no idea if Blunderbore had a religion or beliefs. I couldn’t mark the grave with a cross. I already knew this, which is why I had Matthew, Wilkie the blacksmith’s son, just chisel out the name Blunderbore on a large stone.

The stone was heavy, but I knew it wouldn’t break, so I rolled it out of the cart and let it fall to ground with a large thud that reminded me of the sound Blunderbore made when he smashed into the earth. I rolled the stone over to his grave.

I guessed that the thick stick of incense from Blunderbore’s pouch might have had something to do with whatever Blunderbore believed. Maybe. It had a little wick on it. I had brought two candles with me. I put the two candles on opposite sides of the stone grave marker, and I put the incense in the center. I lit the candles with my firesteel, then I lit the incense.

This incense was intensely fragrant. It had somehow stayed fresh in his pouch all these years. I smelled frankincense, juniper, ginger, clove, cinnamon, and other scents that I couldn’t identify. The incense created a brilliant blue cloud around the grave, over my head and spread some distance away.

I had never seen incense like this. I don’t frighten easily but I was scared. I could still breath, but the smell of the incense overpowered me. My head lightened, and I tumbled to the ground.

As I lay on the ground, an image began emerging from inside the incense cloud; the image glowed from within the cloud. Then the strangest looking creatures appeared in the image and they began to move. They just images in the cloud. I could see through them. But they were the image of something real. They looked nothing like Blunderbore. Maybe this incense was another trophy he had collected from one of their kind long ago.

The creatures made an odd dance. They waved their arms, or what looked like arms. They were not human or giants, and they wore masks and maybe armor. One particularly impressive figure came to the front. I could even hear him speak. But I couldn’t recognize the tongue.

It was speech alright, and it sounded very solemn like something one of the holy fathers would say at high mass … but maybe even more solemn. This priest held two magnificent objects. One looked vaguely like a shield, and the other I couldn’t begin to describe. As he thrust them forward, their colors changed, and sparks showered out from them.

As the sparks intensified, the earth around me began shaking. At first, I thought that maybe Blunderbore was coming back to life, but the shaking was too violent even for that, and his grave wasn’t the only thing shaking.

Copper lightning bolts blasted from the objects the priest held. The lightning bolts merged and enveloped me completely, blinding me until the lightening danced away somewhere behind me. I could hear the other creatures chanting a chorus that sounded something like “Twadanza!” and their voices grew louder and louder.

My ears grew numb, but I could feel their cries rattling inside me. I would have run far away, but I was paralyzed. I couldn’t move at all. Finally, the priest joined the chorus in one loud “Twadanza!” and two great blue lightning bolts emerged from his head. These blue bolts blinded me more than the copper lightening, and I could feel myself losing consciousness.

When I awoke, the air was clear and cool but still smelt sweetly from the incense, which had burned away, leaving almost no ash. The two candles on Blunderbore’s gravestone were halfway burned down.

I felt both tired and oddly refreshed. I wondered if the strong incense had just given me visions. Maybe the old incense had released some foul gas. But maybe those visions were real. I couldn't tell but I wasn't scared now.

Into my own bag, I poured those treasures of Blunderbore that I decided to take with me. I wondered what adventures these treasures might bring. I also wondered if maybe I should just pass them onto to younger folks and enjoy my remaining days by a warm fire.

I turned my cart around, climbed up, and began my way home. The journey home was uneventful and not too hot. As I crested the last little hill before our village, I thought about my finds from Blunderbore’s pouch – three keys, some odd shaped nuts, and a piece of parchment written in a foreign tongue.

I stopped at our village church. I know the priest well, and he knows my secrets. I guessed he would accept my explanation of the finger bones from Blunderbore’s pouch. I found Father William and told him about my day, leaving out any mention of the incense. He had a look of puzzlement and compassion when I told him I had buried Blunderbore and found someone’s hand in his pouch.

“Father, I have no idea whose hand once held these bones, but I know you will know what to do with them.”

“They come from someone less fortunate than Jack Nash is all we will ever know, Jack. Yes, I will take care of them,” said Father William.

As I steered the cart into our manor, I thought about how old Jack Nash had finally completed young Jack Nash’s unfinished business, and Agnes and Joan came out to greet me.