The Bone Men's Duty

When a body exhales its final breath its soul is dispelled, riding piggyback on the damp air. The soul is infinite but the body is only temporary. The soul thrives like a parasite on a fleshy host, it embeds itself deeply into every part. Inevitably the soul outlives its host, and time after time it is cast out into the cold, on a final breath. Each time it’s a wrench. Taking a soul from its body is like taking a newborn from the breast: it is a primitive pain. It wanders, meandering the landscape, in search of a new host. The soul always carries on in this way, tired and weary but incapable of rest.

Our ancestors discovered the existence of the soul generations ago. Now, it is something we know, as true and as sure as we know our names. My name is Ethred, but my soul is much older than the words I use to describe it.

Our understanding of the soul was bestowed upon us by The Bone Men. They are the mouthpiece of the Gods and understand implicitly the reason for our being. Though their message is diluted when spoken in our pagan tongue, we endeavour to comprehend the complexity of our Gods, and their tyrannical will. The Bone Men reside in a stone building adjacent to the village. The Saxons called it a ‘Church’, but when we overthrew them The Bone Men quickly claimed it as their refuge, and disposed of all crucifixes and idols. Now, decades later, lichen creeps in at windows and unbreathable smoke hangs low in the air, from burning candles made of animal fat. The altar is cluttered with scripture and always the skull of a cat. Dried herbs and flowers hang from the ceiling, dangling in scratchy posies, and are replaced with the changing of each season.

We do not visit this place. It is the kind of place a child would run past, not wanting to linger too long. The doors are always firmly shut and there is no obvious way of opening them. At night you can often hear the wails of The Bone Men, their silhouettes twist and contort in the candlelight as they suffer terribly. They must drink a poison of earth and blood, it grants The Bone Men their gifts but over time costs them their minds and causes their gut to rot.

It is the Bone men's duty to educate the less fortunate: the labourers and farm hands that dwell here, but do not prosper. They lead the community, as it is described in the scriptures, ensuring we give thanks to the Gods at every harvest and new moon, at every birth, and at every death. Birth and death are eternally intertwined, dependent on one another, and The Bone Men ensure the delicate balance of life is always maintained. I contemplate this now, as I stroke my pregnant belly.

The skin of my belly is hot and taught, I feel the host move inside me awaiting its soul. The Bone Men safeguard the clarity of our souls. Only the souls of our people, our ancestors may be passed onto our offspring. There is great fear amongst us, that Saxon souls may invade our youth and bring anarchy, but we take necessary precautions. I rest, allowing my weight to push against the timber frame of my home. I find myself doing little these days but contemplating my birth, our child, and The Bone Men who will deliver it to us. I am uncomfortable, as I always am. My back and hips radiate with pain as I await motherhood impatiently. I know in my heart my time is soon, though I dare not say so, only The Bone Men have the gift of knowing truth.

The time for rest passes. The summer air begins to cool, and dusk spreads across the sky as an infection spreads across the skin. I set about stoking a fire and preparing the evening meal, my husband will be home soon.

“Ethred?” My husband, Ivar, calls, announcing his return. I rush to meet him, the aches and pains of pregnancy ebb away as I am cradled in his arms. He holds me tightly, leaving dirty hand prints on my linen blouse. “Ethred,” he beams, “How are you feeling?”

“Well,” I assure him and proudly show him my belly, “I have grown, I am sure of it. The Bone Men shall be here any day.” He crouches down and kisses my stomach lovingly.

“What a blessing! Let us hope that they have chosen a worthy sacrifice, I should like a child with strength, with grit.”

“Who loves us, who is kind, and gentle. That is most important of all.” I say earnestly.

He laughs, “Of course, but only a fool wouldn’t love a mother such as you.” I return to my cooking, content. “Who would be a good sacrifice?” He mused. I glared at him, anger prickling my hackles.

“Hush,” I warn, “You know well enough we cannot discuss such things. The Alderman will decide, you are not to think of it. By the Gods, you will curse us!” I stir my pot hurriedly, it slops over the sides and bubbles furiously. We sit down to eat, the atmosphere tainted, I am cross and unforgiving. That evening, we nestle under the furs, Ivan pulls me in close despite my attempts to free myself.

He whispers softly to me, “I’m sorry… You are right to rebuke me. Our baby’s soul will be pure and that is all we could ask for.” I allow the night to steal my consciousness and relax into his embrace.

The morning sun arrives at our window with much purpose. It bathes us with its warmth until it became unbearable, forcing us from idling any longer. As the day wears on it dwindles and fatigues, loosening its grasp on the sky. Morning becomes a weary soldier trampled under the hooves of night’s horseman. The days continued in this way, indistinguishable from one another. I use this time to gather herbs, from which I make a tonic for the aches that plague me. Our house was ready for a bairn, and I am ready for the ceremony. It shall happen today. motherhood is ripe fruit on a low-hanging branch, I am snatching at it.

My breath tightens and I feel sweat bead on my forehead, it runs into my eyes and blinds me. My contractions grow incrementally fiercer and are no longer subsided by the tonic. I start to howl. A young girl called Freya hears me, whilst tending to her swine. She rushes to my aid, clambering towards the house. She throws the door open, and stands there breathless, her chest heaving, wisps of ginger hair streaking her face.

“I’ll fetch Ivan!” She manages after a moment; her words are slow and stupid.

“No!” I spit back at her venomously, “You must fetch the Bone Men, and the Alderman – you must bring the Alderman.” My contraction melts away, and already another one is waiting to take its place. Freya steps towards me, offering her help. “Go!” I channel all of my anguish into the instruction. She finally takes heed and scampers off down the dirt track that runs to the outskirts of the village. The door remains open in her wake, and I feel exposed, by the Gods the girl is stupid. I writhe around, grappling with the pain. My screams are earthy, they penetrate the walls and disturb the village folk.

After some time, Freya returns, again she remains in the doorway, there is a fistful of burning sage clasped tightly in her hands. She looks horrified, pale as ewe’s milk. Can this be her first sacrifice? I hear the Bone Men, rattling staffs and chanting, their voices are low and carried into the house on eddies of wind that pool at the door. I flap my arms at Freya, gesturing for her to move out of the way. Another noise follows, its lack of rhythm disrupts the melancholic choir. It is the protests of Egil, he begs for mercy from the Gods. My cheeks flush red with rage, it is an honour to be chosen, to be reborn, to live a new life, and here amongst your own too. I try to curse him for being a coward but the words never escape my mouth, the urge to push is too strong and it consumes all of my efforts.

The Alderman arrives at my door, I can see four more Bone Men in tow, simpering in his shadow. He is dressed for the ceremony. A ribcage of a previous sacrifice is fastened like a harness around him, he is hooded and his face is concealed by a thin veil. The only part of him I can see clearly are his hands, they are ashen and sinewy. His fingers twitch over the handle of a butcher’s knife, sheathed at his hip. I see Egil is with them, his hands are bound and he is sobbing uncontrollably, big heavy sobs that move through his shoulders. He is wrinkled like shoe leather. Folds of skin peak a through across his brow, fork out from his sunken eyes and curl around his mouth. His skin is tanned from a lifetime of labouring in the fields. Wiry hairs sprout inconsistently from his scalp. His spine is warped, like a hawthorn bush tormented by the wind. He looks old, it is his time. The Alderman backs out of the door again without turning, he approaches Egil and whispers something inaudible in his ear. The sobbing dissipates. Suddenly he is at peace with his fate. I watch as the Alderman draws his knife and slashes Egil’s throat. He gargles, and as the blood runs down, it pools in the recesses of his collarbone and stains his tunic. The village folk, who had gathered during the commotion, fall deathly silent and I let out one last scream. I push and it is done.

Ivan appears from the crowd, approaching the house, I am overcome with relief at the sight of him but it is fleeting. Freya bundles up our baby and thrusts it into his arms as he enters. He looks at me, eyes brimming with joy.

“A boy.” He murmurs, but his face quickly sours. I am pushing again. “No!” he shouts, striding towards me. The Alderman turns, and his pride evaporates instantly.  Moments later, there is another baby buried between my thighs, a girl this time. Handing a precious son back to Freya, Ivan bends to receive her but she is intercepted by one of the Bone Men. “You can’t!” the words escape Ivan as if without permission. She cries, an ear-piercing holla, and her face red with the effort. She is so small. The bone man does not relinquish his grasp. He turns to leave, his cloak rippling behind him. I try to comfort Ivan.

“Don’t be disheartened my love,” I say, my tone ethereal, “It cannot be one of us. There was only one sacrifice. It is a Saxon devil, it must be.” Ivan’s blood drains from his face, in the same way Egil’s had. Tears spring from his eyes and he lunges as the baby is passed from Bone Man to Alderman, but he is too slow. The already dirtied butcher’s knife is plunged into her chest, and the crying stops.

Ivan collapses into a shapeless heap, and the body is dropped like a stone. It hits the dirt path producing a small cloud of dust and a dull thud. He bawls, mourning the death of this imposter. His lack of faith repulses me, he is unrecognisable. Freya places my son in my arms and helps him to latch. I do not break my gaze from Ivan. How can I welcome this godless creature back into my home? Into my bed? Our peace and our joy have been stolen from us, and it is all Ivan’s making. I feel my family fragment and shatter, Ivan has been its downfall.