Short Story – “Speak with Dad”
The spade went into the sodden ground easily enough, bringing back a pile of dirt. Another hundred or so stabs and Chip would reach his father’s coffin. It was dark in the graveyard now, it had been for several hours, and he could just make out the features of the figures standing behind him. Two men, both human, holding lanterns to light the grave and their own faces. When Chip Ormen had been given a choice, he had chosen his father. Not that he had any specific questions to ask, mind. Chip had a healthy fear of death and figured a familiar face was better than some random stranger.
Chip wiped the drips of sweat from his forehead, staining his sleeve. A second later, the spade hit something hard, the coffin. Inside, he imagined, they’d find a worm-addled corpse frozen in a state of shock. The mouth hung open, eyes missing, tongue eaten. Chip was already beginning to regret this decision. Even though it had been ten years since his father had succumbed to the injuries sustained after being trampled by a horse and carriage, a dread was growing at seeing the stern face again.
‘Well done!’ Kindle chimed behind him, a larger man who always carried the smell of roast pork with him. Strange, as Chip was yet to ever seen the man eat anything beyond vegetables and the occasional slice of bread. The man wore his gut proudly, so extended as to be seen through the simple grey robes. ‘We’ve come to the most interesting part of the evening, young cleric. Are you ready?’
Chip nodded.
‘Have you been practising?’ The sneering voice came from the second stranger. Ortis. The elder of his church. A man that had become so wrinkled with age that he could barely see through the folds of his skin. It wasn’t the skin that bothered Chip, though. That was nothing compared to the man’s teeth. Blackened and broken. They looked so uncomfortable that Chip had to shudder at the idea of wearing them for a single day.
Chip nodded again.
The lid came free and revealed the body inside. After ten years, it was less a corpse and more an assortment of bones in well-worn clothing. It looked nothing like the man he could remember from his youth. Chip fell back against the dirt wall of the grave, trying to get a handle on his emotions. Some fear was in there, mixed with sentiments, joy, and a compelling sadness that seemed to overwhelm him. Now he understood why others hadn’t chosen their close relatives.
‘Walk us through the ritual.’ Kindle knelt at the edge of the grave, holding the light out. ‘What are the steps, Chip?’
Taking a deep breath, Chip began to refocus on the effort. ‘I would cast the spell using the components—’
‘Which are?’ Ortis cut in.
‘A mark of golden incense blessed by Zandazarr.’ Chip rummaged into his pack, suddenly afraid that he might have forgotten something. ‘A scroll that details the corpse’s deeds in life, and a summoning coin held by a devout priest of the faith.’
‘Anything else?’ Ortis raised a judging eyebrow, his lips a thin line.
‘Oh!’ Chip sparked. ‘And the corpse must have a mouth to speak through, which means they need a jaw, right?’
‘Well done!’ Kindle chuckled. ‘Couldn’t have said it better myself.’
‘Then get on with it.’ Ortis waved an unimpressed hand his way. ‘But remember, young acolyte, you will only get one chance at this. Once the golden incense has been used, it will be gone, and our church will not flit away another on you. I don’t need to remind you what will happen should you fail, ?’
‘I’ll get kicked out of the church.’ Chip knew it. That’s why he had been practising. It was also why he had picked a familiar face. All manner of things could go wrong with asking the dead questions. Some could be finicky, choosing not to show up when called. Others could be cryptic. Some could even be downright devilish. Chip hoped that his father would be none of these things.
‘Have you prepared your questions?’ Kindle asked then.
A stone dropped into Chip’s stomach. ‘Questions?’
Ortis growled. ‘Yes. Would you not consider it rude to awaken the dead to answer your questions and not have anything to ask?’
‘How many deeds do you have listed?’ Kindle pointed to the parchment rolled up in Chip’s hand.
‘Five,’ replied Chip.
‘For each one that is true and known by many,’ said Ortis. ‘You may ask one question. I do hope you can improvise, young acolyte.’
‘You’ll be fine.’ Kindle smiled. ‘Go with your gut, lad!’
There was nothing more for it then. Chip swallowed his fear and turned back to what remained of his father. Even in death, he felt those empty sockets watching and secretly judging him.
The young acolyte first placed the parchment, rolled out now, on top of his father’s chest. Then, with a deep breath, he took the coin from his pocket and held it to his eye while lighting the incense with a small flint pocket. As the stick burned, releasing the smell of lavender into the air, he began to recite the ancient words of his church. A prayer to Zandazarr, the God of Health, that he may borrow his father’s soul to grant him wisdom from beyond the grave.
Some clerics had gone seeking answers from the great men of the past. From scholars to poets, historians, and more. Asking questions that would give insight into the world around them. Chip had chosen his father, a former baker from Ropewalk that knew very little about the world. Knew even less about his son. It had been the safe option, he knew. There’d be very little reason for a largely unknown, small-town baker not to come when called upon.
Chip spoke the final word and held his breath for the haunting second that followed. The young acolyte stared at the corpse, wondering oddly if he had messed up. A wrong word, the wrong ingredients, deeds that hadn’t happened. So many ways this ritual could go wrong. A minute passed, and then another minute. Chip sighed, standing. It never took this long to summon a spirit.
‘Surprise, surprise. I guess you’ll need to—’
The corpse shot up to a seating position with a cough and a splutter. ‘Blimey,’ he said. ‘Never thought I’d see this place again.’
Chip stared at his deceased father in amazement.
‘Ask your questions.’ Kindle prompted. ‘Quick!’
‘Oh, uh, right.’ Chip cleared his throat. ‘Uh, hey, dad.’
The corpse watched him, an unusual feat for a creature with empty eye sockets still full of judgement.
‘Uh…’ Chip had never been good at improvising. He cursed himself for not being prepared. In all actuality, he had rather thought this wouldn’t work.
‘Are you dead?’ he asked finally.
‘Am I dead?’ came the chilling answer. ‘What kind of stupid question is that? Yes! Of course, I’m dead.’
‘Sorry, dad.’
‘Think of better questions.’ Ortis sneered.
‘Sorry, priest.’
‘Hurry,’ Kindle pressed. ‘ Before the incense is used up.’
‘What, uh, is your favourite colour?’
‘You realise, young acolyte.’ Ortis hovered above him now, dark eyes staring down condescendingly. ‘That this corpse may only return to life once.’
‘It’s blue,’ replied the corpse. ‘And your master is right.’
‘Mentor,’ Chip corrected.
‘Master,’ Ortis corrected again.
‘Oh, I don’t know what to ask,’ said Chip, exasperated at the whole ordeal. In honesty, digging up his father’s grave intermingled with the ritual casting itself had left him especially exhausted. Why had they needed to do this under the cloak of night? Chip looked down at the parchment, scanning the first line. ‘What is the recipe for your famous spiced bread?’
There was nothing but a skull with a few strands of hair in place of his father’s head, but even Chip could see his brow furrowed. ‘You already know the recipe. I taught it to you, ad nauseam, before I died.’
‘Well…’ In truth, Chip had a lot going on back then. Ever since he was a boy, he had wanted to join the church. They had called for him, and he felt he could do much good in healing the sick, rather than selling overpriced bread. In the ten years since, he hadn’t once made that spiced bread. Not for himself or anyone else.
His father sighed and explained the recipe, enunciating the steps as though he were talking to a dullard. ‘What’s your next question?’ he asked finally.
Two left, by Chip’s count.
‘I don’t know.’ Chip waved his exasperated hands in the air. ‘What should I ask?’
‘If I approve of you joining the clerics instead of inheriting the bakery.’ The answer was immediate and unexpected. Chip had meant it as a rhetorical question, but there were no rhetorical questions for the dead. The young acolyte swallowed the lump in his throat, bracing himself for the answer. After all, this would be the only time he would ever find out.
‘Did you approve of me joining the church?’ he asked, carefully wording the question. Perhaps the only question worth asking.
‘I do,’ he replied. ‘And I’m proud of you.’
‘Really?’ asked Chip, hopefully.
‘No, you idiot!’ He snapped. ‘You should have been a baker.’
The corpse lay back peacefully, returning to its previous state. The incense in Chip’s hand became dust, and the parchment burst into quick flames and was subsequently destroyed. A moment passed, and then another. There was silence as Chip hopped back out of the grave, thinking on his father’s words.
‘Welcome to the church!’ Kindle broke the spell with a slap on the back and a shake of the hand. ‘Well done, lad, we knew you could do it! Only a cleric of high devotion could have brought a spirit back from the dead.’
‘Congratulations.’ Only Ortis could make a compliment sound like a sharp insult. ‘We’ll see you at prayer in the morning.’ The priest nodded down at the grave. ‘Don’t forget to fill the grave back up.’
With something of a bitter taste in his mouth, Chip watched the pair of priests move away from him. He took up the spade and refilled the grave with dirt, looking down at the coffin with a great deal more sadness than he had felt uncovering it. Now a thousand questions were coming to him, none of which he’d ever get the opportunity to ask, but he supposed that was just the nature of death.
He worked well into the night and finished as the sun slowly rose, brightening the headstones around him into a less sinister light. All the while, his stomach growled for the taste of spiced bread. I’ll make some later, he thought to himself, he always kept the ingredients ready in the kitchen.
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