Chapter 287

Chapter 287: Frostholm, Death, and Night Sailing

Frostholm was a very cold place. For eighty percent of the year, this city?state was bathed in the restless, never?ending cold winds of the Frost Sea. Cold air blew constantly from the frozen seas further north, howling past Frostholm’s high city walls and steep seaside cliffs. This chill made many people shy away.

Yet Frostholm was also the largest city?state in the whole Frost Sea. In spite of the cold, the center of this great island held the richest boiling gold mines in the northern region. Boiling gold was the most crucial raw material for the key parts of steam cores. It could even be seen as the industrial foundation of this age. The industrial system built around the boiling gold mines kept this northern city?state running and brought it endless wealth and prosperity.

And death.

At Frostholm, on the edge of the mining district near the city cemetery’s gate, a completely black steam car still idled. Under the bright gas street lamps, several corpse?bearers in thick black robes were lifting a coffin out of the car together. Another tall, thin figure in a black robe stood by the car. This person’s entire face was hidden in the shadows of a wide?brimmed hat. In the crossing shadows, one could see layer after layer of bandages.

A few steps away, a shriveled old man stood by the cemetery gate. His body was slightly hunched, and his whole figure seemed wrapped in heavy shadow. He watched the busy corpse?bearers with a cold expression.

The corpse?bearers from the Church of Death were especially silent. They did not make a sound while moving the coffin. Only a faint bumping noise sounded now and then, making the already gloomy graveyard seem even more eerie and dead.

After an unknown time, the grim old warden of the cemetery finally spoke and broke the silence: “Cause of death?”

“She slipped and fell into a machine shaft,” the tall, thin, bandaged figure answered. The voice was a slightly hoarse female voice that still sounded quite young. “She died on the spot and has already received baptism. The detailed situation is in the transfer documents. You can read them yourself.”

“How long will she stay?” The old man’s expression and tone did not change at all. It was as if he were talking about a stone that was about to be carried into his room.

The bandaged figure looked quietly at the grim old man.

“Three days,” she answered shortly. “Three days of spirit?soothing, then she will be sent into the Great Crucible.”

“That’s really short.” The warden snorted through his nose and looked up at the cemetery gate beside him. The black, carved iron fence stood like cold, sharp thorns under the lamp?light and the veil of night. Beyond this gate, which marked the line between life and death, one could faintly see many neat rows of stone slabs, the narrow paths between them, and deeper in, the blurred shapes of tombstones and small huts.

This was a cemetery, but for most of the bodies sent here, it was not their resting place for long. Aside from a few long?term graves with special meaning, the dead only stayed here for a time. From city officials at the top to peddlers and laborers at the bottom, no one could escape the rules here.

They died and were sent temporarily to the cemetery. Under the gaze of Bartok, God of Death, they slowly calmed down. After a few days at the shortest, or ten days or half a month at the longest, they would be sent into the Great Crucible next to the cemetery. The sins of their lives turned into smoke in the sky. The good they had done was merged into the hiss of the steam pipes. A bit of ash was scattered into the soil of the city?state, and nothing of them remained in the world.

The cemetery would keep only a small headstone for them—very small, and soon buried behind many more.

“The dead cannot take the living’s land,” the bandaged woman shook her head. “For the dead whose dying process was ‘clean and pure,’ three days are enough time for the soul to regain peace.”

“That’s not the only reason, is it?” The grim warden raised his eyes. His dry, cloudy eyeballs quietly watched the “bandaged woman” in the heavy black coat. “You’re afraid the corpses will get up—like in the recent rumors.”

“There is still no proof that the dead in the city are truly ‘coming back to life.’ The few reports we have even contradict one another. But even a short revival as a ‘Restless One’ is something to be careful about,” the bandaged woman shook her head. “So keep a close watch on your cemetery. As for what happens in the city, the Church and the city hall will handle it.”

“I hope things really are as simple as you say, Agatha,” the warden muttered. “I can guarantee that no corpse will walk out of this yard. But the ‘cemetery’ that you and your colleagues must guard is much larger than my little plot.”

The corpse?bearers carried the coffin into the cemetery. Their silent, black?clad figures looked like corpses walking along the paths between the slabs. They found an empty, prepared stone platform, set the coffin on it, and then stood at the four corners, ready to carry out Bartok’s soothing ritual.

The warden and the black?robed priestess called “Agatha” also walked into the cemetery and came to the platform.

The four corpse?bearers took out talismans of Bartok. They were triangular metal sigils with a door?shaped relief in the center, symbolizing the gate between life and death. They placed these sigils at the four corners of the coffin, recited a short prayer in unison, and then stepped back half a step.

Agatha then stepped forward. She took off her wide?brimmed hat and looked at the coffin on the platform as the cold wind blew.

The gas lamp lit up her figure.

Layers of bandages wrapped her whole body and even covered half her face. In the places the bandages did not cover, one could still see a trace of delicate features and the soft lines unique to a woman. A head of dark brown, slightly wavy long hair hung down her back. In her equally dark brown eyes there was only calm and pity.

“May the favor of Bartok, God of Death, watch over your soul and let you regain peace in your last three days in this world… Your ties and debts to the mortal world are wiped clean today. Lost one, you may travel light on your way…”

Agatha’s low, hoarse benediction echoed through the silent cemetery and slowly sank into the deep night.

The grim?faced warden stood to the side, watching this ritual coldly. At some point, a heavy double?barreled shotgun had appeared in his hands. On the gun’s forearm one could faintly see a triangular sigil that symbolized Bartok, God of Death.

A moment later, the ritual ended. Agatha turned her head to look at the warden of the cemetery. “It’s done.”

“I hope your prayer works,” the warden said, lifting the shotgun in his hand, “though I trust this old partner of mine more.”

“This soothing ritual was carried out by the ‘Gatekeeper’ herself. It should have some effect,” Agatha said calmly. She put the heavy, black wide?brimmed hat back on, nodded to the warden, and then led the corpse?bearers toward the cemetery gate. “We should go.”

Bartok’s followers left. The black steam car moved farther and farther away under the veil of night until its tail lights slowly melted into the night of the city.

The cold night wind blew through the graveyard, over rows of stone platforms and the carved iron fence at the edge. The sullen old warden stood at the gate, watching the direction the hearse had gone. After a long time, he pulled his gaze back and drew his clothes tighter in the wind.

“The living are finally gone. I’m really not used to the cemetery being this lively.”

He muttered to himself as he gripped his trusty double?barreled shotgun and slowly walked toward his small warden’s hut beside the morgue.

A moment later, the old man came out of the hut again. This time, he held one more thing in his hand.

A small, pink?white flower, no one knew where he had picked it.

He went to the newest coffin and picked up a stone from beside it, using it to press the little flower at one corner of the platform.

The night wind blew along the path, making the fragile petals shiver. On the nearby rows of stone platforms, one could see the corners of many slabs pressed with similar little flowers.

Most of the flowers had already withered in the wind.

“Sleep. Have a good sleep. It’s hard to sleep this soundly when you’re alive,” the old warden muttered. “Your family will come greet you tomorrow morning. That’s the rule. Say goodbye to them, then leave in peace. The world of the living isn’t all that good anyway…”

The old man shook his head, bent down to grab his double?barreled shotgun, turned, and slowly walked away.

…

“We’re sailing north. Our destination is Frostholm.” On the deck of the Vanished, Duncan found Vanna staring blankly at the distant sea and called out to her. “I’ve seen you looking off into the distance this whole time, so I guessed you were wondering about the ship’s course.”

“Frostholm?” Vanna was a little surprised. She had indeed been trying to guess the Vanished’s next route, but she had not expected Captain Duncan to bring it up to her on his own. “Why Frostholm? Did something happen there?”

“It started because Morris received a letter, a letter from a deceased friend,” Duncan said as he walked to the rail at the side of the deck. He placed both hands on the railing and looked at the Boundless Sea in the distant night. “But the bigger reason is that I’ve become interested in that place.”

“You’ve become interested?”

“In a sense, Frostholm counts as Alice’s ‘hometown,’” Duncan said with a smile. “Though she herself has no such idea at all.”

“…I don’t know much about Frostholm,” Vanna said. “I only know that its main faith is Bartok, God of Death, though there are also some believers of the storm Goddess. Frostholm’s own industry seems very developed, and the biggest pillar of its economy is the boiling gold mines…”

She paused here and then, without thinking, glanced toward the cabins.

“Of course, what Frostholm is most famous for is the rebellion half a century ago. Alice doesn’t mind people talking about that, right?”

“She doesn’t mind—because she doesn’t understand a word of it.”

“…All right.”