The Keeper of Souls

• Prompt & Trigger Warnings

  Genre: Cemetery Tale
  Setting: Castle
  Character: Nurturing Mother

  Content Warning: Child Loss/Miscarriage

Ultia clutched her fur shawl tighter as they plodded along. The depleting sunlight chilled the air. Her horse vigorously shook its head, its mane no longer covered in droplets of condensed, cooled air. It snorted and huffed, white plumes of hot breath bursting from its nostrils.

“We’re almost there, Swiftheart.” Ultia gently patted his muscular neck. “I know you’re tired of walking.”

“Well, if someone hadn’t tried to sneak out, we would have had time to dress our horses, and maybe this trip back wouldn’t have been so painful,” a sharp voice called out from behind her.

“Come now, Maves. I’m sure our lady had a completely rational reason to attempt this journey alone… unarmed… and unmanned.” A deep, even-keeled voice retorted.

Ultia rolled her eyes. “Your lady is just tired of looking at your faces.”

Maves feigned a surprised and pained look. “I know I look like a pinched serpent, madam, but Otule here, I’m positive, was chiseled by the gods. I’m sure you offend him.”

Otule let out a soft chuckle. “Leave it be, Maves. I’m just glad we caught up in time. Although I’m beginning to worry—Iliana hasn’t reported back yet. We're within the castle grounds.” He squinted into the distance.

Otule was right; Iliana was behind her scouting schedule. Ultia slowed her breathing and lowered her eyelids; the world blurred around her. She could sense her acolytes within a short distance without expending too much effort.

A smell. She inhaled again. Decay… and a soft scent of lavender. Feelings. Worry. Concern. Panic. Iliana could feel her probing. She called out, “Lady Ultia, please come quickly!”

Ultia swung her legs around, shifting from her leisurely sidesaddle position, shoving both feet into the stirrups and snapping the reins. The bored steed eagerly bolted forward.

“Iliana is just ahead,” she called back. “Something is wrong. Make haste.” Swiftheart kicked up wet hunks of earth as he sped forward.

Ultia could see Iliana’s tall silhouette through the mist, a dark mass near her feet. Swiftheart didn’t need any instruction; he knowingly slowed to a stop by her acolyte’s side. At her feet was the body of a dead woman, neck bent at an unnatural angle, glassy eyes staring up at nothing.

“I… I didn’t want to leave her.” Iliana’s normally stoic voice was peppered with worry. “She looked dangerously close to malforming. I’ve been whispering the sacred song of release to her, but she seems determined to stay on this plane.”

Iliana, of course, was not speaking of the dead body itself but of the spirit of the young woman looming over the body. Her face was frozen in a scream of pain and despair.

Ultia dismounted, placing a hand on her acolyte’s shoulder. “You’ve done well. Keep whispering the song. It may not remove her, but it should slow the malformation.” Iliana nodded and returned to her song in a low, hushed tone.

Ultia hurriedly scanned the scene. Iliana was right—they didn’t have the luxury of time. There was a trail of snapped branches, scarred earth, and displaced leaves leading up to a ridge. The woman had most likely fallen and snapped her neck. She looked at the body. A basket of medicinal herbs and lavender flowers lay strewn at her side. The corpse of a deer a few paces away was rotting. That’s where the smell came from—not the woman. She hadn’t been dead long enough to decay.

Maves and Otule finally caught up, Maves breathing heavily while Otule hardly broke a sweat. Ultia filled them in quickly. They sat in silent contemplation for a moment, trying to determine why the spirit wasn’t departing. Otule leaned in and whispered something to Ultia, her eyes widening. She instinctively touched the emerald gem embedded in the skin over her sternum. It was always warm to the touch.

She knelt down to examine the body closer. The specter still hovered, frozen over its once-living body, its ghastly face contorted in anguish.

“Forgive me,” she whispered. “I need to examine your body.” Ultia moved her hands gingerly across the dead woman’s face, looping her dark brown hair behind her ears. No old bruises. The young woman was quite beautiful. She hadn’t been dead for long. She wore an old brown wool gown—well made but patched and re-stitched. This dress had been loved and well cared for. Ultia wanted to confirm Otule’s suspicions quickly. She delicately moved her hands across the body until she reached the lower abdomen. She applied pressure. The woman’s belly was taut. Suddenly, the surrounding air grew frigid. The once-frozen specter let out a wretched wail. Ultia slowly removed her hand. The wailing faded.

“Maves, join Iliana in song. Otule was right; the woman died with a child in her womb. We cannot let the spirit become malformed. How far are we from the castle?”

“No more than 5 minutes by horse, 20 on foot.” The large man replied, looking out towards the distance. Maves had already joined Iliana in song, his clear voice further soothing the spirit. Its pained look softened slightly. “What are you planning on doing?” His brow furrowed in concern.

“We can save the child, Otule.” She looked up at him, pleading. “If we save the child, it may be enough to break the spirit from this plane. I have a midwife anchored to me. They will guide my body through the process… Please, Otule, trust me.” Ultia wanted to convince herself as much as she was trying to sway her troubled acolyte.

Otule let out a sigh. “As you wish, my lady. What do you need me to do?”

“Thank you, my friend.” She reached out and squeezed his hand tightly. “Take Swiftheart and get back to the castle. Fetch as much hot water as you can, clean fresh bandages, and see if the stable boy has any fresh milk—goat, cow, sheep. It matters not.”

He nodded and gently grabbed Swiftheart’s reins. He faced the horse and mouthed something to him, pressing his head onto the white diamond patch of fur on the otherwise black creature’s forehead. Otule still feared riding, but his methods kept him calm. He climbed up swiftly and was off.

Ultia wasted no time, pushing up the sleeves of her overcoat, revealing a line of ten emeralds inlaid in her skin, evenly spaced along her forearms, five on each arm, starting at the wrist and ending just below the curve of her inner elbow. She glided her left hand over the gems along her right forearm, stopping at the third one, and closed her eyes.

The song of release, harmonized by Maves and Iliana, helped ease her into a trance.

Fragile mask of bone and flesh,
Visage shattered from this plane.
Fluttering spirit bound by dreams,
Sins and song become enmeshed.
Free of desires, pain, and screams,
Smothered life and hollowed flame.

Her skin cooled as the gem glowed. It released a winding plume of pale green vapor. She breathed in the curling, smoky essence. It eagerly pushed its way into her nostrils. Her once-brown eyes shone a pale green, a glowing mist dripping down her skin like liquid smoke. Her body bent forward, hunched and stiffened. Years of working bedside, delivering countless babies for the poor and royalty alike, had put a strain on her back.

“What has this girl gotten into now…” she mused.

She saw the thin one, and the angular-faced woman chanting. At her age, she couldn’t be bothered to remember names.

“Ah, this is why I’m here. Tsk, poor girl.” She looked down at the basket. Lavender. The poor thing was sensitive to smell up through the third trimester. Not uncommon, though unfortunate. She looked at the spirit hovering above the body.

“Come now, dear, we don’t have time for your crying. If you want this baby saved, you need to sit tight and let me work.” The spirit’s mouth closed, smoky lines of tears streaming down its face.

“I know, dear, we’re going to get through this.” She looked around. “I know this daft girl didn’t bring me here with no supplies.”

Thundering hooves disrupted her complaints. Otule was back with what his lady had requested.

“Finally. Bring it all here. I need a knife as well. She better have told you to bring a knife. No need for it to be sterile, all things considered, but it’ll bother me if it’s not.” She waved Otule over.

Otule ran over with his supplies and bowed. “Adande Freda,” he said, clumsily taking her hand and pressing it against his forehead. She liked this one. His culture had a deep respect for doctors of mind and body. Adande being the title given to those who practiced.

“Nice to see you again, Otule. I assume you’ll be my assistant?” He nodded. “Ok, let’s get to work.”

The supplies were good enough. She found a knife wrapped in cloth. It was clean. Freda knelt down to begin her work, cutting the dress along the abdomen to expose the belly. No need to have the poor girl’s undergarments flashing about. She pressed along the lower belly, feeling for the child, hoping it would press back against her hand. A flutter. There you are, little one.

She started delicately carving into the lower abdomen, creating a smooth, curved line, expertly peeling away the layers of skin to uncover the transparent sac. Freda was grateful to have nimble hands again; time had gnarled hers into claws before her death. She pulled the sac out.

“Otule, ready the hot water and clean cloth. We will need to move quickly once I puncture the sac.” The other two were still in song, the spirit looming over Freda, staring with intensity but no malice.

“Ready?” Otule nodded. He had just finished cleaning his hands with the scalding water, cloths laid across his arms. Freda cleaned hers and readied her blade.

She punctured the sac, and fluid rushed out. Freda peeled the membrane off the child and handed it quickly to Otule so she could cut the cord. With the cord cut, she tied a strip of cloth around the leftover stump. Throwing down the knife, she knelt over the child, cleaning her—it was a her.

“It’s a girl!” she announced instinctively.

Time to clear the airways. She reached a finger into the infant’s mouth and scooped out whatever mucus she could find, then placed her mouth over her tiny nose, sucking and spitting out the remaining fluid. Soon enough, a sharp cry pierced the air.

“Nicely done, little one.” Freda closed her eyes, ready to rest.

Ultia pulled in a sharp breath and frantically examined her surroundings. Otule held a crying baby, and Maves and Iliana were still in song, their voices beginning to fade. She gasped as the spirit appeared before her. No longer in despair, it was smiling, looking at its child. It nodded in thanks and vanished.

Iliana and Maves stopped singing. Otule handed her the child. “I’m glad this worked, but I don’t like the risk you take. Fifteen spirits are bound to your body, allowing one to take over.” He shook his head. “It’s just too risky, my lady. We cannot lose you.”

“I know, Otule, I know.” She held the child in her hands, it curled towards her warmth.

The small emerald in her sternum began to burn. She rubbed it gently.

“I’m sorry, my son. I’m sorry I can no longer hold you like this. I’m sorry you were taken away from me so soon,” she whispered. “I will find a way to bring you back.”

She looked down at the cooing child and wondered.