Zombies: More Recent Dead

What Still Abides Marie Brennan

Let me tell a tale of my father’s kin, for in me runs their blood, and so to me falls this burden: to keep the knowledge, the old-thought, the shape of how it began, as my father gave it to me.

Harvest-time it was, the time of reaping and of dying, when his breath stopped and his blood stilled, and they laid his body in the ground. He had a name then, that now is gone; my father knew it but told me not, saying it died with his life, and to speak it now would blight the speaker’s tongue.

He died at harvest and they laid him in the ground, axe at his side and barrow built over his head. After that came winter, wolf-cold and sharp. It was a time of hunger, of bellies clenching hard and even kin looking upon one another with an unkind eye. Men tholed ill luck in those long nights: sickness and wound, horses lame and kine lost. Then came spring with storms, grimful rains to drown the fields, and the ground that was his grave became black with mud.

One night a man, Leofnoth by name, son of Leofmaer, hied to the eorl’s hall to drink among the thanes, as was his wont, and a shame unto his wife. But when he came there, they saw he was white as bone with fear and his hands shook like leaves in the wind, though he had not yet taken ale. When they asked what had frighted him so, he said he had seen a man standing upon the grave.

For this they laughed at him, and gave him a cup to drink. But rest Leofnoth would not, holding that he told only truth, and furthermore that the man was no thing of this world. And so in the teeth of a storm, three men rode out to see what of what he spake.

Stood a dréag upon the brow of his barrow, feet mud-deep, neither shifting nor breathing.

Warriors they were, bold thanes of the eorl, who had seen that man buried and would swear their oath that he was dead. Yet there stood the lich: frost-shrunken his limbs and grey as old snow, like a curse upon the ground. Bold might they be, but near him none would go, for fear of this unearthly thing. Instead they settled that they would fetch a god-man, whose holy words would lay the wight once more.

But when came the god-man with them to the barrow at the mist-shrouded break of day, cast down he could not what had risen from that earth, for the thing was mightier than he. Whatever words said he, the bone-home neither shifted nor breathed, nor gave any show it saw the thanes and the god-man. Dead had he been, and so was he still, even upon the height of the barrow instead of in its heart.

The first of the thanes set himself to undertake what the god-man could not do, and bring low this weird thing. Fastened he his feet upon the ground, and put the heels of his hands upon the body, throwing against it all his weight. So might he have struggled against the mightiest tree, what little harvest had he for his work. Sought then the next of his fellows, and then the third, and then the three together, but all their strength could not shift the life-left flesh so much as the span of a hair.

Unrestful were their hearts at this, but hid they their fear with laughter, saying that the wight wanted only the freshness of the wind.

And so they left him there, for they could do naught. Came the children of the town to scorn at the thing, daring one another to feel the dréag’s dead hand, and their mothers pulled them away.

Seven days after, came there a rider upon a horse, an errand-man for the eorl. As it went by the barrow his horse bolted in fear, dashing up the slope and hurling its burden to the ground. But struck the horse’s hoof against the head of the man, and came thus his blood, soaking the loam at the lich’s feet.

When came the thanes to gather up the errand-man’s body, the dréag was not as he had been. Thick now were the arms withered by winter, ripe as the beginning of rot. But not like life was this; sick-swollen was he, full with the foulness of those who dwell with worms.

Among them were none with will enough to strike the wight. Frightened, left they the errand-man where he lay and rode back to their hall.

Then went out word from the eorl, that he would give rich gold to the man who rid him of this wicked thing. To this call came Aescwulf of the east, a warrior bold whose deeds men heard in tale and song, and said he that his sword would cut down what the god-man’s words could not.

Therefore went Aescwulf to the top of the barrow with his sword in his hand, to meet the risen wight. Dry was his mouth and cold his blood at seeing dead flesh stand, but held he to his meaning and his end, lest he shame himself and his good name lose in the eyes of his fellow men.

With keen edge he cut, striking at the sticks of the wight, and meat and bone gave way before his blade. But fell too the sword from Aescwulf’s hand: stopped had his heart at the start of his strike, and now he lay dead beside the dréag.

For Aescwulf was great mourning and great thanks, that he had freed the folk from their fear. To his kin gave the eorl the plighted gold and meed besides, for the loss of their fellow in so worthy a work. The wight his men graved in the ground once more, and gave yield to the gods that he should not leave another time.

But when waned the moon, stood the shape again on the height of the hill, the dréag as he had been.

Darker then were the days, gray the sky with clouds, and colder waxed the wind even as the summer grew. Came again the god-man, and four strong men with him, weaponed with whitethorn. For then was it the month of three milkings, and with the wood of that month might they steal the strength that fed his soul. At the god-man’s rede bound they the bone-home and broke it from the earth, and once more laid it down where it should keep.

But in this doing, pricked the thorns of the wood into the men’s hands, so that their blood fell onto the skin of the wight. Drank the gray flesh these drops and thereafter grew white, shining lich-sick as they steeked the barrow shut.

Still darker dimmed the sun, so that churl and thane and eorl alike dwelt in grave-gloom. Came then the rain almost without halt, drowning the home of seeds, killing the year before it lived. Empty were the keeps of corn after winter’s end; hunger was man’s dish, and want his drink, and the wolf of death came for many.

Thin grew the sky-sickle and withered into black, and when darkest came the night, rose again the dréag to stand upon the ground.

More gold gave the eorl, and clubs of the crabapple tree, for the boldest men to bear. Now this is the soul-strength of apple: that it is the tree of life, whose wood is bane to things of death. Hewn was this wood from a holy tree, and marked with runes by the god-man, to give it might against the dréag.

Rode forth six men who climbed the hill, and with reckless hearts put themselves against this threat. Scathed their clubs the skin, and with the first blow came the breath of the wolf, the wind of winter, from the wounds they made. Twice struck their arms, and crumbled the blossoms of the hedges into dust. At the last blow, fell the birds from the trees, their feathers breaking against the ground.

From the skin of the dréag wept tears of black blood that froze the hands of the men. Numb-fingered, took they the raven’s food and thrust it into the ground, stopping the way with stone. Then came the women and children, half-starved and scared, with shale from their houses and flint from their fields, to roof over the barrow so naught might grow upon it again. But beneath the blood, the hands of the men were white as midwinter snow.

Long then were the nights, though summer should have made sweet the sky. Brought the day little sun and no hope, and dwindled horse and kine for lack of grass. All kept watch for the waning of the moon, and what they knew it must bring.

When saw the watchers the wight again, it was the death of hope. No strength of sinew nor holiness of heart could drive the dréag down whither it should be, and its foulness drained the life from the land. Dim were the days and dead the fields, and the men with white hands walked about with empty eyes, stopping neither for food nor for sleep. Dread they woke in those who saw them, and in fear some sought to fight them; but when their foes their hands met, numb went their limbs, as if winter’s cold bent their bones. And so left they such men to wander, and those who had not forsaken hope kept far from their path.

But unaware the eorl was not, and had readied himself for this rising.

On the ground before his hall stood a stone. Into this carved the god-man his strongest runes, and wrote over them with his blood, begging the gods, the great ones of the other worlds, to make the stone the stopping of this bane.

Sent the eorl the last of his thanes to the bone-home’s bed, where the wight stood again. Dragged they the dréag thence, the white-handed ones walking after, as if they were the thanes of that thing. But stopped they at the stakes that marked the ground of the eorl’s hall.

On that ground one woman came forth, having kissed her kin and bid them farewell; Saehild was her name, and well she knew this work would be her death or worse. But for the well-being of her folk, put she her hands to the lich’s flesh, cutting it loose with an iron knife. Ulfcytel, best of the thanes, took the body-sticks she bared and laid them upon the stone, that the god-man had named the grinder of the grave. With other stones he broke them, stones carved also with the runes and blood of the god-man, while put Saehild the flesh into a churn of oak, whose staff then beat it soft. White grew their skin where it met bone and meat, but their word they had given, and break it they would not before they were done.

When ended their work, stood they with the empty-eyed ones; but their word they had kept, and so the eorl gave wergeld to their kin.

What abided still they put into a box, whose lid they nailed down with iron. At ene fell dead the god-man, and his body rotted where it lay. At this ill foretoken, more gave in to fear, but said the eorl that all his strength had gone into the spell, and his death was a mark of its might.

Few then yet stood at the eorl’s side. Frost-bitten was the wind and dim the light, and held many to their homes; of those who did not, too many walked about bearing white skin and empty eyes. But yet lived hope in the eorl’s heart. Took he the box and rode to the wealth-house of the dead, shifting aside the stone to bury his burden where first they had laid the lich, in harvest-time so long before. Then, having roofed the room anew, set he a watch, to see if things would now be well.

The end of this, all men know. Upon the dark of the moon, rose for the last time what men had thought to rid themselves of, fed full by the blood of the god-man, witlessly given. Came then those who yet lived, herded before the white-handed ones, to see the doom of the eorl, torn asunder for seeking to stop this thing. Fell his wound-flood upon the watching ones, waking hunger in their hearts. Crawled they up the barrow’s side to beg the blessing from the dréag; cut he his arm, and from it drank they the wolf-wine, which gave to them knowledge of their wyrd, and new ravening.

And so has it been since that day. Never came the sun over this land after that; dwell we therefore in darkness, that men from without hold in fear. From our new god take we our gift, and do his will however he bids. All hail to the holy one, the bestower of blood, the gainsayer of the grave, whose life and might shall be everlasting.