Snowgrave

“This one is calm.”
“Maybe, he’s dead already?”
“Naah. I could see a breathling from a corpse. This one is definitely breathing.”
“Then he sleeps?”
“Rather all ears. Hey, you! Why so calm?”
No answer. Not a blink of an eye. Not a spectre of word on his lip.
“Numb and dumb, or whatever act now, soon you’ll be frozen to that.”

The man, the tallest one, who spoke the master tongue, spat in the carriage. Another, short and fatty, followed the same. No reaction came from the one who was lying there, nevertheless, tied up so hard that his chest was creaking to each round of a screeching wheel. Hard to swallow it was, and his throat was dried up already; the only water he had in a while were just handfuls of snow from December tides.

“Hey, Tally, what has he done, anyway?”
“Hey, Roundy, why would I know? I do the job, they pay, I don’t ask questions.”
“But he’s not a felon or somewhat?”
“As far as I heard, they don’t shovel felons.”
“But whom, then?”


The one in the carriage smiled to these words. If not for pain in the chest, he might have been laughing already. But only smile, wide, with lips closed, very noticeable.
 
“Hey, he smiles!”
“What?”
“Look, like he’s enjoying the trip.”
“He must not smile! It was written in the contract that no sick condemned to shoveling can smile.”
“Oh… what do we do then?”
“Cause the pain.”
“Ah, yes! My favourite!”

Roundy pulled the chain, and the chest of the one in the carriage made a sound reminiscent of ship been stroke by cannonball: one of the ribs burst into flinders. But he didn’t cry, nor lost the smile.

“It’s not enough!”

“Oh, well. I’ll just use one of those tricks mature Healers do.”
“We are the healers, cool!”
“Of course we are! We provide the release for the sicklings like him. Now…”
Tally rummaged in his pockets for a minute, then, with bingo face, took out the paper mask with big nice unemotional mouth, shut dead.
“Now some glue…”
And paper mouth went above the smile of the sick, according to Healers, man.
“Now it’s settled. But we wasted time, so let’s hurry. I’ve just got a message, there are more sick on the wait. If we release this one soon, we might get more, and paid more.”
“Yeah! Let’s hurry!”

Rapidly they ran, and the carriage wheels screeched their rounds much faster, and the pain in the chest creaked much vaster, and the glued mouth didn’t get enough air to breathe, while the nose of a sick man felt like cave of melting stalactites, through which but dribs of air would strive to enter. And the snow felt heavy, as if not the flakes but icy waves that on and on bury the memories of lost November.

In a while, the carriage stopped.
“So, that’s the place?”
“Yes, shovel up.”
“Say, Tally, do you know his kind of sickness?”
“No, Roundy, told you, wouldn’t care. Anyway, they put labels on their heads. Check the nape, for curiosity.”
Roundy stuck his hand behind the head of the one in the carriage, browsed for some time, but then just shrugged his shoulders in a disappointed way.
“No label there.”
“Strange.”
“Maybe, he’s not sick?”
“Of course, he is! Don’t be an idiot. Most of them come with labels ‘lost in thoughts’, ‘unable to socialize’, ‘arrested development’, ‘bi…’ – well, bi something, can’t remember. This one is one of them, obviously. Remember the smile?”
“Ah, yes, the smile! Surely, he’s the one of them. But don’t you think, Tally, we should label him? Just in case if someone checks, you know…”
“Good idea, Roundy. You are not that idiot after all. Let’s think about it, while shoveling.”

They dug through snow to make a perfect bed, not very fit though, as always; commonly, they didn’t measure the details like height or weight or intellectual capacity, or psychic ones – they would just lay a sickling in a snowgrave, and cover up. Uncomfortably frozen, many lied. And many lie.

“So, Tally, did you think any label on this one?”
“Well, I have some ideas, did you?”
“Have some, too. Do you want to be first?”
“Not exactly. Do you?”
“Not really. Maybe we should do the counting?”
“Good idea. Do you know one?”
“I do! Here, listen…”

One, two, three, a demon is in me;
Three, four, five, it makes me feel alive;
Five, six, seven, I won’t go to heaven;
Seven, eight, nine, illusion is their shrine;
Nine, ten, eleven, mental is my cavern;
Eleven, twelve, thirteen, disorder is my twin.

“Oh, really! Roundy, what is this? Where did you hear this nonsense?”
“Ehm… some of those on the wait, they were playing this, counting…”
“You shouldn’t listen to these… things. They are sick, remember? And we are Healers.”
“Yes, sorry, Tally…”
“Anyway, it doesn’t work with two. If you start with me, it will end with you, otherwise – on me. Not fair. Let’s just do the usual ‘rock paper scissors’.”
The one in the carriage tried to lift up his hand, showing scissors.
“Look, he moves! Does he want to play, also?”
“That’s preposterous, why should we play with him.”
“But he’s going down there, anyway. It’s like his last wish, Tally.”
“Well, they didn’t put the label, it’s their fault. This feels fun, why not.”

They started playing. For two rounds, Tally had his rock to scissors, and scissor to papers. Then Roundy got one with the rock. Then the sides switched, and the one in the carriage got two with paper to rocks, and another paper to rock and the Roundy’s scissor. Then they all had scissors. Each had two wins, each was eager to label the sick man, even sick one himself.

If not for the winter, they might have been sweating. Somehow, a simple game became a fight, a fight for naming ones disease, like if they really cared. Tally, he wanted to be sure he was laying down the right one. Roundy, he wasn’t sure at all, but eager to create an interesting label, a bit funny maybe, just to play around. Sickling, the one in the carriage, no one knew his intentions, but could it be he tried to justify himself, to label himself, not being labeled? Nobody would know. The last round, rock to scissors, Roundy won.
____

The man, who once was in the carriage, lied uncomfortably crooked, and numb, with lips of glue and mouth of paper, in the snowgrave. On his forehead now dwelled the label ‘inappropriate smiler and bad rock scissors player, daring though’, it was almost covering his eyes. Covering from December tides once more burying the days of lost November. Mixed with snow-dirt from shovels – to the snowgrave.

“Allright, this one is done. Let’s hurry for more sicklings, Roundy!”
“Sure, Tally! Would be fun, if they’re unlabeled!”
“Would, indeed!” They laughed and pulled the carriage away.

In several sighs, there were no sounds but wind tickling trees, so that their snowy furs felt off, and last so small and distant steps of lost November, of lost autumn, of lost mind. The man, the one in snowgrave now, didn’t stop breathing, despite the pain in chest and paper mouth, and nose of stalactites. Slowly, he felt, he was freezing to bone, yet the frost couldn’t get to his spirit.

Wouldn’t get. Whatever demon, mental or disorder, don’t make graves feel cosy. Burn inside. Just burn. The frost will go, the snow will melt away. And they will find you. Different they. With them your chest won’t pain, and whatever labels you were forced to wear, they wouldn’t care.         
_________

They said he abandoned his grave.
On the 29th day of the moon.
_________

© Villard Cord, Crossroads 29th, 29\02/12/13
http://www.scribd.com/doc/190071047/Snowgrave