Blood in Roses:
The Last Estrie
Prologue
"It looks good," an older gentleman exclaimed. His old, cataract-stricken eyes were gazing down hazily into the deep, freshly dug hole before him. He was leaning a good portion of his weight onto a wooden cane; his bony fingers clenched around the handle tightly. The temple robes that lay heavily over his thin shoulders lightly billowed in the breeze while casting a wide shadow in front of him. Though the setting sun provided some light, the skies were rarely clear even on the best of days.
"As long as it's deep enough." A younger man stabbed a slightly rusted shovel into the damp soil, hauling out a few more loads before climbing his way out of the hole. A moderate rain from that morning had the ground rather sodden and mud clung to the fabric of the man's pants and hands. Once to his feet he brushed himself free of the loose dirt and proceeded to move a large sack nearer to the hole. He then pulled out two handkerchiefs from his breast pocket and-wish one covering the palm of each hand-grabbed onto a large wooden casket to drag it closer to the hole as well. After he was satisfied with the casket's current placement, the young man leaned up to stretch his back while taking a fleeting glance at the surrounding area.
They were in the middle of a vast, open wheat field. Hundreds of thousands of long, slender stems of the grain waved in the wind, providing an almost silk-like look of golden color in the light of the setting sun. The field was perhaps a mile from the nearest village and a dense forest of sparse trees lined its outskirts. As it was, the land had been recently inherited by the younger of the gentleman. In fact, it was his family who owned the majority of the land all across this area, and many of the villagers living there worked under them.
The old priest had a very grim look overcome his wrinkled face. His eyes were rather cold as they followed his company around, as if he were suspicious of the young man's motives. The hardened truth of it, however, was that even if he did refuse the younger, nothing good would come of it. His quivering bottom lip and shaking hands were only proof of his age, not an indication of fear.
The hole was well over six feet deep. The priest had been watching the young man dig for hours, bringing the hole to an unusual eleven feet in depth. But the elder remained silent, his hazy eyes following the outline of the wooden casket to the side. It was sealed along all sides with long iron nails, and an inscription was roughly carved longways-quite unceremoniously-which read: "Sit laus Deo; ut vos nunquam resurget." The younger of the men was working the casket into the deep grave, seemingly not too worried about its contents as it was bumped and shoved until finally settling into the grave.
"It is customary to show respect for the dead, young man..." the priest said as his clouded eyes darted back and forth. He was beginning to lean rather hard on his cane. The younger's behavior was beginning to irk him, especially when he noticed that even though he had a cloth under each hand, he was avoiding touching the surface of the casket at all costs.
"It would be wise to focus on your lines, old man," came the younger's response. The air grew very quiet then as he took up the shovel once more to begin piling on the dirt. A quick glance at the priest encouraged the old man to begin.
Pulling out a rosary from his sleeve, the priest began a low chant, closing his eyes as he did so while holding the rosary tight. His words dribbled from his lips in a dull Latin-at first with little to no intent-but then gradually hastening as the minutes passed by. Though his eyes were closed, the old man could sense that something was not as it should be. He could hear the shoveling of dirt before him and soon a trace of fear outlined his tone. His breath wavered and a small stutter formed.
This caused alarm to rise in the young man, but his eyes only narrowed with irritation. He hastily packed the soil until the job was done before turning towards the sack which was sitting a couple of feet away From within he pulled out a small pouch of salt, closed tight with a draw string, and a larger pouch of rice also sealed with a string. He opened the smaller of the two and turned it over to dump the salt out onto the loose soil atop the grave, then proceeded to spread the grains of rice all around the site until the bag was empty.
The old priest's hands were shaking violently now as he continued to utter the words of prayer. His eyes were pinched so tightly together it looked as if he were in pain. It was now quite obvious that the poor old man was terrified. His fear didn't go unnoticed, either. The young man only grinned as he gazed down at the grave. Having put the handkerchiefs away, he rested his hands on his hips. "She was a good woman," he said, though his undertone dripped of a wry nature. "She won't be disturbed way out here..." His voice trailed off as he stepped away from the side of the grave towards the old priest. His expression darkened then as he looked down at the quivering elder. Reaching from a pouch at his hip, the younger gentleman produced a blade. In just a few small seconds the old priest was on his knees, clenching the deep wound in his abdomen. The rosary dropped from his grasp onto the top soil, and blood began to stain the earth.
The shadow of the assailant's figure stretched over the dying body and fresh grave as the sun disappeared over the horizon. Eyes that flashed red stared downwards as the dagger was put away. "Thank you for your services," he said calmly. "Rest easy now, and don't let that body get up, you hear?" Though it was more of a joke as a small laugh escaped his lips. Turning away, the man left the old priest to die, splayed upon the grave of a woman he once loved.