Misfits of Carnt

Halder’s Burrow, Summer’s Somnolence

Henry Hickinbottom pondered the inconvenient fact that a dead body was face down in his vegetable garden. He had planned to unearth some potatoes and cut a few sprigs of rosemary for his wife, who was busy filling the family cauldron with stew, when he had noticed the unfortunate soul who had expired in between the endives and the fennel.

"Myrtle! Myrtle! Myrtle Hickinbottom! Get out here," he called to his wife. "Someone died in the garden."

She poked her voluptuous form out of the window and frowned at the scene.

"Are you sure he's dead?" Myrtle asked. She was never the one to make assumptions about anything. The hero of the people, Lovantus, could be coming over for dinner, and Myrtle would ask whether he eats mutton.

"Of course, he's deceased!" Henry yelled. "He's face down in the endives!"

"He could be passed out—too much to drink. I warned you about that tavern. Too much ale and not enough women folk, no one to keep their husbands in line."

"There are plenty of women folk."

"Are there now?"

"So, I'm told. They are upstairs in the rooms."

"So, you have been making eyes with the tavern wenches!"

"No, no! Strictly playing cards with the fellas. I have never been upstairs."

"Good, because if I ever caught you..." She brandished a carving knife that glinted in the moonlight and made a chopping motion with the utensil.

"Could we just focus on the body at hand?" Henry yelped.

"I'm still not convinced he's dead."

"What am I supposed to do? It could have been the plague. Can't exactly check if he's breathing if he died of disease. Liable to give it to me. Then I'd be dead in the vegetable garden," Henry ranted.

"You can poke him with the rake."

"The rake?"

"Yeah. Just go do it. Supper is getting cold," Myrtle commanded and went back inside humming the same jaunty tune she always did when she cooked. Henry used to love the melody. Now, he saved his vegetable runs so he wouldn't have to be in the house while she made the racket.

"I suppose so. The rake will do nicely. It's always something. 'Henry, fix the hole in the roof. Henry, dig a new latrine pit. The old one is starting to stink.' Of course, it's going to stink. It's a latrine. I'd like to see her on dead body removal for once." Henry grumbled and stumbled toward the equipment shed in the dark. He was futzing with the lock when he heard a noise. It sounded like something heavy was being dragged.

He turned around, and the corpse stood right behind him. Other than the apparent mobility, the creature was definitely dead. It had straggly black hair, hollow eye sockets, rotted teeth, and maggots wriggling from its cheek. The beast hissed and gave out a rasp, "L-leeeee-leee-le."

"Well, spit it out," Henry said. "I don't have all night. I need to get rosemary for the missus. She'll have my head on the spit if I don't get her sprigs."

"L-leeeee. L-leeee," the thing rasped.

"Do you want some water? Help clear the thing in your throat?"

The creature nodded.

"Right, follow me."

A few minutes, several potatoes, and some sprigs of rosemary later, the unlikely pair sat at a table in the Hickinbottom's hovel. Their abode was the one-room constitutes the entire house variety decorated in the peasant chic style because they were very much peasants and not sheikhs. Mrs. Hickinbottom placed a tankard of water in front of their guest, then turned back to the stew pot.

The undead drank until the thing was empty. The liquid drained from holes in the creature's cheeks, throat, and chest as it gulped, but it still seemed satisfied, nonetheless.

"Now," Hickinbottom said. "What was it you were saying?"

The creature belched and said, "Thank you. Cleans out the old pipes. Haven't used them in a while, you see."

"That still doesn't explain why you go off dying in my vegetable patch," Henry grumbled.

Myrtle walloped her husband and said, "The poor thing probably doesn't know he's dead. It's not every day when someone rises from the grave like that."

"Oh no," the creature responded. "I know I've been dead for a long time now. Doing my master's bidding in the afterlife. Cursed to roam the land for eternity and all."

"See! He knew what he was doing! He targeted our vegetable patch! Did the Crankshaws summon you? I'm telling you. They've been jealous since day one. 'Where'd you get the seeds?' Mr. Crankshaw had said. What does it matter where? I got them, and this is my farm!"

"No, no, I am here to deliver a message from my master, LeDuke."

The name stopped Hickinbottom cold. The trouble with his neighbors, the tune his wife was always humming, even almost being caught about what he really did at the tavern, all seemed trivial now that a servant of the dark lord himself was in his house. He stammered. "I... uh..."

The creature cut him off and spoke. "LeDuke's armies will rise again."

The minion lunged across the table and raked its claws across Hickinbottom. The farmer cried out in fear while he was torn limb from limb. The creature cackled with glee, then paused for a moment. Mrs. Hickinbottom observed the murder of her husband with a rather bored expression on her face.

"Could you turn around or something?" The undead said. "It's hard to maim with you watching."

"It will be hard for Henry to deliver your message when he's dead," Mrs. Hickinbottom remarked.

"The dead body is the message."

"Seems a little vague to me. I could come in here and think wolf attack. How am I supposed to know it's from LeDuke?"

"I'll write in blood on the walls."

"Suppose a wolf really does come and licks the blood off the walls. I am merely saying that you didn't think this through."

"Fine, how would you do it if you were a creature of the night harbingering the return of your evil overlord?"

"No need to get snippy. I was only trying to help."

"I wasn't snippy."

"Could have fooled me. Apparently, you don't want my help. I do everything for this household, day in, day out, cooking all the meals, patching the clothes, sweeping. Thatched roofs aren't for those who don't like sweeping. Let me tell you, seems like there is a new coating of dirt just about every day!"

"Your toils will be over soon," the creature said, brandishing its fangs and claws at the mistress of the house. He leaned in to tear her throat when he was whacked on the side of the head with a giant metal spoon for stirring the cauldron.

"Oh no, you don't!" Myrtle said. "You are not biting anyone until you wash up that mouth. It's filthy and has blood all over it. I tell Henry that he keeps getting sick because he doesn't wash his hands after slaughtering the chickens, but does he listen? Oh no. Look, mister? You have a name?"

"Ralicuk."

"Mr. Ralicuk. If you want to proselytize the rise of your king—"

"Necromancer."

"Whatever, I'm just saying that what's a couple of dead peasants going to do for you? People kill us all the time. Barbarians sacked the village last week. The week before, some rotten sheriff ran most of us through looking for an outlaw who wasn't even here. The point is, a couple of people like us probably won't even make the town crier. If you really want to send a message, you've got to kill Lovantus or any of the heroes from the Battle of the Four Armies. Them are pretty tough folks, I reckon. People will be paying attention then."

"Lovantus, yes." The undead said, lost in thought. Without another word, he left the residence of the Hickinbottoms.

Myrtle Hickinbottom surveyed the bloody pulp that was left of her husband and frowned. She yelled out the door at the creature receding into the night, "Not going to clean up after yourself, are you! Just eviscerate and go! Think this place just cleans itself?!"