Solace and Longshire, V

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"God, it feels good to get off the ankle."

Longshire settled his bulk down onto a stone bench. In this garden, he actually seemed to dwindle a little, the infection in his body more apparent in the sunlight. His color matched many of the stones that surrounded him. Having arranged his robe around himself, he leaned back against a nearby grave marker that stood tall enough and at such an angle as to act as a chair back.

Solace sat on the ground, and regarded the older man from a several feet away.

"Careful, Bishop," he chided with a grin, "this is consecrated ground. That's almost a sacriledge."

Longshire wiggled his shoulders back and forth, finding an accomodating groove in the limestone for his shoulder blades, and, having found it, relaxed.

"Then, I shall almost burn in Hell for it."

The gravemaker stared at the side of the church he and Longshire had just left, on the other side of the garden. Its limestone sides were mossy near the ground, a sign, Solace knew, that the ground there was extremely moist. Most bodies buried there were reduced to bones very quickly. The biggest drawback to the place was the presence of what he referred to as "the wall." Longshire noted his gaze.

"So," the bishop rumbled, "how is the girl?"

Solace frowned at the euphemism. "The girl" was a young woman who had died apparently a suicide, unshriven, and in any case, damned by the manner of her death. Her nude body had been wrapped in a shroud and dumped over the wall, a roofless enclosure twice the height of a man without door or windows, to rot as the summer progressed. The wall made that section of the garden quite unpopular for any purpose, and the superstitious folk of the shire avoided it.

"Whether she'd died by drowning," Solace said quietly, not looking at Longshire, "or died beaten to death by the drunken lout of her father, she's just as dead, and at peace. The child was probably his anyway, conceived of rape."

This had been a contentious point of long standing between the two men, skirted but never embraced, but this morning Longshire rose to it. "So you say. I would argue the point whether she's at peace or not."

"You would see her burn for the sin of lust, a sin which rightly belongs hung about the neck of him who sired her, and not lust but incest?" Solace flared, rising to his feet. "A man you confessed!" he accused.

"Solace, she took her own life --"

"Her life was taken from her long before Death arrived to claim his prize."

"Nevertheless."

There was a long silence. Finally, Solace sighed, an explosive exhalation.

"It was a rainy spring, and so far a hot summer. Her bones, and what bones there are of the babe will be scattered within a fortnight."

Another long silence followed, and the gravemaker was content to let it stretch. Finally, Longshire cleared his throat. "Bartholomew, I'm not completely unsympathetic, but the rules of the Church are clear on this matter. Had her father in fact and by action killed her, she would have died in Grace. He'll receive his punishment, but not by my hand. I'm a shepherd, not a constable or knackerman."

Solace felt his frustration re-light. "That's sophistic hair-splitting."

Longshire let his own anger brighten a little. "Then take your complaints to Rome." His tone was full of acid.

For a while, neither man spoke. A line had been crossed, and they both knew it. Longshire closed his eyes.

"Solace..." he began.

"The walls are too thin."

Longshire's eyes opened. "Excuse me?"

Solace pointed at the building across the garden. "The walls of the chapel. They're too thin. The masons left no room for niches inside the walls."

The old man took a long, deep breath. His vision was beginning to gray at the edges. He squinted, but the haze didn't go away. "So what do you suggest?" He knew they would never agree over the girl, and was content to let the gravemaker change the subject, a little sorry he'd goaded the younger man and not knowing why he'd done so.

Solace pointed at a large tree at the low end of the garden, next to the church.

"There, by the willow."

Longshire raised himself, and looked toward the tree.

"It's beautiful. I've not noticed it before."

Solace nodded. "It's my favorite place to relax. Many's the night I leave my little home here and sleep beneath it's branches. It would be very appropriate for you to rest there, yourself."

Longshire turned back. "Think you? Why so?"

Solace paced, his frustration and anger ebbing finally, draining to ground through the soles of his boots. "It's where I'd want to be buried, and God willing I won't be needing it for a while. Did not Joseph of Arimathea give up his tomb?"

Lonshire laid his head back. "I'm no Jesus, if that's what you're implying."

Solace couldn't stifle a chuckle. "And I'm no Joseph. It's not a tomb of rock and I doubt as there will be angels standing guard, but it is a lovely place. As the roots to the earth and water, so the leaves to the air. The only element left is fire, which you will certainly provide. Body to earth, soul to sky."

Longshire's eyebrows rose. "Bartholomew Solace," he said with the start of a grin, "Have you turned pagan on me?"

The gravemaker grinned, mischief twinkling at the corner of his eyes. "What do you mean, turned? Rome may rename the old gods and take their holidays as her own, but the people of this shire still leave bowls of milk on their stoops for the Wee Folk, and hang holly at Yule and remember why."

Longshire tried to sit up straighter, but couldn't find the energy.

"Of course I'm not supposed to say this..."

He stopped, his voice trailing off. Solace waited for him to finish. After many moments, the gravemaker's brows furrowed. He looked at his friend, looked for the rise of his chest. When he finally discerned movement under the folds of the robe the bishop wore, it was slight.

"Samuel..? Your grace..?"

Longshire's eyes opened fractionally. "I believe," he took a deep breath as if trying to pull wakefulness out of the very air, "that is the first time you've ever called me by my Christian name." The words were slow, a little slurred.

Solace blushed. Without realizing it, he'd stepped closer to his friend and put his hand on the older man's sleeve. He withdrew his hand. "You were saying," Solace cleared his throat, "'you weren't supposed to say'..?"

The bishop raised his eyes to Solace's face.

"Only that I, too, remember."

Solace stared, shocked. Longshire reached out his hand. The effort of extending his arm caused his hand to tremble.

"Now," Bishop Longshire said, "help me to my feet, and get me to the sacristy. I've a mass to sing."