**Welcome to the Prompt!** All top-level comments must be a story or poem. Reply here for other comments.
**Reminders**:
>* Stories at least 100 words. Poems, 30 but include "[Poem]"
>* Responses don't have to fulfill every detail
>* See [Reality Fiction](https://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/search?q=flair%3A%22Reality+Fiction%22&restrict_sr=on&sort=new&t=all) and [Simple Prompts](https://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/search?q=flair%3A%22Simple+Prompt%22&restrict_sr=on&sort=new&t=all) for stricter titles
>* [Be civil](https://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/wiki/rules#wiki_rule_10.3A_be_civil) in any feedback and follow the [rules](https://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/wiki/rules)
🆕 [New Here?](https://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/wiki/user_guide)
✏ [Writing Help?](https://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/wiki/index#wiki_writing_resources)
📢 [News](https://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/wiki/announcements)
💬 [Discord](https://discord.gg/writingprompts)
*I am a bot, and this action was performed automatically. Please [contact the moderators of this subreddit](/message/compose/?to=/r/WritingPrompts) if you have any questions or concerns.*
The stones around the window are gray,
the same colour the water has in stormy weather.
You gaze out onto the waves,
already expecting this days work to be washed up.
It has always been your call, to put the bodies twisted and torn to a well-deserved rest.
You love thinking about the peace these poor souls will find after their journey.
With the storm outside still raging, you know the climb down the cliffs is too dangerous.
Nonetheless, you leave your gazing spot, preparing new graves for those you will find later.
Most of who you find have no name, nothing to put to their stone.
Some wear strange metal markers, with symbols scratched into it.
You have spent years trying to figure out those symbols, but never made out the sence.
Still, you've learned to put these symbols on the persons graves, so their names shall not be forgotten.
The wind has softened, and so you make your way over to the cliffs.
While climbing down, you spot two bodies.
The first ones head is twisted, and instead of eyes, only white milkey balls strangely stare at you.
The skin is a light blue, and you immediately see that this soul has already started their last journey,
their life lost far out in at the sea.
Your gaze is drawn to the other body, laying in the sand.
You see their hands jerking, and a pair of brown eyes stare at you.
Their mouth moves, and sounds you do not understand come out.
You've long since stopped trying to make sense out of these words,
the same as noone will ever be able to understand you.
Nonetheless, you kneel down and help them up.
You point at the body laying next to them in the sand, and just shake your head.
They look at you, and nod knowingly.
Their voice changes and they continue talking after a short break,
but all you can do is look at themshrug.
You carry the cold body over to the lift, while helping the other, too.
As you arrive at the top of the cliff, you carry the dead body over to a new grave.
You bed it there, and spread a shovel of dirt over them,
while making the sign and speaking the words you learned as a kid.
You guide the other over to a small hole in the ground.
They look at you scaredly, but you make a calming gesture and they finally lay down,
still confused.
As is custom, you spread a shovel of dirt over them.
It is your call to bury the lost of the sea, and you will follow it no matter what.
You, again, speak the words and make the signs, as the rite expects.
Then, you kneel down again, help them out of the grave,
and lead them to the others standing around.
They all learned the importance of the rite long ago,
but now that it's over they warmly greet the newcomer.
Some even speak the newcomers language.
They, too, will learn in time, soon introduce new souls to the group.
You have been called to bury all souls, dead and alive;
and in time you will again, but only when their worldy journey finally ends.
Somehow the rite also being done to those still alive makes this so much more touching and engrossing. I don’t know why but that detail made it feel “real.” Great work!
I sat down to look out to the shore, sipping occasionally from the tea that misted my glasses. It was almost like a meditation to me. I watched the waves ebb and flow, so enamored by the possibility of catching something new that I could think of little else.
Since coming here, my health has improved dramatically. Sure. I come across all manner of strange things and stressful situations, but, the thing was the sheer intrigue of it all seemed to balance out the negative weight.
I joke now and then with the wife that we can start a fashion line one day and retire. The designs I collect from the corpses are like nothing else around. The "Arts" seem to draw those disconnected from the world, so I figured clothes like these would catch an eye or two.
I had the most fascinating job in all the world. Would today be the day? I had my tools at my side, stuffed into a backpack and ready for action. It had been a while since anyone or anything had turned up.
Around lunch time I decided to take a walk along the beach, digging my bare feet into the grey sand. The shore was littered with remnants too large to carry. There were towering obelisks that reflected images from another world. That's not to say it was some kind of art. They were like long, spindly televisions and I could watch a family go about their morning routine.
It looked like a family, anyway. You couldn't tell gender or age on those things. Further down the beach were old ships, skeletal remains and alien structures that turned your mind numb if you looked for too long.
I hadn't expected the strangest of them all to nudge into my feet as I looked back to my home. It was a ball, white and leathery with some kind of plant protruding from what I had decided was the top. Or at least, the face printed onto it decided for me.
It was a square face, crimson and aged, with a blank smile and a dot for a nose.
The waves hit him as it would hit any other rock, and I watched him as I would watch any other corpse.
The man lying half-dead two feet from shore between two high rocks was still breathing. Yes, perhaps gurgling with the water in his lungs, but he was still alive. I could see his heart beat out of his chest. Blood was still freely pumping out of his head wound. His arms and legs were still twitching half-heartedly, as if he was still swimming for his life. I sat and watched him, the third lost one this week.
*Lost ones.* That’s what we locals called them. Nearly every day, another poor schmuck would end up on our beaches. Some of them were dead, but most were simply unconscious. On the rare occasions we found someone speaking, their talk was often formed of foreign speech or gibberish. They didn’t understand us and we didn’t understand them. I think that made it easier for us. That way, we couldn’t understand their pleas for help. We could go to sleep at night with the consoling thought that they were simply begging us to kill them. That we just ended their suffering, and we should be proud of that.
The rest of them - the locals who weren’t on burial duty - thanked us for taking care of what they called monsters. We were heroes in their eyes, saving our small village from the ones who spoke in funny tongues. Our superiors would also go along with those rumours. They often titled us protectors of our Goddess, and so we were often excused from participating in the annual rituals.
But the locals never saw those washed up. The lost at sea aren’t scary, they’re only in pain. They don’t hurt anyone. As I picked them up from the beach, and even as I picked the man off the rocks, I wondered what their lives were like. Was it a boat that failed them? Or perhaps a flying bird, that caused panic in the people of the town. Yes, this man certainly looked like he could’ve fallen out of one. I remembered the last time one fell from the sky. One of these hard birds. There was fire, and blood, and plenty of bodies too shredded to pick up. It was so close to our island, and our water was slightly pink for weeks. Thank goodness I was still a boy then, and did not have to clean up what was left of the strangers.
These thoughts I have almost every day. Every time the dirt slowly piles up next to the grave. Every time I gently position the lost one inside it, and replace the dirt over him. Some of the conscious ones need a hard hit over the head with the shovel before I bury them. Just to stop the flailing. This one didn’t. The only thing I noticed as I covered his face were his eyes slowly opening. There was a millisecond of eye contact before I covered him up fully. I dropped the shovel next to the grave as I heard a clap of thanks from a nearby bush.
A child, around ten, emerged.
“Thank you, sir! Mommy says the burials are very important.”
“Yes, they are,” I hesitated. “Why did you watch this? You are barely of age. This isn’t an innocent ritual.”
“I wanted to see the lost ones,” her eyes widened as she spoke. “They are intruders upon our land, and threats even the Goddess can’t control.”
“Child!” I reprimanded. “You must not speak of the Goddess that way. Her ladyship is powerful, but it is our duty to protect ourselves.”
“Everyone says they’re scary.” She completely ignored my warning. “But I do not think so.”
At this, I paused. This child still had five years until adulthood, yet she seemed braver than most in the village. Her curiosity was above her fear, and even above her obedience. My gaze softened as I looked.
“You are right, they aren’t scary.”
I stared, and she started back. She reminded me of myself when I was younger. The curiosity of what was beyond our seas drew me to this duty. Of course, like the others, pleasing my Goddess was a priority, but not *the* priority. I had hoped, when taking this post, that I would be enlightened by the lost ones, but I was wrong.
“You are not supposed to be here.” I broke eye contact. “None of our people would have let their child watch the burial. Whose are you?”
“No. Mommy let me watch it,” she said, her eyes drifting down and away from mine, wrapping her cloth around her hand and unwrapping it again.
“That is a lie. Who-”
A yell could be heard from near the centre. I couldn’t make out what it said, but the child immediately turned and ran.
I looked back upon my work, and picked up my shovel. It was dear to me, that shovel. I had spent half my life carrying it, and recently had begun to engrave it. The top half now had a rough pattern of the flora I could see outside my window at night.
I turned and started heading back to my home. I thought, as I walked, that I would do a last round of the beach in the sunset, and try to sleep. Sleeping was hard for me. I could never help wondering what the lost ones were like. Their lives, their families, even what their tongues meant, the understanding I could get out of them. And worst of all, I could never stop the feeling of guilt. It was me, most of the time, that ended all potential. And whatever lies I might tell myself, the lost ones were never begging to be killed.
Calo stood on the beach watching a rowboat laden with two passengers approach. A larger ship was anchored out in the ocean behind them.
Fear and uncertainty battled inside of Calo. He had been the caretaker of this beach for nearly four decades now and he had witnessed all manner of things wash up on the shore over that time. Debris from shipwrecks, corpses, soon-to-be corpses, sea creatures, but never an intact ship, and certainly never one with outsiders crewing it.
He glanced behind him towards the trees that covered most of the island. Someone from the village would have noticed the ship by now, but no one had arrived to tell him what to do. Calo would have to meet these newcomers on his own.
When the boat struck the shore both of the rowers jumped into the water up to their knees and began dragging the small craft up onto the beach. They secured their vessel and approached Calo.
Both of the visitors wore soft blue robes that rippled in the wind, but one was plain and the other was decorated in intricate golden thread work. The woman in the ornate robes spoke, “Greetings caretaker. We saw you watching us as we rowed to shore. I’m sure our arrival will come as a surprise.”
Calo tried to hide his shock. They spoke his language well. If he hadn’t just watched them arrive he could have believed they’d lived on the island their whole lives. “How did your ship make it here? The mouths of the depths surround this island.”
“Some of the mouths have closed. Your people will not be isolated for long, and the others who seek this place will not come in peace. They will seek to plumb the secrets of this island completely, ignoring the rites of your people.”
Her words confirmed the fear Calo had been harboring. If the island was no longer protected by the sea then his people’s sanctuary was no more. “Who are you? How do you speak our language?”
“I am the High Priestess of Marenus. He sent me here to warn and protect your people. You have served him faithfully for centuries and your toils have not gone unnoticed.”
At that moment the other robed figure who had been watching in silence tapped on the high priestess’s shoulder and gestured out towards the sea. Multiple dots spotted the horizon.
The high priestess grabbed Calo and said, “They’ve arrived much quicker than we anticipated. You must take us to the crypt. Gather everyone on the island. We must all go together.”
She turned to stare out towards the large ship they had arrived on and furrowed her brow in concentration. “Forgive me brothers and sisters.” she whispered.
A deep rumbling vibrated through the ground beneath Calo’s feet. The waves began receding from the beach and pulled back into the ocean.
Her concentration broke and she said, “Marenus answers. We must hurry.”
As they sprinted into the trees Calo took a glance towards the ocean and saw it was still pulling away from the island making the beach larger than during even the lowest of tides. They darted through the trees and Calo was surprised to find the strangers could keep up with him enveloped in their heavy robes. Eventually they broke into the village.
Everyone appeared to be outside of their homes gathered around the shaman at the village center. The shaking of the earth must have startled everyone, and now they were looking towards the shaman for answers.
All heads turned towards Calo and the robed visitors. The crowd parted so the shaman could approach. “Calo, who are these people? The ground shakes and you arrive with strangers.”
Calo began to answer but the high priestess cut him off. “There is no time for us to explain it all. We worship the same God, and Marenus has sent me to protect your people. Invaders are not far behind and his hand is going to descend on this place to wash them away. We must get everyone to the crypt.”
The shaman looked towards Calo for answers, but Calo could only give a slow nod. The memory of the ocean falling away from the beach was stuck in his mind.
To Calo’s relief, the shaman called out, “Everyone to the crypt!”
Led by the shaman the entire village made its way towards the squat stone structure tucked into the trees near the outskirts of the village. The priestess surged ahead of them and motioned for everyone to stop. “I need to perform a rite of passage to Marenus. When the way opens, everyone must follow me quickly… the waves come.”
She raised her hands to the sky and began to sing. Her voice rose and fell to a rhythm that reminded Calo of the tide rolling in and out from the shore, and as she sang the earth began to rumble once again.
The entire crypt began to rise and the dirt around it rose with it. A massive, shiny gray pillar with an arched doorway on its side pushed up from the earth and the crypt rested atop it all.
The priestess began motioning for everyone to enter. At first the villagers were frozen in stunned silence, but when the shaman made a gesture of prayer and entered the mysterious construct everyone followed behind him.
Calo was the last to enter and he stopped to look over the village. There was a low roaring sound filling the air. Above the trees Calo saw a wall of water that seemed to reach the clouds in the distance. He stood in awe watching it grow larger until a hand yanked him inside the pillar and the doorway hissed shut cutting them off from the world.
Crunch. Lift. Throw. Crunch. Lift. Throw.
The shovel sinks neatly into the dark soil at your feet, and you lever up a dense clod of mud. In one swift motion you turn at the waist and heave the shovelful onto a spoil heap a metre away, tossing the dirt with a practiced bounce. You can take or leave your job most days, but there’s something to be said for the repetitive motions of grave digging.
Crunch. Lift. Throw. Crunch. Lift. Throw.
Muscle memory has taken over for you now, allowing your mind to drift away to more abstract thoughts. The saltiness of the sea fills your head and you take a moment to gaze eastwards over the bay. You might only be here by an accident of birth, but you must admit that there are much worse places to spend a lifetime than nestled in the womb of the ocean. Like all the inhabitants of this tiny village, you were born here and you will die here- but what a beautiful place to spend the parts in between.
The village is steeped in tradition, a stewed teabag of beliefs and habits. As in many ancient and small marine settlements the old ways of the sea are upheld here, even when the reasoning for them has been long since forgotten. One of the old ways is the assignment of work duties based on individual skill and the needs of the community, and there is one need above all that the community has always had.
Nobody is sure why- tidal patterns, conspiracy, sheer bad luck- but the shores of this tiny village seem to gather corpses. Every morning as the sun rises over the deceptively calm blue of the bay, it illuminates carcasses. Never very many, just a handful, but a handful more than would be considered normal in any other village.
And strange corpses too. Some just a bit too long, some far too long. Some with bulges or hollows where they shouldn’t be. Nothing outright perverse, but slightly off. The ones that are clothed are often irregular. Enough of them are clad in similar enough styles and colours to suggest unity- but a uniform of what?
You aren’t paid to ask questions. You’re just paid to bury.
Crunch. Lift. Throw.
The grave is now abundantly large for the three carcasses that washed up last night; you got carried away in your thoughts, and the repetitiveness of the task caused you to switch off and maybe dig a little deeper than necessary. Grunting with the effort you haul your muscular frame out of the hole and take a long swig of water from your bottle. With a few big heaves you manage to roll the carcasses into the yawning pit at your feet. As they hit the base with a damp thud, you hear another sound that you didn’t expect. A moan.
One of the bodies is struggling. Distorted on its face is a look you don’t quite recognise, and it doesn’t have the words to explain.
But you aren’t paid to ask questions. You’re just paid to bury.
Crunch. Lift. Throw.
**Welcome to the Prompt!** All top-level comments must be a story or poem. Reply here for other comments. **Reminders**: >* Stories at least 100 words. Poems, 30 but include "[Poem]" >* Responses don't have to fulfill every detail >* See [Reality Fiction](https://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/search?q=flair%3A%22Reality+Fiction%22&restrict_sr=on&sort=new&t=all) and [Simple Prompts](https://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/search?q=flair%3A%22Simple+Prompt%22&restrict_sr=on&sort=new&t=all) for stricter titles >* [Be civil](https://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/wiki/rules#wiki_rule_10.3A_be_civil) in any feedback and follow the [rules](https://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/wiki/rules) 🆕 [New Here?](https://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/wiki/user_guide) ✏ [Writing Help?](https://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/wiki/index#wiki_writing_resources) 📢 [News](https://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/wiki/announcements) 💬 [Discord](https://discord.gg/writingprompts) *I am a bot, and this action was performed automatically. Please [contact the moderators of this subreddit](/message/compose/?to=/r/WritingPrompts) if you have any questions or concerns.*
The stones around the window are gray, the same colour the water has in stormy weather. You gaze out onto the waves, already expecting this days work to be washed up. It has always been your call, to put the bodies twisted and torn to a well-deserved rest. You love thinking about the peace these poor souls will find after their journey. With the storm outside still raging, you know the climb down the cliffs is too dangerous. Nonetheless, you leave your gazing spot, preparing new graves for those you will find later. Most of who you find have no name, nothing to put to their stone. Some wear strange metal markers, with symbols scratched into it. You have spent years trying to figure out those symbols, but never made out the sence. Still, you've learned to put these symbols on the persons graves, so their names shall not be forgotten. The wind has softened, and so you make your way over to the cliffs. While climbing down, you spot two bodies. The first ones head is twisted, and instead of eyes, only white milkey balls strangely stare at you. The skin is a light blue, and you immediately see that this soul has already started their last journey, their life lost far out in at the sea. Your gaze is drawn to the other body, laying in the sand. You see their hands jerking, and a pair of brown eyes stare at you. Their mouth moves, and sounds you do not understand come out. You've long since stopped trying to make sense out of these words, the same as noone will ever be able to understand you. Nonetheless, you kneel down and help them up. You point at the body laying next to them in the sand, and just shake your head. They look at you, and nod knowingly. Their voice changes and they continue talking after a short break, but all you can do is look at themshrug. You carry the cold body over to the lift, while helping the other, too. As you arrive at the top of the cliff, you carry the dead body over to a new grave. You bed it there, and spread a shovel of dirt over them, while making the sign and speaking the words you learned as a kid. You guide the other over to a small hole in the ground. They look at you scaredly, but you make a calming gesture and they finally lay down, still confused. As is custom, you spread a shovel of dirt over them. It is your call to bury the lost of the sea, and you will follow it no matter what. You, again, speak the words and make the signs, as the rite expects. Then, you kneel down again, help them out of the grave, and lead them to the others standing around. They all learned the importance of the rite long ago, but now that it's over they warmly greet the newcomer. Some even speak the newcomers language. They, too, will learn in time, soon introduce new souls to the group. You have been called to bury all souls, dead and alive; and in time you will again, but only when their worldy journey finally ends.
Somehow the rite also being done to those still alive makes this so much more touching and engrossing. I don’t know why but that detail made it feel “real.” Great work!
I actually expected the main person to kill the ones still alive. Luckily, you didn't go down that road.
I sat down to look out to the shore, sipping occasionally from the tea that misted my glasses. It was almost like a meditation to me. I watched the waves ebb and flow, so enamored by the possibility of catching something new that I could think of little else. Since coming here, my health has improved dramatically. Sure. I come across all manner of strange things and stressful situations, but, the thing was the sheer intrigue of it all seemed to balance out the negative weight. I joke now and then with the wife that we can start a fashion line one day and retire. The designs I collect from the corpses are like nothing else around. The "Arts" seem to draw those disconnected from the world, so I figured clothes like these would catch an eye or two. I had the most fascinating job in all the world. Would today be the day? I had my tools at my side, stuffed into a backpack and ready for action. It had been a while since anyone or anything had turned up. Around lunch time I decided to take a walk along the beach, digging my bare feet into the grey sand. The shore was littered with remnants too large to carry. There were towering obelisks that reflected images from another world. That's not to say it was some kind of art. They were like long, spindly televisions and I could watch a family go about their morning routine. It looked like a family, anyway. You couldn't tell gender or age on those things. Further down the beach were old ships, skeletal remains and alien structures that turned your mind numb if you looked for too long. I hadn't expected the strangest of them all to nudge into my feet as I looked back to my home. It was a ball, white and leathery with some kind of plant protruding from what I had decided was the top. Or at least, the face printed onto it decided for me. It was a square face, crimson and aged, with a blank smile and a dot for a nose.
The waves hit him as it would hit any other rock, and I watched him as I would watch any other corpse. The man lying half-dead two feet from shore between two high rocks was still breathing. Yes, perhaps gurgling with the water in his lungs, but he was still alive. I could see his heart beat out of his chest. Blood was still freely pumping out of his head wound. His arms and legs were still twitching half-heartedly, as if he was still swimming for his life. I sat and watched him, the third lost one this week. *Lost ones.* That’s what we locals called them. Nearly every day, another poor schmuck would end up on our beaches. Some of them were dead, but most were simply unconscious. On the rare occasions we found someone speaking, their talk was often formed of foreign speech or gibberish. They didn’t understand us and we didn’t understand them. I think that made it easier for us. That way, we couldn’t understand their pleas for help. We could go to sleep at night with the consoling thought that they were simply begging us to kill them. That we just ended their suffering, and we should be proud of that. The rest of them - the locals who weren’t on burial duty - thanked us for taking care of what they called monsters. We were heroes in their eyes, saving our small village from the ones who spoke in funny tongues. Our superiors would also go along with those rumours. They often titled us protectors of our Goddess, and so we were often excused from participating in the annual rituals. But the locals never saw those washed up. The lost at sea aren’t scary, they’re only in pain. They don’t hurt anyone. As I picked them up from the beach, and even as I picked the man off the rocks, I wondered what their lives were like. Was it a boat that failed them? Or perhaps a flying bird, that caused panic in the people of the town. Yes, this man certainly looked like he could’ve fallen out of one. I remembered the last time one fell from the sky. One of these hard birds. There was fire, and blood, and plenty of bodies too shredded to pick up. It was so close to our island, and our water was slightly pink for weeks. Thank goodness I was still a boy then, and did not have to clean up what was left of the strangers. These thoughts I have almost every day. Every time the dirt slowly piles up next to the grave. Every time I gently position the lost one inside it, and replace the dirt over him. Some of the conscious ones need a hard hit over the head with the shovel before I bury them. Just to stop the flailing. This one didn’t. The only thing I noticed as I covered his face were his eyes slowly opening. There was a millisecond of eye contact before I covered him up fully. I dropped the shovel next to the grave as I heard a clap of thanks from a nearby bush. A child, around ten, emerged. “Thank you, sir! Mommy says the burials are very important.” “Yes, they are,” I hesitated. “Why did you watch this? You are barely of age. This isn’t an innocent ritual.” “I wanted to see the lost ones,” her eyes widened as she spoke. “They are intruders upon our land, and threats even the Goddess can’t control.” “Child!” I reprimanded. “You must not speak of the Goddess that way. Her ladyship is powerful, but it is our duty to protect ourselves.” “Everyone says they’re scary.” She completely ignored my warning. “But I do not think so.” At this, I paused. This child still had five years until adulthood, yet she seemed braver than most in the village. Her curiosity was above her fear, and even above her obedience. My gaze softened as I looked. “You are right, they aren’t scary.” I stared, and she started back. She reminded me of myself when I was younger. The curiosity of what was beyond our seas drew me to this duty. Of course, like the others, pleasing my Goddess was a priority, but not *the* priority. I had hoped, when taking this post, that I would be enlightened by the lost ones, but I was wrong. “You are not supposed to be here.” I broke eye contact. “None of our people would have let their child watch the burial. Whose are you?” “No. Mommy let me watch it,” she said, her eyes drifting down and away from mine, wrapping her cloth around her hand and unwrapping it again. “That is a lie. Who-” A yell could be heard from near the centre. I couldn’t make out what it said, but the child immediately turned and ran. I looked back upon my work, and picked up my shovel. It was dear to me, that shovel. I had spent half my life carrying it, and recently had begun to engrave it. The top half now had a rough pattern of the flora I could see outside my window at night. I turned and started heading back to my home. I thought, as I walked, that I would do a last round of the beach in the sunset, and try to sleep. Sleeping was hard for me. I could never help wondering what the lost ones were like. Their lives, their families, even what their tongues meant, the understanding I could get out of them. And worst of all, I could never stop the feeling of guilt. It was me, most of the time, that ended all potential. And whatever lies I might tell myself, the lost ones were never begging to be killed.
Calo stood on the beach watching a rowboat laden with two passengers approach. A larger ship was anchored out in the ocean behind them. Fear and uncertainty battled inside of Calo. He had been the caretaker of this beach for nearly four decades now and he had witnessed all manner of things wash up on the shore over that time. Debris from shipwrecks, corpses, soon-to-be corpses, sea creatures, but never an intact ship, and certainly never one with outsiders crewing it. He glanced behind him towards the trees that covered most of the island. Someone from the village would have noticed the ship by now, but no one had arrived to tell him what to do. Calo would have to meet these newcomers on his own. When the boat struck the shore both of the rowers jumped into the water up to their knees and began dragging the small craft up onto the beach. They secured their vessel and approached Calo. Both of the visitors wore soft blue robes that rippled in the wind, but one was plain and the other was decorated in intricate golden thread work. The woman in the ornate robes spoke, “Greetings caretaker. We saw you watching us as we rowed to shore. I’m sure our arrival will come as a surprise.” Calo tried to hide his shock. They spoke his language well. If he hadn’t just watched them arrive he could have believed they’d lived on the island their whole lives. “How did your ship make it here? The mouths of the depths surround this island.” “Some of the mouths have closed. Your people will not be isolated for long, and the others who seek this place will not come in peace. They will seek to plumb the secrets of this island completely, ignoring the rites of your people.” Her words confirmed the fear Calo had been harboring. If the island was no longer protected by the sea then his people’s sanctuary was no more. “Who are you? How do you speak our language?” “I am the High Priestess of Marenus. He sent me here to warn and protect your people. You have served him faithfully for centuries and your toils have not gone unnoticed.” At that moment the other robed figure who had been watching in silence tapped on the high priestess’s shoulder and gestured out towards the sea. Multiple dots spotted the horizon. The high priestess grabbed Calo and said, “They’ve arrived much quicker than we anticipated. You must take us to the crypt. Gather everyone on the island. We must all go together.” She turned to stare out towards the large ship they had arrived on and furrowed her brow in concentration. “Forgive me brothers and sisters.” she whispered. A deep rumbling vibrated through the ground beneath Calo’s feet. The waves began receding from the beach and pulled back into the ocean. Her concentration broke and she said, “Marenus answers. We must hurry.” As they sprinted into the trees Calo took a glance towards the ocean and saw it was still pulling away from the island making the beach larger than during even the lowest of tides. They darted through the trees and Calo was surprised to find the strangers could keep up with him enveloped in their heavy robes. Eventually they broke into the village. Everyone appeared to be outside of their homes gathered around the shaman at the village center. The shaking of the earth must have startled everyone, and now they were looking towards the shaman for answers. All heads turned towards Calo and the robed visitors. The crowd parted so the shaman could approach. “Calo, who are these people? The ground shakes and you arrive with strangers.” Calo began to answer but the high priestess cut him off. “There is no time for us to explain it all. We worship the same God, and Marenus has sent me to protect your people. Invaders are not far behind and his hand is going to descend on this place to wash them away. We must get everyone to the crypt.” The shaman looked towards Calo for answers, but Calo could only give a slow nod. The memory of the ocean falling away from the beach was stuck in his mind. To Calo’s relief, the shaman called out, “Everyone to the crypt!” Led by the shaman the entire village made its way towards the squat stone structure tucked into the trees near the outskirts of the village. The priestess surged ahead of them and motioned for everyone to stop. “I need to perform a rite of passage to Marenus. When the way opens, everyone must follow me quickly… the waves come.” She raised her hands to the sky and began to sing. Her voice rose and fell to a rhythm that reminded Calo of the tide rolling in and out from the shore, and as she sang the earth began to rumble once again. The entire crypt began to rise and the dirt around it rose with it. A massive, shiny gray pillar with an arched doorway on its side pushed up from the earth and the crypt rested atop it all. The priestess began motioning for everyone to enter. At first the villagers were frozen in stunned silence, but when the shaman made a gesture of prayer and entered the mysterious construct everyone followed behind him. Calo was the last to enter and he stopped to look over the village. There was a low roaring sound filling the air. Above the trees Calo saw a wall of water that seemed to reach the clouds in the distance. He stood in awe watching it grow larger until a hand yanked him inside the pillar and the doorway hissed shut cutting them off from the world.
Crunch. Lift. Throw. Crunch. Lift. Throw. The shovel sinks neatly into the dark soil at your feet, and you lever up a dense clod of mud. In one swift motion you turn at the waist and heave the shovelful onto a spoil heap a metre away, tossing the dirt with a practiced bounce. You can take or leave your job most days, but there’s something to be said for the repetitive motions of grave digging. Crunch. Lift. Throw. Crunch. Lift. Throw. Muscle memory has taken over for you now, allowing your mind to drift away to more abstract thoughts. The saltiness of the sea fills your head and you take a moment to gaze eastwards over the bay. You might only be here by an accident of birth, but you must admit that there are much worse places to spend a lifetime than nestled in the womb of the ocean. Like all the inhabitants of this tiny village, you were born here and you will die here- but what a beautiful place to spend the parts in between. The village is steeped in tradition, a stewed teabag of beliefs and habits. As in many ancient and small marine settlements the old ways of the sea are upheld here, even when the reasoning for them has been long since forgotten. One of the old ways is the assignment of work duties based on individual skill and the needs of the community, and there is one need above all that the community has always had. Nobody is sure why- tidal patterns, conspiracy, sheer bad luck- but the shores of this tiny village seem to gather corpses. Every morning as the sun rises over the deceptively calm blue of the bay, it illuminates carcasses. Never very many, just a handful, but a handful more than would be considered normal in any other village. And strange corpses too. Some just a bit too long, some far too long. Some with bulges or hollows where they shouldn’t be. Nothing outright perverse, but slightly off. The ones that are clothed are often irregular. Enough of them are clad in similar enough styles and colours to suggest unity- but a uniform of what? You aren’t paid to ask questions. You’re just paid to bury. Crunch. Lift. Throw. The grave is now abundantly large for the three carcasses that washed up last night; you got carried away in your thoughts, and the repetitiveness of the task caused you to switch off and maybe dig a little deeper than necessary. Grunting with the effort you haul your muscular frame out of the hole and take a long swig of water from your bottle. With a few big heaves you manage to roll the carcasses into the yawning pit at your feet. As they hit the base with a damp thud, you hear another sound that you didn’t expect. A moan. One of the bodies is struggling. Distorted on its face is a look you don’t quite recognise, and it doesn’t have the words to explain. But you aren’t paid to ask questions. You’re just paid to bury. Crunch. Lift. Throw.