On the 15th of November I received a private message by someone who had just missed the deadline. I am willing to bend the rules slightly in this exception and allow their story to be considered in this contest.
Also, for all of you curious, I am still in the process of reading the submissions. The only con to receiving so many good and lengthy submissions is that it will take longer to get through them all. Expect a decision sometime in the next week or so, but don't be too angry if it goes a bit longer.
The story I am adding to the contest is reposted below:
KNUCKLEBONES
by Kahiros
“Please sir, can I see them?”
“No, no, and a thousand times, NO! What have I told you about ‘them’?”
“They are only for magicians, not for snotty-nosed, little-brat apprentices.” The boy sighed glumly, picking at one dirty fingernail. A candle’s light flickered across his young face, catching in his dark eyes as the boy looked to his master once more. The old man shook his head, his wrinkles creasing even further as he grimaced.
“Twice today you have asked me about those bones. Why do they interest you so?” His gnarled hand went immediately to the belt, where a number of bags and knickknacks hung. He found what he sought for in a small, red velvet pouch, tied off with a length of golden string. The bag was plain, but inside lay the standard tools of any soothsayer. The hand was removed as quickly as it had been placed, and instead rested on the old man’s head, rubbing at his head, which had long been devoid of hair. “These are no mere toys for some young boy to throw around to impress the village girls.” His apprentices sighed again, angrily this time and rolled his eyes.
“Yes, yes I know that. You’ve only told me every day. Give it a rest!” He strode to his small pallet, throwing himself down and turning away. His master shook his head, sighed, mumbling to himself.
“Mikal, you are far too impatient, and though you say you listen, you do not seem to remember. These bones… These bones know me and only me. They would not listen to anyone else. They may even prove dangerous if tossed by some fool.” The hedge-wizard shook his head again, finishing the letter he was writing with a dab of wax before retiring to his own chambers, leaving the candle to flicker in a tiny way. Mikal’s eyes did not close, even when the snores of the magician filled the small house, even when the moon rose to its zenith. Slowly, silently, he got to his feet again, tiptoeing over to the desk. He found the book he was looking for instantly, a massive leather covered thing with golden clasps. He held the book open, but no words or illustrations showed on its pages. Mikal bent closer, nose almost brushing against the page.
“Show me knucklebones.” Instantly, as if someone wrote on the page, words appeared in a long spidery writing.
“The knucklebones of a human skeleton are one of the most potent tools in a wizard’s arsenal.” The boy smirked to himself, reaching for the candle to see the writing better. “To obtain these wonders of fortune-teller, you must find a graveyard, and a skeleton on the night of a full moon and only on the that night, can you harvest these wonders of magic. Once you find the bones, you will be able to discern the past present and future, as well as use them for protection.” Mikal flinched, almost dropping the candle on the desk as he looked to the foggy window. It was the full moon tonight! He set the candle down as quickly as he dared, rushing to the doorway where his cloak and boots lay. In his impatience he did not even stop to grab the protective wards and charms his master always insisted on him carrying.
The apprentice slipped through the door and into the cold night, moving quickly, adrenaline rushing through him, making his head feel clear and his limbs light. There was, in fact, a graveyard nearby, the town’s only cemetery. It lay up on the only hill in the county, and in his haste he scaled the mound easily and with speed, reaching the top as the moon reached the last quarter of the sky. He gazed out across the little hamlet, breath frosting on the air, nose tinged red. He burrowed his hands deeper into warm pockets, trudging along the pebbly path more slowly now. The graves were old and overgrown, flowers where scattered across the green, all glowed in shades of white or grey beneath the moon’s frosty gaze. As he moved further and further into the cemetery, the graves grew older, rougher, worn smooth by the bite of wind and water. The last grave, sitting at the very center, was the grandest. It towered above all, and tilted slightly, rising out of the earth like the prow of some old, stony ship. The statue itself held no details now; time had seen fit to erase whatever had been engraved there before, now it was a simple pillar of granite. Mikal nodded to himself, the confident smirk returning before disappearing once more. He cursed loudly; in his rush he had forgotten a shovel! The boy glanced to the moon; it had sunk even lower, and had begun to grace the tops of the distant trees. He cursed again, sitting in front of the grave, brooding. He couldn’t dig up a grave with his bare hands, and if he returned to the house to get a shovel, it would be dawn by the time he returned.
“Damnit!” He leapt to his feet, kicking at the statue. It did not give way, but he heard a definite crunch as his eyes watered. He dropped to the ground in an undignified heap, holding back tears and cradling his broken foot.
“Such language for a young one! Tell me this, who taught you such vile words? Surely not your mother?” Mikal was still hunched over, in a daze from the pain, replying to those words seemed to be a grand idea at the time.
“Not from my mother, she’s dead.”
“From you father then?” The genteel voice questioned. Something was out of place here; the timbre was high, and cold, like the wind whistling through dead trees.
“He’s gone as well.” Mikal sat up swiping the tears from his eyes, still not looking at the stranger. The sharp sting had begun to fade, replaced by a dull ache. He gritted his teeth, using the statue for support. The a noise akin to the rustle of a bat’s wings filled his ears, and in the slight breeze Mikal was almost completely covered by the long, black coat that blew around him. He felt his hands removed from the stone as the stranger hissed,
“Careful! You’ll get fingerprints on my grave.” The apprentice looked up to see the lowering moon glint off bones, the rounded cranium and the empty jaws of a boneman. Mikal screamed hoarsely, pushed himself away from those thin, cold hands, falling flat on his back. “Dear me, did I give you a fright?” The skeleton clattered, staring at Mikal through vacant eye-sockets. He was shrouded in a torn cloak, with lining as red as blood, that reached to his feet and an old, battered top hat sat at a jaunty slant on his head. The apparition bowed low, extending one delicate hand that had long been bare of skin and muscle. “Wilfred T. Shaeder is the name, but I prefer Bigsby.” Mikal goggled, at a loss for words, as the skeleton, no, as Bigsby swept upwards to perch on a gravestone, sounding miffed. “Now, really. That’s no a proper way to greet someone, gaping like a goldfish. Do you have any manners?”
“Y-yes. I do!” Mikal retorted back, still a bit stunned by the sudden appearance of this corpse. “It’s just… I’ve never seen a live skeleton before.”
“I should hope you haven’t.” Bigsby replied, sounding haughty now, “It’s a fairly rare occurrence, and you can never be sure that all skeletons are good skeletons. What I mean to say is, though I am a shining example of chivalry, but I’ve met a couple of bad bones in my day.”
“Right…” Mikal muttered weakly, trying to struggle to his feet. “This is just a dream, I’ll wake up, I’ll be home in my bed, and I won’t have any wish to go chasing knucklebones ever again.” He set his foot down, and gave a small cry, sinking down to his knees once more. “I guess this isn’t a dream.”
“It is most definitely not. I am as real as you, or this grave.” Bigsby rapped on the stone, seemingly unconcerned when the entire statue sank into the ground, leaving a dark hole. Not even the moonlight seemed to reach into the dark; it looked as bottomless as the sea. “Now, I would suggest that you come with me.” The skeleton murmured, kneeling by Mikal.
“What? But, why? I should go. Go home, not with you by the way.” He warded off the hands, scooting back and grasping at a stick that lay by his hand.
“There’s no need to be so jumpy. Here.” Bigsby reached forward, faster than Mikal could move away, clutching the hood of his cloak and lifting the apprentice into the air. He tossed the stick away and Mikal got the fleeting impression that the skeleton had winked at him, then Bigsby chuckled. “Better hold on tight.” He leaped into the hole, trailing Mikal, who, despite how he clawed at the edge of the pit, was dragged down as well.
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It was dark; no light invaded this small closed space. Mikal could hear his own breathing, the quick patter of his heart, and nothing else. Something brushed by him, and the sound of a match striking flint was followed by the small light of a lantern.
“There, that’s much better, isn’t it?” Bigsby clattered, that eternal grin of his seeming to get wider. Mikal shivered
“Why did you take me here?” He leaned against the wall, taking his weight off the bad ankle. He wanted out, this was too far down the rabbit hole for his comfort. “I need to be back before my master wakes up.”
“Nonsense! Haven’t you heard legends of places like this? The realm of the fairie is a strange place, nothing is like it “should be”, and even the time is kept in a different way.” Bigsby reached within his cloak, nonchalantly snapping off an arm. Here, you can use this as a crutch. Mikal suppressed the growing wave of nausea as he accepted the limb, steadying himself and following the skeleton, who had begun to wander down the passageway. “This is just the entrance to our domain. It’s much larger and brighter where we spend most of our time. In fact, I’m the only one who goes up there.” He trailed a finger along the ceiling, a trail of dust following the digit.
“What?” Mikal caught up to him, knuckles growing white from his grip on the bone. “You’re the only one to walk around in the graveyard?”
“Yes, No one else is allowed up there. Something about scaring you people. I’m something like the leader of graveyard, I’ve been here the longest after all.”
“How long is long?”
“You ask far too many questions, I haven’t even thought about my age in decades. What year is it up there?”
“Um, I think my master told me it was 1556.”
“Well, I was born in 1221, so…” The boneman counted on his long fingers, looking thoughtful, if that expression was at all possible on a face with no muscles. He nodded to himself, obviously coming to a conclusion. “I am three hundred and thirty-five in your time.” He chuckled, leaping into the air and clicking his heels, “But I don’t feel a day over two-fifty.”
The hallway opened up, and the sound of dry whisperings and murmurs grew, like thousands of book pages being turned at once. Even the air felt stale, like it had been choked with too much dust for far too long. Mikal coughed into his hand, hobbling forward, gazing up at the tall ceiling, which was lost in the gloom.
“This, my friend, is Spiridion, the town below the town.” He spread his arms wide, his coat flapping out majestically, but the dramatic flourish was lost on the inhabitants. The cavern wasn’t very large, and though it was filled with many skeletons, they weren’t doing very much, in fact, they none of them were moving at all.
“Are they… asleep?” Mikal nudged the nearest one, who was slumped over an ancient chair. It looked like it was supposed to be. Dead.
“Not at all, they’re merely… waiting. Come, come my friend.” Bigsby looked to him once more, cocked to the side like a curious dog. “I didn’t get your name.”
“It’s Mikal.” The absurdity of exchanging words with a skeleton dressed in a top hat was beginning to fade and he followed Bigsby once more, as they crossed to the center of the room.
“You see, when I’m away, up gallivanting around on the surface, these good old chaps tend to get into trouble. You know about those stories of skeletons leaving their graves and wreaking havoc? Well, those were my fault.
“All of them?! That’s ridiculous! There are thousands of graveyards in the world, you can’t possibly be in all of them.”
“I can and am, young one.” Bigsby hefted a long, thick piece of wood with a grunt, “You see, Spiridion is the one and only cemetery. There is no other. All the skeletons here are archetypes. Young boys and girls, teenagers, adults, elders. Whenever a new person is buried, their spirit merges with whatever archetype they are closest to. It saves from confusion.” The caped skeleton swung the wood, hitting a large brass gong that Mikal had not noticed before. It was old, and had turned green, but writing still lined the outsides of the bell, spiraling haphazardly across its surface.
Bigsby noticed him gawking, and grinned, offering up some information, “The Book of the Dead.” As Mikal stared at him, the spirit shrugged his bony shoulders, “Who said it had to be a novel?” The gong’s reverberations trailed through the cavern, setting the bones to rattle and dance. One by one the skeletons moved, drawing themselves together, assembling in a clicking and clattering. Hundreds of empty eye sockets looked to Bigsby and Mikal, countless grins that were identical and yet different.
A skeleton approached, watching Mikal like he was a tiger about to pounce. The boy could almost see what this man looked like when he was alive, probably some huge, muscle head with three times as much brawn as he did brains.
“We have a visitor.” Bigsby’s voice had changed again, growing nobler, more aloof. “And he is injured. Do we have anything for broken bones?”
“I will go check with the healer, Lord Wilfred.” The caped and tophatted skeleton actually cringed at those words, and rubbed where his temples may have been hundreds of years ago.
“For the last time, it’s Bigsby. Bigsby! Not Wilfred… never Wilfred.” He turned away, quieting the last rumbles of the gong with one finger.
“Why don’t you like your name?” Mikal piped up curiously
“Well… I never chose it, that’s for sure. Even when I was young, ‘Wilfred’ was never a popular name.”
“So, why Bigsby?”
“Well, when I was alive, I was a magician. Not like you, I didn’t have “real” magic; I played the fools with tricks and illusions and grew quite rich. Eventually I took to staging productions. The crowd took it upon themselves to give me a new name, there isn’t much magic in Wilfred. So I became the Great Bigsby. And it stuck.” The skeleton paused, then chuckled, leaning against the bell; “I remember those times fondly. The best days of my life. And I was the greatest, the most amazing magician anyone had ever seen, maybe ever would see.”
“How did you die?”
“Hmm, haven’t really thought about that in a while either. Have I said that you ask too many questions?”
“Yes, and don’t change the topic.”
“Fine then,” Bigsby sighed, “If you must know… I… Was eaten by a tiger. The stupid blighter… I should never have bought him, the regular tigers were much less jumpy.”
The big skeleton returned shortly, holding a sort of glowing moss. “Put this on your ankle. It’s good for your bones.” The fungus wrapped around the already swelling joint with a mind of its own, removing the pain and making his ankle feel sturdier than before. He handed the arm back to Bigsby and got to his feet.
“It feels much better now. What is this stuff?”
“It only grows in Spiridion, even we skeletons break bones. Now, down to business.” Bigsby clambered to the top of the bell, standing as solidly as a statue. He looked out across the sea of skeletons, clapping his bony hands together. One by one lanterns lit up, filled with a strange blue fire that flickered and leaped, casting the cavern in an eerie glow. “Brothers and sisters! We have a guest. And I know that you are not usually good at dancing, let us make an exception.” Bigsby flared his cape out, drawing from within a large wand, like the kind a magician would use. “Let the skeleton ball begin!”
------------------------------------------
The party carried on for hours, the cavern a mass of whirling bony limbs. Music filled the air, the strange piping of many woodwinds, the low thrum of a deep brass. The clattering grew, and the dancers sped up, or slowed down, moving with grace despite their long due expiry date. Mikal found himself swept up into the ocean, dancing a jig with one skeleton, a waltz with another. The hours stretched on, moving like molasses along the trunk of a tree, and as the lanterns flickered and jumped, the apprentice twirled from one partner to another, exchanging grins and the occasional bows before moving on.
He lost track of time, laughing and kicking up his heels amongst the unholy cacophony. After a time he felt himself tugged towards the dais and the gong, his shoulder held in a vice grip by no other than Bigsby. He was out of breath, his face flushed. Mikal’s eye’s burned with delight and joy.
“This is amazing!” He shouted over the din, trying to free himself and return to the dance.
“Mikal. Wait! Listen to me.” Bigsby caught his other shoulder, holding him in place. “You don’t look so good.”
“I’m fine! I feel great!” He chuckled, waving his arms. “Let go! I can see someone who wants to dance.” He tried to slip away once more, but the skeleton’s grip tightened.
“I have been foolish, I should not have brought you to this place.”
“What’s the problem? Don’t look so gloomy. Dance! There’s plenty skeletons to do the foxtrot with.” Around them the dance had begun to break up, the music had turned sour, almost sinister. One by one, skulls turned to the pair, watching them with a collective, ceaseless gaze.
“You don’t understand. You’re in danger!” Bigsby muttered from behind clenched teeth. He had noticed the current silence and glanced furtively at the crowd. Mikal shrugged off the dire words, finally turning around.
“You’re worried about nothing. How could I be in danger…” His words trailed off, echoing faintly. The skeletons had begun to move, pacing forward, reaching with cold, dead hands. The large one that Mikal had met before spoke, his voice no longer so friendly.
“The Lord is right, you shouldn’t have come here. But it’s too late to leave.” He laughed grimly, reaching for Mikal. “You will stay here, and eventually pass away, and become one of us. Do not struggle, there is no point, there is one of you, and many of us.” He reached for Mikal, his touch sending cold shivers up the boy’s spine. The apprentice broke away, trying to put distance between himself and the spirits. It was no use, however. They surrounded him on all sides. He felt the brush of cloth against the sleeve of his jacket, and suddenly, Bigsby’s tall, bony, caped covered shoulder filled his vision.
“The boy will not be harmed.” There was an air of command to him now, a steely assurance that his orders would be followed.
“You may be our leader, Shaeder. But humans are our property.”
“What if I decide that he belongs up there?”
“Then you are a fool, and will be destroyed.” The mob advanced a step, grinning hungrily, some dropping to all fours, like beasts. Mikal hid closer to Bigsby, shrouded in the cloak, frozen with fear. Bigsby laughed, his own grin turning cold. In a flash, Mikal could see the human he once had been, tall and noble and proud, with a mop of curly black hair and piercing green eyes. But the vision was gone as quickly as it had come.
“Bigsby… How are we going to get out of here?”
“Just stay close. And Mikal?” Bigsby glanced over his shoulder, smiling slightly. “You might want to close your eyes.” The apprentice did as he was told, clenching his eyelids shut, holding onto the cape as if his life depended on it. A flash of light still seeped through, though, as the spirits screamed, voices clamoring in agony and rage. He felt hands brush along his coat, seeking purchase. He felt himself being hoisted into the air. The skeletons were almost in his head, whispering horrors into his ear, trying to pull him away, but Bigsby was running, shouldering through the mass.
Mikal could feel the air change, as they reached the passageway that lead to the exit. There was the smack of something heavy against bone, and Bigsby began to fall. Mikal opened his eyes in time to see the ground rushing at him but the apprentice managed to push himself away in time, struggling to his feet. The big skeleton loomed over him, wielding the gong baton, teeth locked in a maniacal smile.
“You won’t get away from here. You’re ours!” He threw the stick to the side, and grabbed at Mikal again, who cried out, kicking and punching. “Stop struggling like a little pig!” The skeleton spat, twisting his arm till the child screamed.
“Stop.” Bigsby had gotten up, holding the baton loosely in one hand. “Let go of the boy.”
“Or what? What can you possibly do to me Shaeder?” The other growled. Bigsby merely smiled; it was not a fleeting, unsure thing, but a grin as cold and as dangerous as the edge of a knife.
“Oh, there are many things I could do. Banishing you to the Abyss is quite high on the list, but I think I will do this.” He swung the bat with all his might, dislodging the skeleton’s head from his shoulders. Instantly the body went limp, crashing down on Mikal. Bigsby reached beneath the mile of now inanimate bones, fishing the boy out.
“That was quite satisfying, did you see the hit? I can’t even see where his head went.”
“What about the other skeletons?” Mikal could hear their steps at the end of the passage, clicking and clattering horribly.
“They’re too slow to catch up with us. Let’s get out of here.” Bigsby tugged at a certain root that protruded from the dirt wall, and with a sound like the rolling of thunder, the ceiling opened up, revealing a star-filled night sky. He put Mikal over his shoulder, and clambered up, pulling himself up into the human world. Mikal could see the skeletons below, arguing among themselves. They seemed unwilling to follow, to enter the world of light and life.
As Bigsby set the boy down on the grass, Mikal had to grit his teeth in pain. His ankle, and the healing he had enjoyed before, was gone. It was broken just as it had been before. Before he was dragged down the hole. He watched Bigsby push the statue over the pit with a grunt, shutting out the last of the voices, which had faded to whispers.
“Are you alight?” The tophatted spirit threw himself onto the ground beside Mikal, leaning on his elbows and looking up at the sky. “My deepest apologies, I should not have taken you there. I didn’t realize they would be so… insistent.” The skeleton choked back a grim laugh, staring at the old graves.
“My ankle, I think it’s broken again.” Mikal held his foot gingerly, the pain wasn’t so bad, once you got used to it.
“Well, that was bound to happen. That moss couldn’t survive up here, with all this light.”
“What are you talking about? There is no light. The moon’s set, I can barely see my own hand.”
“You cannot see it as I do, but the stars are like spotlights. I can see them moving, great pillars of light that stretch far into the distance.” Bigsby flourished mightily, but gave a little yelp as his arm fell dropped onto the earth. “That stupid bugger! He split my arm clean off.” He held the limb up to eye level, inspecting the break. “Good thing it held till now. We might never have gotten out of the pit with three good arms between us.” He sighed, “I am truly sorry for this. Is there anything I can do to make it up to you?” Bigsby pulled the cloak closer around his nonexistent shoulders, looking to Mikal who just laughed, an idea flashing through his head.
“You scared me half to death, abducted me and pulled me down into that cavern, which turned out to be filled with homicidal skeletons. Damn right you should make it up to me! And I know exactly what I want to.” Mikal tilted his head to the side, smiling slyly. “Your knucklebones.” Bigsby drew himself up, moving away.
“That is the one thing I cannot give you.” He murmured, a little aura of cold anger surrounding him. “Do you even know what you ask for? A skeleton’s knucklebones are his soul! Take those away… And he is just a piece of dead matter. Dead dead, not dead like me, dead like the way your people picture us to be, all rotting in our graves and being eaten by worms and all manner of disgusting creatures.” Bigsby shuddered, bones rattling like the branches of a tree in midwinter. “Are you a magician’s apprentice? I should have thought so, skulking around a graveyard at the full moon. You were going to steal someone’s knucklebones, weren’t you?” Mikal blushed, looking away.
“I probably wouldn’t have done it… I didn’t have a shovel after all.”
“Didn’t have a shovel?” Bigsby snorted, “Not today you didn’t, but you would have returned. If not during this one, then at the next full moon you would have stolen someone else’s soul.” The skeleton fell silent, thinking to himself, his back to Mikal. “No one knows what happens to those who get their knucklebones taken away… Some say they go to hell.” Bigsby paused, rage diminishing. He looked up, the light of the stars shining on his skull, wistful, the longing clear in his face, even if he didn’t actually possess one. “But maybe they aren’t dead. Maybe they are, merely set free. I would so love to be released from this decrepit cage.” Bigsby stared at Mikal, making a decision. “I’ll never be able to return to Spiridion, I doubt my kind will welcome me with open arms, and otherwise I’m bound to this graveyard for all of eternity. Maybe there is something beyond this half life.” He smiled once more, placing his hands on the brown grass. “When you take my knucklebones, you must remain in the graveyard till the sun rises. That way, whatever god that watches over these types of dealings knows that I gave them willingly.”
“What happens if you don’t give them willingly?”
“Then you will be cursed, and eventually die a horrible death.”
“It doesn’t say that in the book!” Mikal muttered, as another shiver ran up his spine.
“They tend to leave all that doom and gloom rubbish out. Especially when it’s important.” Bigsby grabbed his five digits, and with a mighty tug, the bones came off in his hand. The skeleton winced, but handed the five knucklebones without so much as a glance of hesitation. “You’ll have to take the others, as I find myself rather lacking in a second hand.” Mikal shuddered again, licking his lips, which had suddenly become quite dry. Stealing the bones from a dead skeleton was much easier than taking them from a walking and talking one Especially one who he had become rather fond of. He grabbed the fingers, and pulled, they fell into his hand with a faint popping sound. They were warm in his hand, and even in the murky darkness they were bleached as white as snow.
“Are you sure about this?”
“Very sure, my lad. Besides, what comes after has to be more interesting than sitting around in this graveyard forever…”
Time passed as it always had, and the stars wheeled above the pair. They talked the entire time, exchanging stories, telling tales. Bigsby learned of the current world, and Mikal learned of the past.
Finally, it was time. The cockerel crowed, and the edges of the distant hills were lined with light. Bigsby froze, drawing his cape closer, pulling down his top hat as if to shade himself from the sun.
“I’ve never truly seen it like this,” He murmured, staring in awe as the ball of fire rose ponderously. Abruptly, Bigsby laughed, threw his top hat away and discarded his cloak. He turned to Mikal and bowed so low that his forehead almost touched the earth. “I made a good choice.” He exclaimed, meeting Mikal’s amazed eyes. “I am indebted to you.” In the blink of an eye he was gone, turned to dust and scattered by the wind. Mikal would have waved goodbye, but the change was so sudden, he found himself simply gaping in amazement. He looked at the knucklebones in his hand, and clutched them tight, a smile forming on his own face. The apprentice got to his feet, slowly, using a stick for a crutch, and made his way down to the stirring village. In the glaring light of the sun, neither Mikal, nor anyone else would see the shadow that danced away into the wildmoors. But on cold nights when the moon had hidden below the edge of the world and the stars burned like spotlights upon the stage of life, one could see the skeleton of a long dead magician, caped and tophatted, grinning wildly as he roamed the lonely plains and beyond.
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