The Enterprise of Death - Jesse Bullington [127]
“And what would you do with wine?” asked Ysabel. It took a skilled eye to notice when a lipless skull intended a grin, but Awa caught Ysabel’s smile and winked back at her friend.
In their travels, the two skeletons talked a great deal about what they had seen of the world so long ago. They explained customs and beliefs and jokes, until Awa wished she could wash the color right off her skin, stride into a town, and have a hot meal and a good talk with the guests at an inn, or hear a mass, or see any one of the marvelous cities Johan described. Her two friends talked more and more of her finding decent folk who might overlook a Moor in their midst, if she did not behave in too witchy a fashion, but Awa would hear none of it and the skeletons held their own counsel when she slept. Finally they had an intervention, and when that did not take they staged another one, their joviality fading and their demeanor hardening as again and again Awa refused to listen.
“If I don’t find the book, he will destroy me,” she said, exasperated with them, but even more exasperated at herself for knowing they were right but refusing to give up. “Not kill me, but, I don’t even know, end me, take away everything! How can I stop!?”
“All the more reason to pack it in,” said Johan. “If I thought there was the slightest chance, I’d say, Alright, Awa, let’s find it, and help you look til Judgment. But you got what, five years? And no way of knowing if it’s even in a graveyard, which is where you’ve been looking exclusive-like, yeah?”
“He’s right, Awa,” said Ysabel. “We’ve been over this enough times you know it by heart, but let’s have you hear it again —spending your last bit of time on God’s grand earth prowling about in churchyards, dealing with the dead—it’s not right. You should enjoy life, not hide from it.”
“Thank you for that,” said Awa, knowing what was coming next. “And I should take up prayer to your god, too, yes?”
“He forgave me, He’ll forgive you,” said Johan.
“How do you know?” demanded Awa. “You don’t! You don’t know where your soul goes when it’s not tied to your bones out of some, some sick obsession with a, with a switcheroo! Or some need to justify your husband murdering you, waiting around in hopes a witch will come along and dig you up!”
“But dig us up you did,” Ysabel pointed out. “You’re right, we don’t know, but we believe, and what greater proof can there be than your ability?”
“No more proselytizing,” said Awa. “Please. I’m tired of all this! You don’t think I’m tired of going to one graveyard after another, always wondering if some dog’s about to bite my ass, if someone’s going to see and try to string me up! I’m tired! Tired!”
“Then pack it in,” said Johan. “Ysabel and me, we talked it over, and we think maybe it’d help encourage you to, I dunno, do something else with your life if we weren’t, if we weren’t …”
“What?” said Awa, looking away from them. Through the trees she could see the river they had been following faintly glowing in the sunlight. She knew what they were going to say, and she knew they were right, and still the tears came.
“This looks like a good spot for me,” said Ysabel firmly.
“Me.” Johan made a swallowing noise. “Me too.”
“So that’s it,” Awa said, knowing she was being petulant but unable to stop herself. “After all this it’s just, Goodbye, Awa? Good luck? Hope the immortal evil doesn’t get you?”
“You need to stop chasing clouds,” said Ysabel. “Enjoy yourself. Make friends that aren’t dead. Live, Awa.”
“Live.” The word felt mealy on her tongue, but through her disappointment and loss a little spark of excitement was building in Awa, of an end to the monotony of graveyard on top of graveyard. “Live.”
“There’s places Moors don’t have it so bad as Spain and all, probably,” said Johan.
“And what about the skull swap, eh?” said Awa, and both skeletons’ sets of shoulder blades relaxed at the smile on her tear-streaked face. “Given up on sainthood?”
“This is a prettier spot than them churches,” said Johan, though he was looking