The Enterprise of Death - Jesse Bullington [95]
“Stop them!”
“Why? You said—”
“I know what I said! Fuck this, and fuck me for—”
“I’m stopping them, see? All done.”
Manuel closed his eyes tightly, then opened them and looked over his shoulder. The undead corpses had gathered around him, leaning in closely as if they expected a great speech. He jumped.
“Just—no.” Manuel shuddered, not even the continued darkness of the monastery a relief at this point.
“Right,” said Awa, more than a little annoyed. She had vowed never to use the undead without their permission, yet she had broken her word to herself for the sake of her friend, reasoning that it was a relatively innocuous request. Had she more time, she would have asked if any of them minded, but Manuel had told her people were executed for what they would be doing and they had best be fast and silent, and so on the off chance that she brought back their spirits only to have them start screaming, or worse, she had raised them as mindless ones. Manuel was not being particularly fast or silent himself, and Awa took a drink from the bottle she had brought. “What do you want them to do, Niklaus Manuel Deutsch of Bern? Just stand there? I thought you said model, and I thought you said models did poses, and I thought—”
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I … is that wine?”
“Schnapps.” Awa breathed a hot gust of pear vapors in his face as she handed him the liquor.
“Are you … are you drunk?” He took the bottle and found it half empty.
“No,” said Awa. “But I fucking will be soon if you don’t get a move on.”
“So you can pose them, eh?” Manuel took another pull. “I hoped so. Here, hold on a moment …”
Leaning over his bag, he removed a lump of cloth, which he unwrapped to reveal a small drum. Then he took a similarly muffled drumstick from the satchel, then a flute, then a toy scepter or club, and finally a hat. As he shook out the bits of cloth he had wrapped the instruments in, Awa saw they were linen scraps. Grinning up at her, he said, “Props.”
Getting the corpses fitted with hat and draped with cloth was easier than having them hold the instruments properly, but a cadaver that had somehow kept its mustache in the grave while losing its lower jaw seemed more adroit than its fellows, so Manuel gave him both the flute and the drum. Awa noticed a definite change come over Manuel as he instructed her and she instructed them on how to pose, the artist’s nerves calmed more by the charcoal in his hand than the drink. Then he set to, and Awa peered over his shoulder, more impressed than ever with both his speed and skill. They drank the rest of the bottle as he worked, which encouraged him to draw wilder poses yet instead of packing it in.
“Perfect. Think I’ll include Peter in that last one, old Falcky will get a kick out of it. Another mercenary, used to have all sorts of talks on faith and the Church and all. Wish you could’ve met him. Now stand a little to your left, and cross your hands. Perfect.” Awa did as he asked. She had relented some time before to let him sketch her, and her initial disappointment that he was doing so here, in a graveyard surrounded by the walking dead, instead of in his studio, lasted only long enough for her to finish the schnapps. He paused, and as she watched he removed a cord from around his neck and tossed it to her. “Hold it in your, your left hand. Dangle it over your right.”
Awa picked it off of the ground where it had landed and held it up. It was the necklace with the gold crucifix she had found in his bag the night they had met, along with Lydie’s old doll. She let it hang from her hand, resuming the pose he had instructed her to take.
“Wait