what I did. He was no ghoul, just a mortal man. He fell down dead.”
“You’re sure you killed him?”
“Glyphtard, murdering one’s father is not the same as locking a door or putting out a light. I’m sure.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You should be. Ghoul, indeed! The poor man was ill. No one would have believed that, though, from the condition of your father. They say that a madman has the strength of ten, and it must be true of the appetite, as well. We buried what little remained of him in the garden, and we told everyone that the intruder made off with his body.”
“So that everyone thinks he was the murderer.”
“Yes, but he was a Fand, don’t you see? If people wanted to believe that, it was no stain on the honor of the Glyphts.”
* * * *
Organizing the servants was no simple task, for Mother chose only the oldest and presumably most trustworthy to bathe and anoint Umbra and sew her shroud. They doddered, wailed, gossiped, sent one of their number to fetch the water they had neglected to bring, went to find the woman who had gone to fetch the water, misplaced the holy oils, lunched, lost their needles, wandered off, napped, and had her ready for burial by sundown. In a fury of impatience by then, I nearly slipped by telling Mother I didn’t need it when she gave me the key to the family tomb.
* * * *
I dismissed the slaves, far younger men purchased with my new wealth, who had carried Umbra to the tomb and laid her in the vacant sarcophagus that had been meant for my father. I told them I would watch over her that night. One of them warned me to lock the door against ghouls. I think my laugh at this offended his sense of decency.
Alone, I stared at Grandfather, he at me. I had no doubt of it: howsoever bulged and extruded by a massive growth of bone and teeth, howsoever dehumanized by owls’ orbs of glowing yellow, this was the face I had seen last night. The ghoul that Mother had killed had risen from his stone coffin, dined on the body of his wife, and gone off to join his kind. Grandfather’s life as a human being had spanned more than six decades; but after two decades more as a ghoul he was still strong enough to bat me aside like a puppy, virile enough to satisfy my wife.
“Vengeance,” I said, patting his stone cheek. “Vengeance, indeed!” I whipped off my cloak to veil his bust. After a moment I covered Grandmother’s, too.
I cast aside the lid of Umbra’s sarcophagus and tore open the shroud that had cost so much time and trouble. Even by the liberal standards for a corpse she was no longer lovely. Aside from the marks of my ripping and pounding, garishly but ineffectively cosmeticized, her flesh had gone puffy and yellow. As the servants had warned it would, deploring the way we rushed them, rigor mortis had seized her. Her knees were drawn up and her hands clawed as if to ward me off, her lips were lifted from her splintered teeth in a defiant snarl. I certainly knew what a dead body felt like, but I was shocked that these breasts should be so cold when I cupped them in my hands, that these nipples should not rise when I played with them.
I heard myself sigh, perhaps from regret, as I abandoned that diversion and opened the bag I had brought, not my usual tools, but a collection I had prepared while the servants were laying her out. I took a boning-knife I had sharpened like a razor and cut between her breasts, then forced the flesh aside to bare her ribs. It was impossible to crack them open in the cramped quarters of the coffin. I rolled up one of Mother’s extravagant carpets so as not to soil it and hauled Umbra out, dumping her on the tiled floor. Then I forced her ribcage wide and cut her heart loose from its tubing.
As a bitter joke, I kissed the heart I had been unable to move before setting it by, but I wasn’t defiling her corpse just to amuse myself. An old wives’ tale had it that a ghoul’s body must be exposed to sunlight for a full day before it can be
“You’re sure you killed him?”
“Glyphtard, murdering one’s father is not the same as locking a door or putting out a light. I’m sure.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You should be. Ghoul, indeed! The poor man was ill. No one would have believed that, though, from the condition of your father. They say that a madman has the strength of ten, and it must be true of the appetite, as well. We buried what little remained of him in the garden, and we told everyone that the intruder made off with his body.”
“So that everyone thinks he was the murderer.”
“Yes, but he was a Fand, don’t you see? If people wanted to believe that, it was no stain on the honor of the Glyphts.”
* * * *
Organizing the servants was no simple task, for Mother chose only the oldest and presumably most trustworthy to bathe and anoint Umbra and sew her shroud. They doddered, wailed, gossiped, sent one of their number to fetch the water they had neglected to bring, went to find the woman who had gone to fetch the water, misplaced the holy oils, lunched, lost their needles, wandered off, napped, and had her ready for burial by sundown. In a fury of impatience by then, I nearly slipped by telling Mother I didn’t need it when she gave me the key to the family tomb.
* * * *
I dismissed the slaves, far younger men purchased with my new wealth, who had carried Umbra to the tomb and laid her in the vacant sarcophagus that had been meant for my father. I told them I would watch over her that night. One of them warned me to lock the door against ghouls. I think my laugh at this offended his sense of decency.
Alone, I stared at Grandfather, he at me. I had no doubt of it: howsoever bulged and extruded by a massive growth of bone and teeth, howsoever dehumanized by owls’ orbs of glowing yellow, this was the face I had seen last night. The ghoul that Mother had killed had risen from his stone coffin, dined on the body of his wife, and gone off to join his kind. Grandfather’s life as a human being had spanned more than six decades; but after two decades more as a ghoul he was still strong enough to bat me aside like a puppy, virile enough to satisfy my wife.
“Vengeance,” I said, patting his stone cheek. “Vengeance, indeed!” I whipped off my cloak to veil his bust. After a moment I covered Grandmother’s, too.
I cast aside the lid of Umbra’s sarcophagus and tore open the shroud that had cost so much time and trouble. Even by the liberal standards for a corpse she was no longer lovely. Aside from the marks of my ripping and pounding, garishly but ineffectively cosmeticized, her flesh had gone puffy and yellow. As the servants had warned it would, deploring the way we rushed them, rigor mortis had seized her. Her knees were drawn up and her hands clawed as if to ward me off, her lips were lifted from her splintered teeth in a defiant snarl. I certainly knew what a dead body felt like, but I was shocked that these breasts should be so cold when I cupped them in my hands, that these nipples should not rise when I played with them.
I heard myself sigh, perhaps from regret, as I abandoned that diversion and opened the bag I had brought, not my usual tools, but a collection I had prepared while the servants were laying her out. I took a boning-knife I had sharpened like a razor and cut between her breasts, then forced the flesh aside to bare her ribs. It was impossible to crack them open in the cramped quarters of the coffin. I rolled up one of Mother’s extravagant carpets so as not to soil it and hauled Umbra out, dumping her on the tiled floor. Then I forced her ribcage wide and cut her heart loose from its tubing.
As a bitter joke, I kissed the heart I had been unable to move before setting it by, but I wasn’t defiling her corpse just to amuse myself. An old wives’ tale had it that a ghoul’s body must be exposed to sunlight for a full day before it can be
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