Ashes Of Deep Sea-Chapter 283 - 287: Frost, Death, and Night Sailing
Chapter 283: Chapter 287: Frost, Death, and Night Sailing
Frost is a very cold place, where for eighty percent of the year, the City-State is bathed in the incessant cold winds of the Chill Sea—the cold air constantly blows from the Frozen Sea further north, howling over the towering walls and steep cliffs of Frost, deterring many with its chill.
However, Frost is also the largest City-State of the entire Chill Sea. Despite the cold, the heart of this vast island boasts the richest veins of boiling gold in the northern regions, essential material for the core components in steam engines, even considered as the industrial foundation of the modern era. The industrial system built around the boiling gold mines supports the operation of this northern City-State, bringing it endless wealth and prosperity.
And death.
On the edge of the mining district in Frost, at the entrance of the City-State cemetery, a steam carriage in total black stood with its engines still running. Under the bright gas lamps, several corpse carriers in thick black robes were working together to lift a coffin from the carriage, while a tall, thin figure shrouded in black, with its entire face concealed in the shadow of a wide-brimmed hat where bands upon bands of bandages could be seen entwining, stood by the side.
A few steps away, a wizened old man, his body slightly hunched and seemingly enveloped in deep, dark shadows, stood indifferently watching the bustling corpse carriers next to the entrance of the graveyard.
The carriers from the Death Church were particularly silent, not making a sound while moving the coffin, with only the occasional knocking sound breaking the eerie and deadly silence of the graveyard.
After an indeterminable amount of time, the grim old graveyard guardian finally broke the silence, “Cause of death?”
“Accidental fall into the engine shaft,” the bandaged figure spoke in a slightly hoarse female voice, young-sounding, “dead on the spot, already baptized. The specifics are in the handover document; you can see for yourself.”
“How long?” The guardian’s expression and tone remained unaltered as if discussing a stone that was about to be moved into his own room.
The bandaged woman quietly glanced at the grim old man.
“Three days,” she answered succinctly, “three days to purify the spirit, then into the great Foundry.”
“That’s quite short.” The guardian snorted from his nose and looked up at the cemetery gate next to him, where the pitch-black, intricately carved iron gate stood like icy, sharp thorns under the lamplight and the night sky. Across the gate that symbolized the barrier between life and death, one could barely make out the uniformly arranged mortuary platforms, the narrow paths between them, and the shadowy tombstones and small houses deeper within.
This was a graveyard, but for most bodies sent here, it was not their long-term place of rest—aside from a few long-term graves with special significance, everyone was only temporarily stationed here. From City-State officials to common hawkers, no one could evade the rules of this place.
They died, were temporarily sent to the graveyard, under the watch of Death’s guardian Bartok, they slowly came to peace, and after a few days to a couple of weeks, were sent to the adjacent great Foundry. Their sins turned into smoke in the sky, their good deeds merged into the hissing of steam pipes, and a pinch of their remains were scattered across the land of the City-State, leaving no trace behind.
The graveyard would only keep a small tombstone for them—very small, and it would soon be buried under the accumulation of more stones.
“Dead people cannot take up the living’s space,” the bandaged woman shook her head, “For those who’ve had a ‘clean’ death, three days are enough to calm the spirit.”
“It’s not just because of that, is it?” The grim guardian raised his eyes, his withered and cloudy eyeballs staring quietly at the “bandaged woman” in a thick, black coat, “You’re worried about bodies getting up—just like the recent rumors.”
“There is no evidence that the dead of the City-State are truly ‘resurrecting’, and the few reports we have are contradictory. But even the brief revivals of the ‘Restless Ones’ are concerning,” the bandaged woman shook her head, “So do keep a careful watch over your graveyard, as for matters within the City-State, the Church and the Town Hall will handle them.”
“I hope it’s as simple as you say, Agatha,” grumbled the guardian, “I can guarantee no body will walk out of this yard, but the ‘graveyard’ you and your colleagues have to guard is much bigger than my little plot.”
The corpse carriers moved with the coffin into the graveyard, their silent black figures almost like dead bodies themselves walking among the paths of the graveyard. They found the empty mortuary platform prepared in advance and set the coffin upon it, then positioned themselves at the four corners of the coffin, ready to perform the soothing ritual of Death’s guardian Bartok.
The guardian and the priestess referred to as “Agatha” also entered the graveyard and approached the mortuary platform.
The four carriers took out the talismans of Bartok—a triangular metal badge with a door-shaped relief in the center, symbolizing the gateway between life and death. They placed these talismans at the four corners of the coffin, recited a short prayer in unison, then stepped back half a step.
Agatha then stepped forward, removing her wide-brimmed hat, gazing at the coffin on the platform in the cold wind.
The light from the gas lamps illuminated her figure.
Layers upon layers of bandages wrapped her entire body, even covering most of her face, exposing only delicate features and the soft feminine lines not hidden by the bandages. Her chestnut-colored, slightly curly hair cascaded down her back, and in her similarly chestnut eyes, there was only calmness and compassion.
“May the grace of the god of death, Bartok, shine upon your soul, that you may find peace in your last three days on earth… Your debts and ties to this world are all erased today, and you, lost soul, may begin your journey anew…”
Agatha’s deep and husky prayers echoed through the silent cemetery, gradually merging with the profound darkness of the night.
The grim-faced guardian stood aside, watching the ritual with indifference, his hands now holding a heavy-looking double-barrel shotgun which bore the faint emblem of a triangle, symbolizing the death god Bartok.
Moments later, after the ceremony concluded, Agatha turned to the cemetery guardian, “It is finished.”
“I hope your prayers take effect,” the guardian responded, hefting the double-barrel shotgun in his hand, “although I trust my ‘old partner’ here more.”
“This ‘gatekeeper’s’ personal performance of the comforting ritual ought to have some effect,” Agatha said lightly before donning her dark, wide-brimmed hat once more. She nodded to the cemetery guardian and then led the corpse carriers toward the cemetery exit, “We should leave now.”
Bartok’s followers departed, and the black steam carriage moved away into the night until its taillights gradually blended with the lights of the city district.
The cold night wind blew through the cemetery, past row upon row of morgue slabs and the ornate iron fence at the edge of the graveyard. The somber old guardian stood at the gate, watching the direction the hearse had gone, and only after a long while did he turn his gaze back and tighten his clothes against the chilly wind.
“Finally, the living have gone. I’m not used to the cemetery being so lively.”
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He murmured to himself, clutching his reliable double-barrel shotgun, and slowly made his way to his small watchman’s cottage by the edge of the morgue.
After a short while, the old man came out of his cottage again, this time with something new in his hands.
A small pink-white flower, plucked from unknown whereabouts.
He arrived at the most recent coffin and picked up a stone beside it, placing the flower at one corner of the slab.
The night breeze blew down the path, causing the delicate petals to shiver in the wind, and on a nearby row of morgue slabs, one could see a similarly inconspicuous flower placed in a corner.
Most of the flowers had withered in the wind.
“Sleep now, get a good rest. It’s hard to get such sound sleep when you’re alive,” the old guardian muttered, “Your family will come to greet you tomorrow morning, as is the custom. Say your farewells, and then depart in peace. The world of the living isn’t all that great anyway…”
The old man shook his head, bent down to pick up his double-barrel shotgun, and turned to slowly walk away.
…
“We are sailing north, our destination is Frost,” Duncan approached Fenna, who was standing on deck of the Homeloss staring at the distant sea, and greeted her, “I noticed you’ve been gazing out at the sea, so I figured you must be curious about the ship’s course.”
“Frost?” Fenna expressed surprise. She indeed had been speculating about the Homeloss’s next voyage but hadn’t expected Captain Duncan to bring it up himself, “Why Frost? Has something happened there?”
“The trigger was a letter Maurice received, a letter from a deceased friend,” Duncan said as he reached the edge of the deck, leaning on the railing and looking out at the Endless Sea under the night sky, “But my interest in that place is an even bigger reason.”
“You’ve become interested?”
“In a sense, Frost could be considered Alice’s ‘hometown,'” Duncan said with a smile, “though she herself has no concept of that.”
“…I don’t know much about Frost, only that the main faith there is in the death god Bartok, though there is also a minority who believes in the Storm Goddess. Frost’s local industry seems to be very developed, and the biggest economic pillar of the entire City-State is the boiling gold mines…”
Fenna paused, then her gaze inadvertently drifted in the direction of the cabins.
“Of course, what Frost is most famous for is the rebellion that occurred half a century ago—Alice doesn’t mind people discussing that, does she?”
“She doesn’t mind—because she doesn’t understand a thing.”
“…Alright then.”
