Sarissa’s Peace

Sarissa held her bag tightly to her chest like a shield. The subway car was empty other than herself. It was almost two, and the lunch breakers and commuters alike were all tucked away safely in their cubicles. Still, she kept her eyes firmly fixed on the poster across from her. She had read it already – some stupid boy-band concert – but it gave her somewhere to focus. Something to concentrate on. A way to ignore… them.

There seemed to be more lately. Tiny flickers of black at the edge of her vision. A rat ducking between seats perhaps, or a wrapper blowing in the fetid breeze rushing from the open window. She knew if she tried to chase them, however, there would be nothing there. Nothing to see, just a trick of the eyes. Pictures forming in the shadows like the ones they had found in the clouds as kids.

The subway rattled back underground. Only one of the carriage lights worked, casting her into a pool of almost darkness. They multiplied in the gloom. Sarissa forced her gaze to focus again, rereading the words over and over as she reassured herself.

They didn’t exist of course. Her eyesight had never been spectacular; it was just because her glasses were out of date. As soon as she could afford a new pair, they would disappear. Sure, she was depressed and anxious, but who wasn’t these days? That didn’t mean she was going crazy or anything. She wasn’t seeing things. It was just the light flickering through the windows casting odd moving shadows, and she was overreacting. Sleep would help.

She scratched that last bit from her mental litany. Sleep would not help. Sleep was when the nightmares came.

The train ground to a halt with the tortured squeal of ancient brakes. Sarissa sprang to her feet, pulling open the door with a grunt as a tinned voice from the ceiling implored her to “Please stand back while the doors are opening.” Why that voice got to live even after the doors were long broken she would never understand. After enough time in the city though, you learned not to question these things.

Air quality in the stations was always the worst. She pulled her shirt over her nose and hurried down the hall. Here and there other passengers did the same, but they all avoided acknowledging each other by unspoken rule. Up the metal staircase – some said it had moved once, but she herself had never seen it – and down two more halls until finally she burst out into the (comparatively) fresh air.

The streets were packed as usual. Vendors covered the sidewalks and spilled out onto the road even though it was supposed to be kept free for traffic. Nobody cared. It wasn’t like anyone living in the Burrows could afford a car. Even if they could, they would never drive it here. It would be stripped for parts and sold the instant they stepped away from it.

She paused at one of the food stalls and bought herself a gyro. When the new year began, she had promised herself it would be different. She would cook at home, eat healthier, work out some, maybe take up yoga. Anything to get better and calm the storm in her mind. As always, it lasted about a week before she fell back into old routines. Change was hard. If everything got better the instant you started, it would be fine. But trying to do more while still labouring under the same weight… sometime she felt like Sisyphus trying to take up knitting. It wasn’t going to happen. At least the gyro had a few vegetables hidden in it. It was better than nothing.

Reggie and Liz were sitting on the apartment steps smoking. Sarissa nodded to them as she went in. Blank stares greeted her. She sniffed the air as she passed and rolled her eyes. No wonder.

Her apartment was on the sixth floor. The steps creaked under her feet as she slouched up them tiredly. The stairwell curled around an empty elevator shaft. When she first moved in, she had been naive enough to ask when it would be fixed. The landlord had explained to her emotionlessly that when it dropped four tenants had gone with it. It was a grave now. Fixing it would be sacrilege. She imagined the ghosts watching her climb and shivered.

Finally she reached her door. The apartment was tiny. A joint living room-kitchen area, a bedroom just big enough for her twin mattress, and a bathroom small enough that you had to step out into the living room to towel off properly. Decoration was sparse but she did not care. It was a safe haven away from the world, and that was all that mattered.

She pulled a plate from the stack on the counter and slid the gyro onto it. There, cooking. She tossed herself onto the couch and raised it to take a bite. And paused. A shadow was standing outside her window, blurred by the dirty panes. Another trick of the light? But no, they were usually small things and this looked more like a person on the fire escape.

The hair on her arms prickled nervously. At least the filth meant they couldn’t see in any better than she could see out. The window was locked (she shoved away the quiet voice pointing out that it would be easy enough to smash). It was probably just another tenant looking for some fresh air. She dropped her gaze and took a bite of food. When she glanced back up, tzatziki running down her chin, the shadow was gone.

Still unsettled, she finished her supper with one eye on the window. The shadow stayed away, however, and even the ones she normally saw skittering in the corners by the counter were silent. A peaceful evening, and yet she did not feel at peace as she finally slunk off to bed.

***

In the morning, Sarissa got up early and headed out onto the streets. Breakfast was an apple pancake wrap from a different vendor, eaten on the go. For once, the persistent city smog had cleared enough to let the sunlight probe into all the alleys and twisted streets. The sunlight was a gift and for the first day in a long time, she did not see anything out of the ordinary as she walked to the work office.

The line was short today. In a half hour, she reached the bored man sitting at the front desk. He sighed, “You again? Are you going to actually keep the job this time? If you keep getting fired, you’re going to start reflecting badly on our office, you know.”

Sarissa winced and nodded in what she hoped was a convincing manner. She always tried her hardest to make the jobs work, even though they were low-paying menial gigs. Things just… went wrong.

At the gardens, she had spent two days planting flowers only to have all of them turn grey and die. Working with the garbage man, she had lasted a bit longer until the truck she was riding on broke and splattered her and the refuse across the street. Her last job had been trimming grass at the public park. That had ended when he groundskeeper told her he didn’t like the way the mower looked at him when she was operating it. He had been a bit crazy, perhaps, but who was she to judge.

The clerk sifted through the pile of help wanted ads on his desk. Sarissa knew better than to ask for something good. She would be lucky to get anything at this rate. The work office closer to her apartment had already banned her for good; anything she could do to avoid antagonizing this one was worth it. Finally, he slid her a page.

“Here. Clean-up at the Ashfield Cemetery, over in the North Quarter. You start as soon as you get there.”

She took the sheet and read it quickly. It sounded easy enough. Clean graves, rake up leaves and grass clippings, pick up the trash tossed over the fence by the irreverent. She gave the man a winning smile, thanked him, and hurried out back onto the streets.

North Quarter was midtown, half a mile from her apartment. It was a bit nicer than her neighborhood, but not really middle class yet. Or maybe it was, and middle class just didn’t mean what it used to. Nobody owned their houses, but the rent was twice as much and the flats were a lot bigger. Street vendors were only allowed in designated parks, but still the streets were packed with people hurrying to and fro.

She found the cemetery easily. Between jobs she had gotten into the habit of exploring the city to fill the time. Other than the truly high class areas where she dare not go, she had a good map of the place even after only living there a year. Perhaps that said more about the amount of time she spent jobless than her mapping skills though.

It was a small cemetery, pinned between two streets. Four-story apartment blocks bordered it on the other two sides. No windows looked out onto the grassy lawn. Maybe they had decided that after a lifetime of living wall to wall and hearing everything the neighbors said, the dead had earned some privacy in their everlasting rest. Or maybe they just didn’t like the reminder that they too would one day sit under six feet of dirt.

The wrought iron fence surrounding the place was rusted and falling down and the gate squealed as she pushed it open. Leaves littered the mossy brick path that twisted and split as it meandered between the trees and the headstones. She looked down at the granite as she passed. Most were illegible. Dead flowers, trash, and more leaves sheltered by their bases. It was a dismal place, even on a beautiful sunny day. You will die, the wind seemed to whisper, and then you will be forgotten.

Sarissa thought guiltily of her parents’ grave and shivered. When they died during the revolution, she hadn’t had it in her to stay in her home city. Not that there was much left anyway. She had followed the flood of refugees and ended up here, stuck like many of them in the worst parts of town, just trying desperately to make a living. Did her parents’ graves look as bad as this? They weren’t forgotten, but their headstones were just as alone.

A distant sound shook her out of her gloomy thoughts. She paused and tilted her head. Again, schkrrrrrrch. Someone was raking, very slowly. She followed the sound quickly, weaving between a pair of mausoleums before finding its source.

A man stood, leaning heavily on a rake. His back was bent sharply over, though he didn’t look like he would be more than five foot five standing up straight anyway. The hands curled around the wooden handle were gnarled and wrinkled, and erratic tufts of white hair shot out from under his cap. His eyes were hidden behind a pair of giant black sunglasses. It did not look like he had been raking long; the only evidence of his efforts was a tiny pile of leaves at his feet.

Sarissa approached slowly and held up a hand in greeting. “Excuse me, sir, are you the grave keeper?”

He raised his head to peer at her for a long moment before nodding curtly and looking back at his leaves.

She continued hesitantly, “I’m supposed to be working with you? You left an ad at the work office?”

Again he looked at her. She had the feeling he was sizing her up, and the curl of his lips told her he wasn’t impressed. Finally he let out a short barking command, “Clean.” His voice was as old and tortured as the fence. It rasped like that of someone who had smoked one too many cigarettes, or spoken until there was no room left for words.

The skin on Sarissa’s arms prickled but she ignored it and gave him her most charming smile as she assented, “Of course, sir. Can you tell me where the tools are please?”

He pointed further down the path and then returned his gaze to the ground. The conversation appeared to be over. She thanked him and continued past.

A few turns later, she found a small metal shed tucked into a corner of the lot against one of the neighboring buildings. The door was ajar and she let herself in. Tools hung from the walls, most rusty with disuse. She found an old hand mower buried beneath some broken boards, and three busted buckets and one whole one. Outside against the back wall was a wheel barrow and the rotten remains of a compost pen. She took a deep breath and paused to think.

First thing was first, there was little she could do with the tools in this state. Everything would need to be lubricated and sharpened. Then raking up all the leaves and trash would be a good start. She could use the broken buckets to sort the refuse for recycling. After that, mowing and another round of raking to clear the trimmings. And then the gravestones could all use a good cleaning.

She thought back on her grandmother’s farm thankfully. Despite living in the cities her whole life, she was hardly as clueless as most others. If she could find a grindstone in the mess of the shed, and a pot of grease, she could do this. Until something goes wrong, muttered her self-doubt. It was ignored. She would give it her best, and everything would be much less gloomy here, and the grave keeper would see what a nice job she was doing and keep her in his employ. Maybe in the fall she would plant some bulbs for the next year. Day lilies along the fence would look nice.

It was a long, hard day of work but she was just grateful to make it through. Nobody had told her how long her shifts should be, so she put in eight hours. It was getting dark by the time the five o’clock bell rang anyway. The graveyard had lamp posts but either the bulbs were all burnt out or there was a breaker somewhere that needed to be replaced. Regardless, at least for now it was not ideal for night work. She made a mental note to look into the lights tomorrow and threaded her way back to the entrance. Her new boss was nowhere in sight but that was alright. As long as she could find him on payday, he could be a ghost the rest of the week for all she cared.

In the twilight, the shadows which had been blissfully absent all day began to creep back into her vision. She kept her head down. If she focused just on the ground in front of her, she could see fewer of them. It was only a bit farther to get home, she just had to ignore them until then.

Suddenly she smacked into a person, hard. She looked up, opening her mouth to apologize, then froze. The figure in front of her was pure black, featureless. Nothing more than a shadow cut out and given life. It tilted its head to the side and looked her up and down. She screamed.

People in the street stopped to look at her but she didn’t care. Her legs snapped into motion and she ducked around the figure, running like mad down the sidewalk. Was it chasing her? She dare not look back to check. Knowledge wouldn’t help her run faster. Focus would. Weaving between the people quickly would. Getting her key ready as she raced up the stairs would.

The door slammed shut behind her and she quickly locked and latched it before throwing herself on the couch. Her breath came in sharp heaves. Running after working all day was too much. Her stomach growled, but there was no way she was going back outside to grab something from a vendor. The cabinet should have some stale cereal in it; that would have to do.

Her mind was already starting to doubt what she had seen. It was probably just a person, cast into odd shadows by the pattern of streetlights. Nobody else had seen it. It must have just been in her mind. She grimaced. That didn’t help of course. That just meant she was going crazy. She didn’t have the money to go crazy, she needed to work. No, it was just exhaustion messing with her eyes. It was nothing.

Her stomach grumbled again and she sat up, walking to the little kitchenette and pouring herself a bowl of cereal. She mixed up some milk from powder and water and poured it on. The stuff never tasted like real milk, but she never drank real milk fast enough to keep it from spoiling. It was better than dry cereal at least.

She turned back to the couch and almost dropped her bowl. It was there. The shadow was right out on her fire escape, just outside the window. It knew where she lived.

Her hand shook and she quickly set the bowl on the counter before it spilled. The shadow was still and silent. Could she escape? Where? They could follow her anywhere. If she stayed, it was at least outside and she in. She shook in fear, waiting for the inevitable shattering of glass, the hands reaching through, grasping for her and tearing her out of her safe hiding hole. It didn’t come. Instead she blinked, and the shadow was gone.

It was just her mind playing tricks. She had to believe that. Just a long day at work, causing her overactive imagination to work a bit too hard. Rest would help. If she could sleep.

She wasn’t going crazy.

***

The next day it was pouring.

The sky was dark and stormy. Vast clouds roiled above the needles of the city’s skyscrapers. Here and there they dipped low, catching their stomachs on the spires and splintering into a misty fog. At least there was no wind, a small blessing. Raindrops fell flat onto the hood of Sarissa’s rain coat and slid off onto the ground. Her legs got a bit wet, but her face stayed dry.

Back home, before everything, she had loved the rain. Even when she hit adulthood, she had never stopped jumping in puddles. Her brothers had hated it. She never particularly paid attention to their proximity and more often than not, they were well within the splash zone.

Things were different now. She skirted carefully around the puddles, reminded not of the childhood fun but of avoiding other puddles, dark oily ones that would eat away at your clothes and then keep going deep into your skin. Subways rattled by on their raised tracks above her and she glanced up enviously. Funds would be tight until her first payday, but she had almost bought a ticket this morning regardless.

Shadows lurked in the corner of her vision, the dim glow of the streetlamps not bright enough to fight against them and the rain both. They were all small though. It was almost comforting seeing them. Seeing nothing would be better, but at least they were less intimidating than the big one had been. Every once in a while she cast a glance nervously behind her, but the only figures she saw were clearly normal humans.

When she reached the graveyard, there was no sign of the grave keeper. Perhaps he was hiding from the rain at home? She got to work anyway.

With the rain, it was the perfect day to try cleaning the headstones. It had already pre-wet them for her and when she was done scrubbing it would wash them clean. After a bit of rummaging she dug out an old tin of powdered soap and a scrub brush. The good bucket would still hold water. Off she went, stone by stone, scraping off the lichen and moss and the oily residue left by the smog. When she finished each, she read the now-legible name on it quietly and added, “Rest in peace.” Maybe if she remembered these dead, someone would do the same for her own, far away.

It was oddly peaceful work. The rhythm of the brush meshed with that of the rain, blurring into a calming white noise. The quick prayer over each stone became a ritual, each name filling her with a quiet sense of hope. Her mind relaxed into its task and the hours passed quickly.

In the early afternoon, she finally spotted her boss. She opened her mouth to call out a greeting and then snapped it shut sharply as her eyes processed the scene. He was leaning on his broom, chatting with someone. With a shadow. A big one, a person-shaped one. The same one who had followed her home? She crouched, trembling, behind a headstone to watch.

The shadow had no face to read, but her boss was smiling like he was talking to an old friend. From this distance she couldn’t hear any of their words. If the shadow even was speaking, that was. Could it speak with no mouth? Curiosity was well outweighed by fear and she stayed put.

The conversation only lasted another couple of minutes before the two shook hands and the shadow walked off along one of the paths. She stayed hidden. Nobody else had ever acknowledged the shadows, yet he had been casually hanging out with one. She couldn’t ask him about it though; clearly he was on their side. Was he the reason the shadow had followed her home? She peered around the headstone again but he was already gone as well.

She considered her options. Of course she could quit and run. The big shadow had appeared first before she got the job though, and the little ones had been around longer. Maybe he was involved with them, but they existed on their own anyways. There was also the question of money. If she left, she wouldn’t make rent this month.

A thought struck her. Even though her walk had been crowded with little shadows, she hadn’t noticed a single one since passing through the rusted cemetery gate. Were they also scared of the big one? Did that mean she should be even more scared of it?

She groaned and forced herself back to her feet. The facts of the matter were simple. She was a bit crazy, so was her boss, it didn’t make a difference since she needed a place to sleep and food to eat. Only getting back to work would give that to her. The peaceful calm was gone, however, as she pulled the brush over the stone she had hidden behind. Instead her gaze flicked around her skittishly, looking for any sign of the shadow. It did not return. The rest of her shift was thankfully uneventful.

As she returned her bucket to the shed, she noticed a flash of color. Someone had left a bouquet on one of the rusted shelves. The smell of carnations mixed with that of oil and dirt. She slowly picked up the bundle. It had no note, just a sky blue ribbon holding the stems together. Was it supposed to be for her? From her boss? It was an odd way to show appreciation for work, but who else would possibly come back here?

Unless, of course, it was here with the tools for a reason. She smiled slightly to herself. Either it was, or it was supposed to be hers and she could do whatever she wanted with it. Untying the ribbon carefully, she walked briskly among the nearby graves and left one flower each at the base of their stones. In a week she would have to clean up the dead blooms, but for now it looked like someone was once again visiting these forgotten people. When the bundle was finished, she tucked the ribbon in her pocket and headed home.

Small shadows skittered about, but she did not see the big one again on the streets, nor outside of her window. Hopefully it would stay away. For now though, at least she could sleep a bit sounder.

***

She arrived at the graveyard in the morning in remarkably good spirits. It had been the best night of sleep she had gotten for weeks, her favorite sausage vendor had given her a discount on the breakfast special, and the sky, while grey, was at least a bit brighter than normal. Her steps were light as she walked along the paths towards her shed. Then she saw them.

Each of the graves had a shadow standing over it.

She found herself petrified in place. There were just so many of them. Each was a bit different from the others, as if someone had chosen randomly from the natural variation of people and then just stolen all the color. They stood in identical poses: feet together, arms crossed like a corpse in a coffin, carnation clasped between their hands. They were watching her.

It was hard to say how she knew. None had eyes or any other features. Hairs on her arms raised nonetheless as she felt the pressure of dozens of eyes boring into her. Part of her screamed for her legs to move, step backward, flee. Its small voice battered against her paralysis as the closest shadow stepped forward. It came closer, almost gliding more than walking. Still she could not move.

It paused right before her. Her heart raced in her chest. Slowly it bent at the waist. A bow. Carefully it set the flower at her feet then raised up to standing. The darkness began to crackle like paint blistering under the heat of a fire. White shone through, a quiet glow that highlighted the curves of a face. A woman, perhaps in her thirties, with long hair tied back into a braid. She was smiling but tears hovered in the corners of her eyes.

And then she was gone.

Sarissa blinked the after images away. Already another was approaching, completing the same ritual before vanishing into nothing. The fear freezing her heart thawed. She stayed still regardless, letting the line advance as ghost after ghost broke free from the darkness before disappearing. Soon only one was left.

It had been hanging back and now she saw why. Unlike the others, it carried no flower and held its hands simply at its sides. Sarissa stepped back nervously as it approached. It paused as she did and held out both hands in a sign of peace. When she made no further moves, it continued forwards, slowly and carefully. At the pile of carnations it crouched, gathering up the blooms before offering them to her. She took them gingerly, avoiding contact with the inky hand.

It stepped back and then raised a hand to point at the graves before bringing both hands together as if in prayer. Sarissa had to clear her throat a few times before she could form the words to ask, “You want me to do the same for them?”

The shadow nodded and then bowed deeply.

Sarissa asked nervously, “What… no, that isn’t the right question is it. Who are you?”

It raised a hand and motioned for her to follow. After a brief hesitation, she did. They twisted along the paths until they reached a cluster of headstones at the base of a tall oak tree. She had not made it to this corner of the cemetery yet in her cleaning, and the stones were coated in lichen and dead leaves. The shadow pointed at one in the center. The words were just barely legible through the grime.

“Major Charles Edinburg?”

The shadow nodded. She scanned the other stones, mouthing the names silently.

“And this is your family?”

It nodded again.

“Do you want me to start with you?”

It shook its head, vehemently, and swept an arm out to gesture at their surroundings. She bit her lip as she tried to piece together its meaning and then guessed, “You want me to get all the others first?”

A nod. Tension eased out of its shoulders.

She took a deep breath and then nodded slowly in return. “Alright. But we’re going to need a lot more flowers. And it will take some time to get everyone. Can you make sure I don’t miss any hidden stones?”

It nodded again and offered her a hand. She shook it.

“Well, then I guess we best get started.”