“Hullo, Simon Plowman,” said the kender, squatting down comfortably by a grave. “How are you tonight? Doing okay? You’ll be pleased to know the wheat is up about six inches now. That apple tree you were worried about doesn’t look so good, however.”
The kender paused, as if waiting for a reply.
Rhys watched, mystified.
The kender heaved a dismal sigh and stood up. He moved on to the next grave, the one with the rag doll, and sat down beside it.
“Hullo, Blossom. Want to play at tiddle-winks? Maybe a game of khas? I have my board with me and all the pieces. Well, most of the pieces. I seem to have misplaced a rook.”
The kender patted a large pouch he wore slung over one shoulder and looked with hopeful expectancy at the grave. “Blossom?” he said again. “Are you here?”
He sighed dolefully and shook his head.
“It’s no use,” he said, talking to himself. “No one to talk to me. They’ve all gone.”
The little fellow seemed so truly sad and heart-broken that Rhys was moved to pity him. If this was lunacy, it had certainly taken a strange form. The kender did not appear to be insane, however. He sounded rational, and apart from looking rather thin and pinched, as if he hadn’t had much to eat, he seemed healthy enough.
His hair was done up in the typical kender topknot. The tail straggled down behind him. He wore more subdued colors of clothing than was usual with kender, having on a dark vest and dark britches. (In this Rhys was mistaken. In the darkness, he mistook them for black. He would later come to find out, in the light of day, that they were a deep, but vibrant, shade of purple.)
Rhys was curious, now. He walked toward the graveyard, deliberately stepping on sticks and shuffling his feet through the leaves so that the kender would hear him coming.
Her nose twitching at the unusual smell of kender, Atta ranged alongside him.
“Hello—” Rhys began.
To his astonishment, the kender leapt to his feet and retreated behind a tall grave marker.
“Go away,” said the kender. “We don’t want your kind here.”
“My kind?” Rhys said, pausing. “What do you mean—my kind?” He wondered if the kender had something against monks.
“The living,” said the kender. He waved his hand as though he were shooing chickens. “We’re all dead here. The living don’t belong. Go away.”
“But you are alive,” said Rhys mildly.
“I’m different,” said the kender. “And, no, I’m not afflicted,” he added, offended, “so wipe that pity-look off your face.”
Rhys remembered hearing something about afflicted kender, but he couldn’t recall what and so he let that pass.
“I am not pitying you. I am curious,” he said, threading his way around the grave markers. “I mean no disrespect to the honored dead, nor do I mean them any harm. I heard you talking to them—”
“I’m not crazy, either,” stated the kender from behind his grave stone, “if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“Not at all,” Rhys said amiably.
He sat down comfortably near the grave marker of Simon Plowman. Opening his scrip, Rhys drew out a strip of dried meat. He broke off a share for Atta and began to chew on a piece himself. The meat was highly spiced and the pungent smell filled the night. The kender’s nose wrinkled. His lips worked.
“Odd place for a picnic,” the kender observed.
“Would you like some?” Rhys asked and he held out a long strip of meat.
The kender hesitated. He eyed Rhys warily. “Aren’t you afraid to let me get close to you? I might steal something.”
“I have naught to steal,” Rhys answered with a smile. He continued to hold out the meat.
“What about the dog?” the kender asked. “Does he bite?” “Atta is a female,” Rhys answered. “And she harms only those who do harm to her or those under her protection.”
He held out the meat.
Slowly, cautiously, his distrusting gaze on the dog, the kender crept out from behind the stone. He made a dart at the meat, snatched it from Rhys’s hand, and devoured it hungrily. “Thank you,” he mumbled, his mouth full.
“Would you like more?” Rhys asked.
“I— Yes.” The kender plopped down beside Rhys and accepted another piece of meat and a hunk of bread.
“Don’t eat so fast,” Rhys cautioned. “You’ll give yourself a belly ache.”
“I’ve had a belly ache for two days,” said the kender. “This tastes really good.”
“How long has it been since you’ve had a proper meal?”
The kender shrugged. “Hard telling.” He put out his hand and gave Atta a gingerly pat on the head, to which Atta submitted with good grace. “You have a nice dog.”
“You’ll forgive me for saying this,” Rhys said. “I don’t mean to offend, but usually your people have little difficulty acquiring food and anything else they want.”
“You mean borrowing,” said the kender, growing more cheerful. He settled down comfortably beside Atta, continued to pet her. “Truth is, I’m not very good at it. I’m ‘all thumbs and two left feet,’ my pap used to say. I guess it’s because I hang around with them all the time.” He gave a nod toward the graves. “They’re much easier to get on with. Not one of them ever accused me of taking anything.”
“Who do you mean by ‘them’?” Rhys asked. “The people who are buried here?”
The kender waved a greasy hand. “People who are buried anywhere. The living are mean. The dead are much nicer. Kinder. More understanding.”
Rhys regarded the kender intently. Since you are dealing with Chemosh, you will need someone with you who is an expert on the undead.
“Are you saying you can communicate with the dead?”
“I’m what they call a `nightstalker.” The kender held out his hand. “Name of Nightshade. Nightshade Pricklypear.”
“I am Rhys Mason,” said Rhys, taking the small hand and shaking it, “and this is Atta.”
“Hi, Rhys, hi, Atta,” said the kender. “I like you. I like you, too, Rhys. You’re not excitable, like most humans I’ve met. I don’t suppose you have any more of that meat left?” he added with a wistful glance at the leather scrip.
Rhys handed over the bag. He would restock his supplies in the morning. Someone in the town would need wood chopped or other chores done. Nightshade finished off the meat and most of the bread, sharing bites with Atta.
“What is a nightstalker?” Rhys asked.
“Wow! I thought everyone knew about us.” Nightshade regarded Rhys with astonishment. “Where have you been hiding? Under a rock?”
“You might say that.” Rhys smiled. “I am interested. Tell me.”
“You know about the War of Souls?”
“I’ve heard mention of it.”
“Well, what happened was that when Takhisis stole away the world, she blocked off all the exits, so to speak, so that anyone who died was trapped in the world. Their souls couldn’t move on. Some people—mystics, mostly, usually necromancers—found out that they could communicate with these dead souls. My parents were both mystics. Not necromancers,” Nightshade added hurriedly. “Necromancers are not nice people. They want to control the dead. My parents just wanted to talk to them and help them. The dead were very unhappy and lost, because they had no place to go.”
Rhys regarded the kender intently. Nightshade spoke of all this in such matter-of-fact tones that Rhys found it difficult to think the kender was lying, yet the idea of the living holding conversations with the dead was a hard one to comprehend.
“I went along with my parents whenever they visited a burial ground or a cemetery or a mausoleum,” Nightshade was saying. “I’d play games with them while my parents worked.”
“You played games with the dead,” Rhys interrupted.