Litch and the Bone-Bringers

In the south, grassy fingers slip along the rolling land; those shreds of West Sward claw deepening valleys among the hummocks, fill up those spaces with verdure, sweep along the tumbling creeks, swallow up land-stones, wash over old deadfalls. On one hillock, an old beer-hall decays; it's a fallen place, in disrepair. Those timbers have long since softened, given in; the whole thing is on a slant, half-way removed from it's stony mount; the roof is mildewed, all the thatching gone; the gables are broken, bare: they used to be carved with woodland scenes, boar-protectors, hart-chargers stamping in the grass and in the woods. Nearby that place, there's a graveyard, a place for mounds; verily, it was an old clan's death-yard, full of humps and tumbled-down cairns: the names of most of those land-fillers have been long forgotten, they could not win fame in their lives. One day, in the summer time, when sky-slashers burned out across that vault and tiny light-points pricked the evening fabric, some horse-ridders happened past that place, galloped on a disused trail that snaked along a grassy ravine. That subtle hoof-road wound through a gully where a small brook bubbled along it's wonted path, spilled between stones and roots. On that one occasion, that lofty mound-field was not empty; verily, there was a figure up there, a boney thing lurking above one overgrown hump; it was standing utterly still, wrapped about in peon-rags, old tattered things that flagged about in the wind, rustled like wheat-stalks. When those riders caught sight of that thing, they pulled back reins, slowed to an easy gait; they spilled their word-hords, bellowed greetings, out-shouted the pulsing cicadas; that thing didn't respond, indeed, it didn't move; the wind blew through it's tattered tunic and made a soft rustling sound; a cavernous whistling came from somewhere, blew spooky notes into the air. That pair dismounted, left their horses there to drink from a deep swirling brook-pool; they were livid, stung by insults, angry at that indignation; they would not be ignored, indeed! Their riding-boots pricked the hillside, broke earth-skin; dark soil spilled out of those wounds. Presently, those investigators breasted that hill, reached the flat hilltop, out-stretching table-face where the land was distorted, spotted with graves here and there. Nearby, that figure stood, vigil-maker; it was immensely tall, eldritch; those word-spouters were shaken by that sight, suddenly less cock-sure; still, one egged the other on, as men are wont to do. They approached that thing and felt fear, like the essence of old death; a wind stirred; it was a barrow-breeze, a musty blow whispering from out of a deep old place. Then, those two saw movement at their feet; the ground was crawling, the grass rustling as bits and pieces of filthy bone were dragged up from the earth, pulled toward that thing, woven into that towering shape. At that, those two fled, tumbled down the hill; they galloped from that place, heedlessly. After that, that old trail has been shunned, avoided by the wise.