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The ground was frozen and digging the grave was an arduous business. He was alone with the bodies, and, nowadays, that was always how it was.
The sound of the spade hitting the icy ground carried across the night air and echoed off the tundra like weapon-fire. Nothing stirred in the treeless landscape and, in the light of the torch, no shadows danced.
He carried on digging, despite the frost biting into his fingers, and didn’t stop until he was deep enough to prevent the scavengers getting at the flesh of the dead. He noticed bones scattered nearby and made a note to check the other graves for disturbance. Sometimes, no matter how deep he went, the tundra wolves and the airborne rats managed to claw their way down to decomposing flesh.
He rested a moment, then gently, almost tenderly, he laid the body of the mother at the bottom of the hole and then lowered the infant so that it appeared as if the mother cradled him in her arms.
He liked that. He liked that the baby would be comforted and wouldn’t be alone as his spirit rose and merged with the heavens. The infants were often buried alone, but the mother had bled to death birthing this one and, in a way, it had been a blessing because she’d already suffered five stillbirths and her body, mind and soul couldn’t survive another.
He covered the bodies with the cold soil, patted it flat with the spade, and laid a single rock as a marker. They no longer bothered with wooden markers or carved stone. Too many had died and everyone who was left was either too numb or too indifferent to care where the bodies lay or who the bodies once were. He tried to remember their names. Someone had to remember, and he was the only one left who cared.
He said no words. There were no words left to say. At first – when they started dying – a congregation of sorts would gather around the grave and someone would always speak, but that stopped a long time ago. Now... now the dead were buried with no one to bear witness to their final rest... no one but him.
His name was Jac’leath Tarr and he lived – if lived could best describe his situation – in the forbidden territories of the planet Icarrion. He had seen twenty-one summers and, for the past ten, he had been the one tasked with carrying the dead across the desolate wasteland to the cemetery. He often wondered if the job had warped him in some way, because he was very different from the others. He had not become immune to the ravages of life in the territories - not in the same way as everyone else had – and he still had hope. Whereas everyone he knew simply breathed their way through the day - heeding nothing and feeling nothing – he took pleasure in the weak heat of the sun warming his frozen bones and enjoyed the breeze through his hair and the sound of the water warbles skating across the frozen lake.
He thought that burying the dead had actually made him cherish and appreciate life more. He hadn’t been hardened by the futility or the inevitability of it all. It hadn’t thrown him into the same pit of despair - where his parents and one-time friends wallowed - and that meant that he was alone...and, achingly lonely.
He was the youngest in his village. No live infants had been born to his people in over twenty summers. He had been one of the last birthed, and those few who were born after him had perished in the hard winters or succumbed to disease.
He knew that it was the same throughout the territories. Those who had settled in, and colonised the vast wastelands centuries before, had eked out a hard existence, but they had been tough and had weathered a great many catastrophes, but now - whether they were human, Icarrion or Plutonian - every mother bore dead babies, and that was one catastrophe they couldn’t survive. In every village, no child’s cry and no infant’s first breath was ever witnessed or heard and, with each stillbirth, even the mother’s wails fell silent.
That couples still mated was a miracle in itself, but Jac’leath Tarr thought that was more to do with the desperation to hang onto the last vestiges of feeling alive, as opposed to trying to plant a seed that would conceive a live child. Once, pregnancy was met with joy, now it was met with despair.
With each passing summer, the females became older and sicker and more and more didn’t survive the ravages of labour. Human females fared worst. Although colonies from Earth had arrived in the territories on Icarrion more than two centuries before, human females had failed to adjust as robustly as those from other planets. In his village, only two human females still lived – his mother and his sister – and he’d heard tell that there were fewer than eight other human females across the vast wastelands. Soon, he thought, there would be no more pregnancies and no more females.
Everyone had given up. It had taken time to completely knock the hope from their eyes and their hearts but, as soon as they realised that their clans were nearing extinction, every single one of them stopped caring
But, not Jac’leath Tarr. He had steadfastly refused to surrender to the inevitable. With food in scant supply and with the winters becoming increasingly harsh, he made the only decision he could – he decided to leave.
With the mother and her infant safely below ground, he made his way back to his home and washed the dirt from his face and hands, put on a fresh tunic, and wrapped a thick cloak around his shoulders. He packed a sack with the food he’d managed to scavenge earlier in the day, filled two water bottles, and he was ready.
He told no one. There was no one who cared enough to listen.
He didn’t look back as he made his way from the village. He swore to himself that he would never turn his face to look behind him again. He swore that he would never harbour any doubts or any regrets. To stay would mean to die and, Jac’leath Tarr didn’t want to die.
With each step taking him towards a future he hoped actually existed for him, he felt almost overwhelmed with relief. A great weight had been lifted from his broad shoulders and, with his gait steady and his heart bursting with optimism, he looked to the horizon and prayed to the Sun God that he didn’t die of hunger or thirst before he reached the border.
His people believed that the air over the border was deadly. They spoke of poisonous gasses and choking clouds of deadly spores, of polluted waters and vile disease. The elders in every single village across the territories preached caution and demanded the status quo.
Since the last great war spewed death across the planet, no one ventured from their territory and no one braved the wastelands to confirm or deny the truth of what the elders said. At first, they were too frightened to challenge the common belief about the lands beyond the border, and, after a while – when their fear evaporated, and they no longer listened to the elders– they had already gone into their long decline and simply lost interest.
Jac’leath Tarr made his decision to leave based on faith – faith in himself and his instinctive common sense. He weighed nothing up in his mind. He didn’t attempt to analyse or second-guess what was out there or what he would find. He had faith, and that was enough.
He looked around as he walked, taking in the frosted wilderness and the snow on the peaks of the distant mountains. He looked out for wild beasts and was careful not to step on any snow wasps. He snared small animals and ate their flesh raw and only lit a fire when his toes and his fingers turned blue and when he was fortunate enough to find dry kindling.
He made a steady pace but slowed to navigate the dens and burrows of animals that would rip him to shreds and devour him alive. He climbed high piles of animal bones and scampered down huge dunes of snow and, before three moons had gone by, he had reached the hills that marked the border.
The land beyond the hills was greener, more lush and wilder than the land he had left behind. Fields of tall grass stretched towards the horizon like a bright green blanket and, because no Icarrion ventured that close to the border, the plants and the trees had grown, untouched, for more than a century. There was no frost and no snow, and the surprising warmth sent his skin tingling.
The air was purer and sharper and, as he drew in a sweet lungful, Jac’ felt a moment’s sorrow. This no-man’s land – this stretch of luscious ground bordering the forbidden territories – would never be seen by any of his people. They had allowed their fear and their apathy to deny them the chance to feel as he now did.
He thought of returning and sharing what he’d discovered with his people. He thought of going from village to village and rousing everyone from their self-induced stupor and urging them to pack their belongings and set off with him to a world where they could farm the land and live out their years warm and well-fed.
He had just about made up his mind to turn and head back when something caught his eye. He dropped to the ground and searched in his sack for his eye-glass. Placing it against one eye, he adjusted the lens and looked out into the distance.
He saw movement and caught his breath when everything came into focus. What he saw made him question his decision to bring his people over the border and, instead of turning back, he flattened himself against the ground and hid amongst the tall grass until he felt it was safe to move.