The Marrow Gatherer and the Rotten One

by Nichole L. Lightner

In a hollow under a dead tree, Clementine hummed an old song to honor the disciples. The song was a tradition passed down from her mother, and her mother’s mother, all the way back to the ones that named the celestial bodies blazing in the sky. Black stars burned in the afternoon’s amber sky, radiating hazy red and purple halos.

Around her, the strangled disciples’ bodies swayed from leafless tree branches, bramble thorns scratched against yellowed bones bulging up from the dirt, and scuttlers danced along the teeth in the trunks of the trees. Clementine sang to bring all the dead disciples peace. To beseech the Great Ones as they did was a cruel life to choose. The path to become an Idol, long-lived and educated in the deepest mysteries of the sky, was dangerous, and the disciples whose minds and bodies broke were brought here to the Starlit Woods, to Clementine’s trees. They died here, with Clementine and the Rotten One. This was also tradition, as ancient and revered as the Great Ones.

The dead disciples’ flesh belonged to the Rotten One, and their eyes belonged to the many-winged mavens. The bone-aphids made their nests in what remained, and Clementine, the marrow gatherer, burned the thin husks of the disciples’ bones in a small, sacred pyre and took the honey.

Today, Clementine had made three pyres and sung three songs. Her own bones felt thin and brittle as she made her way to her resting place, a tree so old that it had turned to stone. Beneath the giant roots of the tree, Clementine unpacked the marrow honey jars from her bag and eased herself down onto the cool soil. Tonight, her dinner was meager: bruised plums from a withered bush. Her little knife sliced the wrinkly red skin. A sweetness curled into her nose. At first, she mistook the smell for the plum. But then, it spread, bursting in her nose like burning sugar syrup.

Clementine did not move as she heard soft feet tread upon the wet earth, and felt the day’s sweat turned to ice on her back. The traditions her mother had taught her were the steel in her back and the stone in her heart. She closed her eyes and counted her breaths. She would not open them until it spoke, until the Rotten One wore one of its false faces.

“Hello sweet one.”

Clementine did not want to see the thing that had been her mother.

“You were gone away.”

When the waxy hand touched her cheek, Clementine opened her eyes. The Rotten One’s eyes were amber colored like the sky and set in a face more beautiful than the stars, a splendor beyond what the most elegant Idol could ever hope to be. Its lips parted, making a smile. Clementine thought of the teeth in its hundreds of mouths, of the unknowable dead disciples it had consumed, of the ones it would still consume. In the distance, a disciple’s scream rang through the trees.

“Where have you been?” the Rotten One asked. The voice was deep and melodic when it spoke with just one mouth.

As powerful as the Rotten One was, it was not all-knowing. Clementine’s secrets were still her own if she guarded them closely. There were hidden paths in the woods that led to forgotten places, like the ruins of the Glimmer Palace, where Clementine had gone looking for old books. She’d been hoping to find a chant that could perhaps bring her mother back to her.

“Where have you been?”

Clementine said, “Just to see Darling.”

“Ah, Darling. The nasty little man that calls you a hobgoblin?” It snapped its teeth, then said, “I could make him worship you. I can make them all worship you. Wouldn’t you like that? We could be together, and they would need you like they need me.”

“No,” Clementine said. “I’m not like you.”

“What is it you think I am? Without me, so much worse would come, and with you, together, we could do so much more.”

Its lips curled up like burning paper. Clementine shut her eyes and squeezed her plum. It burst in her hand, sticky juice running between her fingers and into the dirt. It would get bored of her if Clementine didn’t speak, didn’t look at it. It would go away. It wouldn’t harm her if it didn’t know about her trip to the ruins, or about her meeting the next day with a man named Walker from Coal-choke.

Clementine would meet Walker in Rusthouse, a meeting Darling orchestrated for her. It had taken a little force, but Darling had crumbled, begging her not to curse him. He cursed her while clutching some Idol-made totem to his chest, and Clementine let him. His fear suited her.
Rusthouse, a market for metal, was in the oldest part of Coal-choke, nearest to Clementine’s woods, and surrounded by other forgotten places that only Clementine knew the names of. The smell of resin and gin grew stronger as the trees grew further apart. A corroded fence thrust its points towards the sky in defiance of the small trees growing around it. There were no longer any merchants in this market. Clementine thought that soon it would become a forgotten place as well.

A bustling market would be easy for her to disappear into if Darling had set her up to be robbed. Or if Walker had deceived Darling, thinking to lure a backwater wood-witch into a trap to steal marrow honey that wasn’t meant for him. She walked the perimeter of a low building, side stepping cave-ins and two dead dogs, flies buzzing into a frenzy when she passed, until she came to the main antechamber, now an empty dome with no lanterns left. Through an archway, Walker was waiting for her.

“Hello,” he said, smiling. His smile was kind, a gentle song Clementine had never heard before. “My name is Walker.”

He stepped forward, and Clementine stopped a few feet from him. Her eyes darted all over him. Scavenger? Disciple? Thief?

His clothes had been expensive many miles ago: thin-soled shoes made for paved streets; elegant hands; big knuckles, but he had long, dark hair, a well-groomed beard. He was pretty, maybe a disciple family where some had survived to be Idols.

“Clementine.”

“The hobgoblin?” He sounded befuddled.

Her hands curled into fists, and she glanced back the way she came. Walker raised his hands, like she might charge at him.

“Wait, I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean that. It’s just…it’s what Darling calls you. Don’t be upset. You didn’t look like what I was expecting.”

Clementine paused. People didn’t understand what lived in the Starlit Woods or know the names of the worse things the Rotten One kept away. Hobgoblins and ghosts were old stories: safe, scary stories to tell each other. The Rotten One was too ghastly, too horrifying to acknowledge as what the bodies of the disciples they cast from their walls went to feed. Walker’s ignorance grated on her, but she didn’t have the time to teach a soft-soled city boy.

“Darling said you know where an Archive of the Green Glass Order is,” Clementine said.

“I do.”

“What do you want for access?”

“Slow down,” Walker said. “Tell me first what you’re looking for.”

This man either thought she was some mad, evil creature or that she was stupid. Clementine puffed up her chest, not wanting her desperation to show. “That’s none of your burden.”

Walker chuckled, which irritated her further. She thought of leaving, but this archive might be the one she needed.

“Tell me what you’re looking for,” he said. “I’ll tell you if it’s there.”

“No, we’re done.” Clementine turned backwards. Then she felt his hand on her arm. Her gut hook was in her hand before she turned around, but he jumped back from her before she could grab on to his arm.

“Sorry!” he said. He recoiled from her, regained his composure. “Didn’t mean that. I’ll take you there, but you have to hold up your end of the deal.”

“And what do you want for access to this archive? For my end of the deal.”

“Marrow honey,” he said. “A lot of it.”

“I’ll give you two jars for your trouble, regardless. If what I need is there, we can make a more definitive sum then.”

“Fair, but I want to know where it’s from.”

“It’s from disciple bones,” she said dryly as she tucked her gut hook back in her belt.

“No, I’m coming with you to get it.”

“The woods are not a garden to stroll through.”

“Then you don’t get into the archive. I won’t buy it unless I can see the bones. I can’t take the risk of you bringing me bleached bee honey.”

This man was trouble. Clementine knew she needed to walk away now, but she couldn’t. After searching through so many archives that the Idols had destroyed, this archive could be the one.

Walker stepped closer to her and picked up her hand, “Don’t stab me, please,” he said. “I want to help you.”

His hands were smooth, like an effigy’s. He rubbed his thumb on the back of her hand, and Clementine’s cheeks flushed.

“You must follow everything I say,” Clementine said.

Walker’s brow wrinkled and that made her heart flutter. He must have been from an Idol family. No scavenger was this beautiful. He kissed the back of her hand and said, “I will, and I swear to do anything you ask of me.”

She believed him. She didn’t chastise herself for the flutter in her stomach while he held her hand, and she hoped that she was not being played for a fool.

The first night in the trees was hard on Walker, even though Clementine helped him learn the rules. The first rule was that you did not step where you have not stepped before. He laughed at her, saying that it made no sense, until he fell into a small sinkhole from gorger-rats. After that he followed her steps and looked before he placed his feet.

The second rule was that if something moves, you did not. He learned this after a bristle piglet knocked him into an abandoned maven nest. Sticky eggshells and feathers clung to his clothes and hair. She laughed as he shouted about wild monsters and filthy animals. After his second night, he waited when she stopped moving.

Clementine hoped on the third night that he wouldn’t have to learn the third rule the hard way; that if you heard the soft tread of bare feet or smelled burning sugar, you had to harden your heart, and never dare to look until it approached you. Walker scoffed at her and said that he had heard every story about fiends in the trees, of mercy-killing disciples with broken minds. He said that he was not a thin-headed child. She didn’t argue because she didn’t want to talk of the Rotten One with him. She enjoyed his company too much.

She never told him the fourth rule of the woods that her mother had taught her. Clementine had broken it when she brought him inside.

The fourth day, Clementine realized Walker wrinkled his brow when he tied snares for white worms, and he twitched the corner of his lips once before he smiled at her. They made their way to an ancient temple where all the effigies faces had been worn to smooth stone, and Clementine hoped he watched her too. Maybe her nose crinkled before she laughed, or her cheeks flushed pink when she climbed a hill, or maybe he liked to know that she watched him. She was very aware of him in a way that wasn’t how she was aware of the trees, or the animals, or the disciples’ thinning bones.

Walker took the lead on an abandoned pig path. It was safe: no poison plants or venomous fauna. He walked carefully, just like she’d taught him. When they reached the huge slab of limestone, a faint sweetness coiled in her nose.

“Here?” he asked, pointing to the bodies the Rotten One had arranged on the slab.

She nodded. The heat in her cheeks was not from the walk. Was the Rotten One here? It shouldn’t be. Sturdyheart had its grand trial on the last full moon. It should be there, waiting on its dozens of disciples. She and Walker were miles and miles away. It should be there, eating its offerings, not here, not on this rock face.

“How do we get the honey out?” Walker asked.

Clementine unrolled her tools, already planning the fastest route back, but Walker was impatient. He poked a femur with his finger, and the femur burst like a bloated corpse. Bone-aphids and honey exploded out. The swarm buzzed into an attack, pincers clicking together, the honey trapping the bone-aphids on Walker’s skin. He screamed.

“Stop! Stop it now!” Clementine hissed the words through her teeth. “You’re going to hurt them. It will hear you!” She fumbled her sparker to the coltsfoot and jute bushel. It ignited, and smoke rose around them. The swarm’s buzzing quieted and the aphids drifted lazily back to their nest, but the dead ones stuck to Walker’s hand broke her heart.

“You killed them,” she said.

“They were biting me, you idiot,” he shouted. He huffed and pouted. “I need a salve for these bites. Use your magics!”

Clementine laughed. It felt wrong, but it burst out of her. He was such a city boy, but she was still fond of him.

“Do not laugh at me!” He made a fist, and filmy white honey oozed between his fingers.

“They don’t bother with the living.” She took a jar from her bag, and daringly took his hand. Her heart quickened. Ignoring the shame of it, she wiped his fingers against the glass. “They were protecting their nest.”

“They were biting me! Stinging me! You took long enough with those dandelions!”

He didn’t know better. She didn’t correct him on the flowers, or that aphids didn’t sting. Instead, she said, “The honey on your hands will help the sting, I promise, but sit down. Let me finish.” They needed to leave soon. She was well-practiced, and went through the bones quickly, then brought the jars over to where he sat under a yellow tree.

“Leading, jiffy, and squat,” she said, tapping each jar. Leading was the whole intact combs from the ilium and the long bones. Jiffy had some whole pieces, but most were ruptured since they were from bones like the vertebrae and patella. The squat was from narrow bones like the carpals and the tarsals with no comb structures that survived extraction.

Walked picked up the leading jar. “Do you have any idea what this is worth?”

“Yes,” Clementine said. “One trip to an archive.” They were friends. He didn’t mean what he had said.

Walker laughed, “Blessings for the wood witch!” He stared intently at the jar, and Clementine backed away from him. He didn’t mean that. She didn’t think he did. His eyes crinkled again while he smiled. He embraced her, and Clementine couldn’t stop herself from blushing.

For days, Clementine lingered on the edge of her trees waiting for Walker to return to take her to the archive. When he finally came, she didn’t berate him for making her wait because he gave her a bog lily and said it reminded him of her. When they snuck through the city’s maze of alleys and passages together, Clementine felt a thrill she’d never had before. His hand gripped hers tightly.

They came to a house that towered above the others. This house looked like an Idol’s. Walker led her down through a crumbled section of stairs and a long hall lined with decayed portraits rotted away from their frames.

“Be quiet,” Walked whispered as he pushed a door open. He shook a lantern on the wall and dozens of lumens woke up to buzz in their glass enclosure. Clementine’s hands clenched when she saw them. The phosphorescent trails of the huge insects were how she navigated the darkness, and the pollen they carried was how she ate. To see them buzzing in the glass, throwing themselves against it, made her sick. Their dead cousins littered the bottom of the glass like fallen leaves.

“Start looking,” he said and held out his hand for the last jar of their deal. Then, he stepped out of the room and shut the door behind him.

The small room crowded her. There were dozens of books on the shelf and several large traveling trunks on the floor. This had to be an Idol house. This was dangerous. If she was caught in here, they would do terrible things to her: take her eyes, her fingers, maybe even feed her to the mutated creatures kept in their menageries. Every instinct she had told her to leave.

She didn’t leave though. Flipping through pages but finding nothing, she lost track of time. The lumens in the jar grew dimmer and dimmer as they went back to sleep, but Clementine couldn’t bear the idea of shaking the jar. As the last one flickered out, she sat in the darkness before deciding what she had to do.

She groped around until she found the lantern and unscrewed the glass. The lumens buzzed and flittered out through the opening. They danced around her in wide whorls, phosphorescent trails glittering behind them. Then she heard the raised voices approaching.

“Mother, mother, mother,” Walker said. The door swung open, and he charged inside. He looked at the lumens buzzing around her. “What are you doing?”

Clementine stammered, but Walker didn’t let her speak. “Do as I say, get in now!”

He flipped open the nearest trunk and pushed her inside. Clementine considered her gut hook as the trunk flipped shut, but not before a curious little lumen followed her inside. There was a thump on the lid, and Clementine’s sweat beaded on her brow. He had locked her in. The lumen’s trail dissipated around her when it landed on her hand.

“Walker?” a deep feminine voice said. “Walker!”

“Mother, good evening.”

“What have you done to the lantern?” the woman said. Clementine heard a sharp snap. She was killing the lumens.

“Sorry, Mother,” Walker stuttered. “I tried to clean out the dead ones, but they all escaped.”

“What are you doing down here?”

“I just wanted a place out of the weather.”

“You came for more money,” the woman said. Slap. Another lumen, dead.

“Mother, it’s so hard out there. You can’t know the dregs of life I have to speak to, to barter with.”

“Leave the bugs. They’ll die soon enough. Go back to the courtyard by the pond. I’ll meet you there.” Another slap. Then, the door eased shut.

The lock clicked open, and Walker stared down at her, disgusted.

“This is your house?” Clementine pulled herself up. The little lumen buzzed around again.

“It was, but it’s none of your burden. You need to leave.”

“No, that wasn’t the deal. There are books I haven’t looked through.”

“My mother will carve you into pieces, and then me for allowing you inside.”

“I’m not—” she started, but he was pulling her down the hall of portraits. They came back out from the crumbling steps and into the night air. Lumens trailed them, and their glowing trails blurred when they sped towards the trees.

“This wasn’t our deal, Walker.”

“Listen, this is delicate situation. I listened to you in the woods. You need to listen to me here. The worst thing in the woods would be afraid of my mother. I’ll figure something out, but you need to disappear. Now.”

He didn’t let her speak and started to drag her again. She shrugged him off and walked to her trees. As she left the courtyard, she passed a fetid pond ringed with bog lilies. Three large lumens buzzed a lazy trail of light that the dirty water swiftly absorbed.

Clementine spent days avoiding Coal-choke’s side of the trees. Walker had treated her like an animal, and he hadn’t held up his end of the bargain. Her anger waned though, and when she went to the edge of the city she found a pile of bog lilies, all in various states of decay. So, she waited. That night, she surprised him when he brought another lily.

“Finally,” Walker said. He was not smiling at her. He was disheveled and smelled like old sweat. “I’ve been waiting for you for days now. I need more marrow honey, and I think I know of another archive.”

“Really?” She took the lily from him and placed it to her nose. She’d seen mummers do this in Sturdyheart’s streets.

“I want ten jars this time.”

Ten jars was too much. Clementine thought of the bones that were ready. There were a few sets ready by Silverspoon, but The Rotten One would be near Silverspoon today.

“I’ll need some time before the bones are ready. A few days.”

“Unacceptable. I need it now,” Walker said. “Please. I mean, please help me. I need the honey. It’s very important.”

Clementine waivered. He was her friend, and she needed to look through this other archive. They’d avoided the Rotten One before. She ran through the days in her head. Silverspoon was usually late to bring the disciples to the trees. They had good odds.

On the way to Silverspoon, Clementine spoke of small things, and if Walker answered, he was distant. When they stopped to fish for frogs, she wanted to tell Walker about the first time her mother brought her here, but the words would not come to her lips.

The heavy silence only broke when Walker snagged the net. Clementine fumbled to her feet to help him before he tore it, but she was too late. He pulled, and the old sinew snapped. His body fell backwards into the fetid pool. Her broken net was underneath him, and one slimy frog slipped out. He was shouting and cursing. If he didn’t stop, he would bring the Rotten One down on them.

“Walker.” Clementine grabbed his shoulder. “You must be quieter.”

“Don’t touch me!” He swatted her away. “These clothes are ruined!”

Clementine knew that he was fond of his clothes. He cursed again, and that was when Clementine smelled the sweetness on the air.

“Walker,” she whispered. “We need to go. Now.”

He ignored her. The Rotten One was coming. Without a doubt, Clementine knew that shift in the breeze was its many mouths becoming one. The face Clementine saw weaving towards them through the trunks was too beautiful. Clementine grabbed Walker’s hand.

“Hello! I’m so glad I found someone out here! Can you help me?”

Walker turned towards the sound of the voice, and Clementine watched his cheeks flush, his breathing stutter. The Rotten One was going to eat him. Clementine pushed Walker behind her. The Rotten One’s perfect petal lips parted to cry out.

“Please, don’t hurt me,” the Rotten One said. “I’m lost. I need help.”

“Walker,” Clementine said with her back to him. “Run right now. Go exactly the way we came, and don’t stop until you’re through the tree line.”

The pretty face frowned, and Walker didn’t move.

“You’re acting ridiculous,” Walker said when he pushed Clementine aside. “She needs help.” He reached out towards the Rotten One, and Clementine lunged. She collided with the Rotten One’s constructed body. It screamed and howled like it could feel pain. It screamed for help.

“Walker, run!” Clementine shouted as she struggled with the Rotten One. “Now!”

“No,” it sobbed beneath Clementine. “Please help me. She’s mad! She’s trying to kill me!”

Strong hands grasped Clementine’s shoulders, pushing her into the dirt. The Rotten One curled up, whimpering like a kicked dog. Clementine felt bile in her throat as Walker reached down to comfort her, wrapped his arm around her. He cooed to her.

“Are you alright?” Walker asked.

“Yes, but please, help me. That creature with you, she’s dangerous. Please don’t let her hurt me.”

“I’ll protect you,” Walker said. He cupped the Rotten One’s false face in his hands, smiling that bright smile Clementine had once been so fond of.

Clementine pulled herself up to her feet. Her head throbbed, but she tried to focus.

“Walker! This is a trick! You’re a damn fool. That is the thing that these trees exist for.”

“She’s scaring me,” the Rotten One said quietly. “Will she curse us?”

“Walker!” Clementine brought out her gut hook. “That is not a woman, that is the thing that eats the disciples. It’s tricking you.”

Walker squeezed the hand the Rotten One had made from pieces of the dead and turned to Clementine. He said, “I knew this was going to happen. I thought that you were a little too attached, but this is too far. I know that you are in love with me, and it was my fault to encourage it. So if you leave now, I will not harm you.”

“Walker, please!” Clementine shouted. He was so stupid. How could he not see? And even if he couldn’t, why didn’t he trust her? Behind Walker, the Rotten One’s real face flickered behind the pretty one like a profane candle. Its mouths dripped and teeth gleamed while it waited so it could watch Clementine suffer. Clementine grabbed his face.

Walked twisted Clementine’s wrist up and around behind her head.

“You’ve brought this on yourself,” Walker said while he dragged Clementine to their bags. With his free hand he began tying her wrists with rope.

“Be careful! You don’t know what she can do!” the Rotten One cautioned. “I’ve heard of the terrible things she does to people out here.”

“I know how to bind a witch.”

“Oh, thank goodness,” the Rotten One sighed.

Clementine screamed. She needed to get out now. Walker could die, but whatever the two of them would do to her would be worse. His knots were too good, and the rope was too strong. Once he bound her, she was trapped.

“Watch her,” Walker said to the Rotten One. “If she moves or speaks, shout for me. I’m going to gather some holly. I’ll be right back.”

Clementine sagged against the ropes. She never should have brought him in here.

The burning syrup smell came when the Rotten One’s faces switched. It scurried towards Clementine, falling over its words with excitement.

“We will eat him together we will rip out his eyes and squeeze out the juice and we will tear the meat from his bones to make ribbons for our hair.”

“No, please. I’ve never wronged you,” Clementine begged.

“Yes yes yes.”

The beautiful face drifted back when Clementine heard Walker returning. In his hands was a bushel of horse nettles, not holly.

“We need to bind her to a tree that has deep roots. Like that one.” He pointed to a large yellow tree with great branches that sagged on the ground.

“I can braid that.” The Rotten One pointed to the bushel. “It needs to be a hoop.”

Clementine tried to rise with the ropes around her. The ritual Walker thought of to bind a witch was not what he was doing. He was trying to do to her what the Green Glass King had done to her mother. She needed to run, but Walker dragged her by the ropes to the trunk, tossing her into one of the hollows. Clementine’s eyes watered. She could barely see, but could just make out the Rotten One braiding the nettles and adding snakeroot from the bushes around them. The Rotten One brought it to Walker, and he didn’t even know what he took. He settled it on her head, smiling like some hero. Something old and deep broke inside Clementine; she laughed.

“You’re so smart, to have beaten a monster such as me,” she coughed. The smell of the flowers overwhelmed her. It coiled around her nose like a noose. She remembered the ruined congregation in the belly of a temple, of her mother screaming, of the sickening green and ancient light.

The Rotten One took Walker away, out through the huge looping branches of the tree, away from Clementine, out into the sea of endless dead. All her anger rampaged through her. She couldn’t control herself as she screamed every hateful thing in her heart out into the greasy, uncaring sky. She’d never let herself be so foolish. In the years since her mother’s rebirth, Clementine had never let herself be so weak.

Her skin itched and burned. The nettle and snakeroot hoop smoked, then erupted into a brief, bright flame before crumbling to ash in her hair. As the ashes drifted down, Clementine felt a hunger. The hunger that her mother told her about, the hunger that possessed her mother still.

The heat in her skin blossomed into a hundred, perfect mouths, made to bite and tear, and shredded the ropes. She breathed the scent of Walker’s skin, could taste the iron of his blood on the air. Clementine ran and leapt from tree to tree, shifting her body into other things. Her fingers were longer, stronger. She possessed each place her foot landed. She found Walker, screaming for his mother. He cried no tears. Clementine’s mother hunched over him, her mouths whispering a welcome as she chewed his eyes, and Clementine came down on him. She tore his skin away in long, thick strips. Blood and bile ran out her mouth. Her body had so many hungry mouths, so many teeth; she didn’t want to stop eating.

Host Commentary

Well. This is a chilling one, isn’t it? There’s something strangely compelling about stories like this. What is the true nature of the monster? Is it something natural and untamed? Something that lurks inside all of us, the dark side of our innate potential? Is it something to be feared… or something to give voice to? Walker in this story is an excellent antagonist: he gaslights and disparages Clementine, has no appreciation of her particular expertise beyond how he can profit from it, and manipulates her innocence shamelessly. It’s a very well deserved ending for him in that respect. But oh, the cost is high. Whatever Clementine is now, in all her power and strength and necessity, there isn’t room for humanity or the grace of her own agency any more. Amidst all the hatred and revenge, righteous or otherwise, a small voice that just asked for kindness…is now forever missing.