Bearing Bones

“Is that guy… is he… carrying a bag of bones?”

“I–I think so. You can see some sticking out the top.”

“What the devil is he doing that for?”

Yes. I’m the guy carrying a bag of bones. It ain’t easy you know. After about four sets, this things gets overwhelmingly heavy. But, it’s my job, so I do it.

What do I do with the bones?

Well, what would you do with the bones?

I’m not a grave robber. I’m not. These bones? I come by them honestly. I swear I do. I’m not a killer and I’m not a psycho. These bones are just that important. They’re so important that someone has to come and collect them everyday. They sort through the trash and the dead and they collect them into one big pile.

Then I take them.

In a city this big, it’s nice. You never run out of bones. Some are chicken bones, some dog bones, some cow bones, some are the bones from last night’s dinner. I won’t lie, some are human, but those are few and far between. But the bones are important.

Why?

Do you know what lurks under every city? No, probably not. Very few do. It’s the natural order of things, and yet, so few people know about it.

The Polithizo.

Every city has one. Gather more than forty thousand or so in one place, a Polithizo shows up. In most cases, they hide under their city. Or, in places that are at sea-level, they have a den nearby. But it’s always the same.

A Polithizo wants one thing and one thing only.

And it’ll do whatever it has to do to get what it wants.

Bet you get it now, don’t you? Why I carry this bag of bones. Bet you know what a Polithizo wants. Why the bones are so important.

Bet you’re only half right.

You remember those cities that went missing? Those weird ones like Atlantis and stuff? Those legends about whole peoples just falling off the face of the planet without warning or sign?

Polithizos.

That’s why my job is so important. That’s why I ignore the stares, the shocked looks, the fact that I’m shunned. Because none of it matters. What matters? Protecting the people. That’s my job.

Really, I shouldn’t even be telling you about them. Polithizos, I mean. You’re not supposed to know. Nobody is. You want to talk about widespread panic? Talk about a Polithizo. Actually, show people a Polithizo. Nobody believes when you talk about them. But if you show them? Yeah, that’s a recipe for panic.

Today, my bag is full of bones. Tons of bones. At least ten sets, and I haven’t even collected half of the bones that they’ve gathered today.

The Polithizo will be pleased.

I wind my way down into the sewers, through all the most common tunnels to the ones that hardly anybody uses.

Then I find the door.

It isn’t big, but it is locked. Inputting the correct code, the door beeps and I’m through.

Some more walking.

This job is mostly walking. Collecting and walking and delivering. I’m a footman, nothing more.

But it means life and death for these people.

And they don’t even know it.

The chamber is dimly lit by torches.

An old relic of a tradition that all Polithizos carry. They hate electricity. Despise it. Anything new or advanced. Honestly, I think it scares them. Or they simply find no use for it. Or maybe it annoys them because without it, we’d be more focused on appeasing the strange creatures’ appetites and desires.

Like humanity used to be.

Truthfully, I’m one of the blessed footmen. My Polithizo doesn’t have a temper. Doesn’t care for bones that still have meat. Doesn’t try to attack me. He’s rather dull, all in all, and he simply accepts my offerings with a nod and a look.

It could be much worse.

He hears me enter the chamber and stands, waiting for my offering.

His standing is an acceptance. As if he’s a king waiting for his servant to cow before him.

I do.

Bowing, I set the bag of bones on the ground and dispel its contents. White and stained and old bones scatter before me, spilling out everywhere. There are small bones and big bones and bones that are somewhere in between.

It pleases the Polithizo.

They’re hard to read. Not because of their monstrous height, but because of their faces. It’s sort of like a mule mixed with a monkey. It’s furry and strange, and the protruding tusks don’t help any. But, after doing this for so long, I think I kind of get him.

The Polithizo says nothing, but nods.

I back away, still in a bow.

I try to keep my eyes from going to his collection of bones, but I can’t help it.

Surrounding the Polithizo are bones.

He doesn’t sit on a throne of bones. The ones closest to him are his snack pile. The ones that litter the walls of the tunnel are the shiniest, the brightest, the whitest bones he’s been given. Every Polithizo has a wall of bones behind it. Probably, it’s like a crowning jewel for them, to have such a nice collection of bones. The worse ones are eaten while they arrange the prettier ones in different styles and shapes on their walls.

So macabre.

“More is to come,” I say quietly.

My voice bounces off the tunnel walls softly. Polithizo’s hate loud noises.

The creature grunts.

As I exit, still in a bow, I’m relieved.

Just because I do this every day doesn’t mean it stops being a daunting task. Because it’s still very, very terrifying. Knowing that you’re trying to appease a monster that could smash you flat in between the time you close your eye for a blink and the moment you open it, it’s unnerving. No matter how many times you do it, you’re still scared.

Exiting the tunnel is the easy part.

Usually.

Today, I’m presented with a challenge.

There’s a small boy here. Hiding in plain sight, right in front of the door.

Oh.

This is not good.

No one but the officials, the bone searchers and the Bone Bearer are supposed to know about Polithizos.

Oh no.

The boy is shaking, curled up on himself. I bend down to get a better look at him.

He’s small right now. Probably not older than ten. Scrawny. But that can always be fixed. And he’s dirty. I don’t know if he’s an orphan, a runaway, or a curious boy who happens to be very good at landing in mud, but he’s definitely covered in it.

His brown eyes are large disks as he stares at the Polithizo behind me.

“Wha…”

He’s so scared his question can’t form.

I chuckle under my breath.

“What’s your name boy?” I whisper.

He swallows hard.

“Tim.”

“Tim? Well Tim, congratulations.”

Still shaking, he can only manage to ask, “Why?”

I chuckle again and pat his shoulder. “You’ve just earned yourself an apprenticeship.”

“A… what?”

I grin at him.

“You’re the next Bone Bearer, boy. Let’s go, I’ve got a lot to show you.”