Thousands of years ago, before the Order of the Shrike and before the Order of the Crane, when the art of storytelling and story listening was still celebrated and the dead were honored, the souls that had died during the previous twelve months would come to life one last time on the night of Toussaint to eat, drink, and dance with the living—a grand celebration of life together with death. Although the stories and dead heroes were forgotten, the tradition of the living dressing up to spend an evening with the dead was still celebrated.
Even now, on Stauros Island, Toussaint was the only night students were allowed to stay out past midnight. It also happened to be the only time the school opened its doors to the outside world. As a gesture of goodwill to the people on the mainland, the school had a tradition of inviting them to the costume soiree. The only obstacle that stood in their way was how to cross the Stauros Sea after the tide came in. The school never offered a ferry, and all the boats docked on the mainland belonged to fishermen who couldn’t care less about attending a party thrown by elite snobs. As a result, hardly anyone from the surrounding villages ever came to the grand fete.
However, the mainlanders were never missed. The phantoms readily took their places, for Toussaint was the only time of year the phantoms could mingle with the students without looking conspicuous. Toussaint also happened to be the only night when the keeper of the graveyard and the collector of dead souls, Ankou, took a holiday. Ankou was an unsocial phantom and never sought the company of others. He was always present in the cemetery but preferred to be hidden among the dust and shadows. Although nothing out of the ordinary ever happened in the Forgotten Cemetery, none of the other phantoms was willing to cover Ankou’s duties the night of Toussaint, since they all wanted to attend the celebration. After the night the phantoms first saw me with Drev, one of them suggested that I fill in for Ankou, since I never went to the celebration. However, I had no intention of taking on the role of the grim reaper that night, or ever.
When the sun had completely disappeared below the horizon, I wanted to make myself scarce. I had climbed down from the roof of Stauros Hall and was hoping to take a back-road trail to avoid running into any students or phantoms. The day had overwhelmed me with urgency, disappointment, and hopelessness. By sunset, my mind seemed to have become an oversaturated sponge, and I was desperate to go to a secluded place and release all that I had soaked up.
“Hugh!” A voice like the winds of a hurricane hit me as I crossed through the Forgotten Cemetery.
I turned and saw a dark figure sitting in the driver’s seat of a fifteenth-century, blue-gray wood cart drawn by a skeleton horse. At first I couldn’t recognize the character, and studied him for several seconds. Only when he withdrew his gigantic scythe did I realize I was facing Ankou.
The threadbare shreds of his gray wool cape fluttered in the wind. His wide-brimmed black hat covered his face in shadow. The iron blade of his scythe curved over his head, reflecting a malicious gleam from the light of the full moon. I was surprised he’d said my name, for I had thought he never spoke—at least, in all my time on the island, I had never heard him speak.
“Ankou!” I managed a smile. “Enjoy the evening!”
I kept walking, hurrying to avoid him. I already knew what he wanted to ask. Unfortunately for me, Ankou was quick. He whipped his horse, and in a flash his ghastly mare was flaring her nostrils a few centimeters from my face. I looked up as he slid off the driver’s seat and walked over to me. There was no room for escape.
I had heard many stories about Ankou, none of them pleasant. I decided to spare both of us any exchange of explanations or odd silences and surrendered to his assumed request. “All right, Ankou. I’ll stay in the Forgotten Cemetery until dawn and look after the graveyard for you. I wanted to have a quiet evening anyhow, and I suppose there’s no better place on the island than this graveyard.”
I expected him to turn back to his cart and ride off, satisfied that everything had gone smoothly. So I was appalled when he pointed to my cassock with his scythe. He then pointed to his own grisly rags. The message was clear—the grim reaper wanted to dress up as me.
“Are you joking? You want to wear this to the party tonight?” I asked, pointing to my cassock. “While I wear your clothes?”
He was still, and I interpreted his response as a yes.
I let out a long sigh and looked up at the sky. I turned back to Ankou when I heard him stomp the butt of his scythe into the earth out of impatience. I didn’t see any way out of the predicament, and his scythe looked more menacing by the minute. Even though I was dead, a swift swipe from him would have me hemorrhaging with pain until morning. I conceded.
Ankou took off his cape and then his hat. Upon seeing his face for the first time, I winced and gasped with horrified awe. I saw a blue-purple, bloated blob with worms and pus pouring out of the dozen holes that riddled it.
“My cassock has a hood,” I coughed, preventing myself from gagging outright. “You better wear it.”