by Trevor Creighton
Something had gone wrong. They had been warned of the curse but had purchased the bones anyway. Five coins and two sheep had been the price. They’d thought themselves pretty smart. The shaman had blessed their endeavor.
But the curse hadn’t been sedated and the bones turned black on the third night. Black with ants crawling all over them as they grew softer. Those who attended the bones were in turn cursed by the buyer when parts began to fall off. Stringy, sticky parts, not the dry, clean breaks expected when bones come apart. The attendants received rushes of energy but found it ever more difficult to stand till their eyes were left moving energetically as their bodies remained still. This was the curse, and when the buyer started tasting the sweetness, a symptom reported by his attendants, the bones were returned.
They were buried and prayed over. A hasty wooden church was erected on the site to ensure constant prayer, and the buyer became the priest. A priest who dressed in white and removed all sweet things from the diet — sweetness being cursed and dryness being exulted. Water was drank, sparingly, and the people began to adorn the church with riches, which attracted raiders, who learned of the curse after taking the gold and returned to claim the buried bones. It was a silly mistake. Their camp became the second sacred site.
The priest continued to pray with his parched tongue but refused all treasure, and slowly the church was rebuilt in stone.
Trevor Creighton is a strange little creature who creates worlds at whim, often leaving them unfinished and unprotected as it travels from here to there.