Take the clay. Soften it well with Stygian water. Form it into the shape of a man.
Pause for a moment and think about your place in history, think about how the Titan Prometheus did just this, so long ago, to make the race of Man.
Well, not quite this.
Take one Unburied. Don't use force. Be gentle. You need his loyalty. Tell him you will make it worth his while. Tell him you are going to change things.
Show him the corpse of clay.
Tell the Unburied to lie down. Right inside it. It won't hurt a bit.
Watch as the clay embraces his shadowy form.
Now take an urn of ram's blood. Pour it over the body. Don't be shy. Drench the clay.
Say the magic words.
Wait.
Wait…
Purse your lips.
Think.
Take an urn of human blood. Pour it over the body. Drench the clay. Don't be shy.
Say the magic words.
Wait.
Wait…
Purse your lips.
Think.
Raise up your arm.
Mutter a few words.
Let the skin on your arm open, then the vein, and let your own blood, your half-demon-half-god blood, drip over the clay form.
Say the magic words.
Wait…
There!
Behold.
A limb twitches. And again. Clay skin adheres to clay bone. Unburied spirit relaxes into molded form. Fingers wriggle. Eyes open. Mouth. He blinks up at you, you nod, and he slowly lifts his body out from the ground that birthed him. Clay falls from him. He stands, he looks his body up and down. Feet. Shins. Knees. Thighs. Hips. Stomach, chest, shoulders, arms… it's all there. He is a man, or something very like a man. His body seems to stretch before your eyes, the stocky frame becomes too tall now, too thin, soon he stands as tall as you do, you, his master, but he looks as though you could break him with a glance. His death-white skin stretches tautly over his frame. His face is like a white clay skull. His eyes are yellowed, like memory. His lips are gray and scaly.
Well, you say, looking him up and down.
And then you make more.
Soon you have twelve- a good number, an Olympian number-and you line them up, one by one, murmuring to them, murmuring to yourself. You have twelve, all identical, except for the letter of the alphabet you carve into each of their foreheads to signify the order they were made. You have twelve of them in front of you, their clay skin crackling, their every bone painted in shadow, and you hold your arms out magnanimously and say:
My children. My people. How beautiful you are.
We are one, you and I. We are the same.
We are citizens of Exile, and I am your leader.
Together we will make a Kingdom.
But we will not be content to stay here, for we must take back what has been denied to us.
Soon we will rule the Underworld.
But we need an army. And you are going to help me get it.
Their eyes drink in your meaning. You survey them up and down. Your eyebrow arches. You clear your throat. You clap your hands together and say:
Right … let's get you some clothes, shall we?
CHAPTER 11
THE MORNING AFTER HIS GRANDMOTHER'S DEATH ZEE woke up feeling odd. This was to be expected-his grandmother had just died, and her death had been an unwelcome intruder in dream after restless dream the night before. So when he awoke, he found himself feeling achy and exhausted. He was torn between letting sleep carry him off again and trying to shake it off and face the day. But if he fell asleep, he'd eventually have to wake up and remember all over again that Grandmother Winter was dead.
Zee decided that once was enough. He rubbed his eyes and stretched in the bed. He sat up. As soon as he was upright, a wave of dizziness flooded over him. His eyes filled with black, then the whole world seemed to go black, and he lay back down again. He exhaled, squeezed his eyes closed, and slowly sat up.
Much better.
He yawned, stretched, and stood…
And had to sit down again.
After a few minutes of steady breathing Zee managed to get up without any more problems, though his muscles still felt like dried-out clay. And his chest was filled with a burning, hollow feeling that was not remotely physical.
Eventually Zee made it to breakfast, where, once again, his grandmother was not. His mother was there, sitting in the big green easy chair in the living room, wrapped in an afghan and staring off at nothing. She gave Zee a long hug and touched his cheek. Zee made his way into the kitchen, feeling his muscles protest a little. His father was scrubbing some pots in the kitchen sink.
"Hey," he said gently "Can I make you something?"
"Sure," Zee said.
Mr. Miller opened the fridge and took out a big pack of sausages and some eggs. He poured a tall glass of orange juice and brought it over to Zee, squeezing his shoulder softly. Zee drank the juice down.
"How're you holding up?" his dad asked quietly.
Zee shrugged. His dad sat down at the table and put his arm around him. They sat for a moment, and his father seemed about to say something but then stopped when he noticed Zee's face. "You know," he said, "you look awfully pale… are you feeling all right? I mean physically…"
"Yeah, um… I feel a little off today"
"Well," Mr. Miller said, standing up, "let's get you a nice big breakfast, shall we?"
After breakfast (eggs and many, many sausages, which did help Zee feel better) his father sat down and talked to him gently about what would happen next. There would be a small funeral on Friday in Exeter. Afterward Mr. and Mrs. Miller would stay for a week or two to tie everything up. It would be a lot of work, and Zee could go back to London after the funeral if he wanted.
Zee did not want. He wanted to stay.
Summer was over for Zee in July, replaced by the strange season of mourning. Zee quit the football club-he walked to training on Monday to tell them, cutting through the university fields by unconscious habit and not even noticing that he was looking away-and spent his days helping his parents pack up Grandmother Winter's house. There was no way he could play anymore, and he'd be leaving in a couple weeks anyway. But a few of his friends from the club came to the funeral, dressed in suits that had been hastily shipped from their homes all over the West Country. Zee thought that it was pretty great of them to come. More would have been there, his friend Ben told him, but some of the guys on the team were sick.
"I've been feeling weird myself," said Zee. "Dizzy"
"Naw", said Ben, "this is something more. They've got it bad. Flat on their backs. Totally useless to the club now. Gits. Plus we've lost our best forward!" Ben nudged Zee.
"The best if you don't count the other four," Zee said.
"Well, yeah," grinned Ben. "That's what I meant."
Zee thanked them all profusely for coming and promised to come by training before he left. He got invitations from three boys to stay with them next summer so he could play with the club again. He told them he'd think about it, but he didn't mean it. As much as he liked the club, summer in Exeter would not be summer in Exeter without Grandmother Winter.
"Hey," Ben said, "some of us are going to the Grecians game tomorrow. I don't know if you can, but…"
Zee inhaled sharply. He had entirely forgotten about Samantha Golton. He couldn't watch the match, not now. But he had no way of contacting Samantha to let her know; he had no idea where she was staying.
"Can't," he said. "But listen, will you…" He trailed off. He couldn't just send Ben to give her a message. That would be… ill mannered. His gran had taught him better than that. He would have to meet Sam himself, tell her himself. He'd meet her, send her off to watch the match, then go straight home. "You say hi to everyone for me."