The Last Day of Autumn

This is the opening of a short story published in the collection Noir, edited by David B. Coe and John Zakour.

Edurne was down on the docks, mediating a dispute between a working gang and the Captain of the Everbright, so she didn’t hear about the arrest of Kerbasi the tailor until after the Inquisition had dragged him away. She was shaking Captain El Hammami's hand and feeling good about herself when the Captain pointed over her shoulder and Edurne turned to see a small child, breathless and sobbing, running toward them. It was Kerbasi's niece, Osane-txo, the youngest daughter of Yera and Johann. Edurne's satisfaction curdled into cold fear.

Osane stumbled to a halt in front of Edurne and clutched at her trousers, burying her face in the worn canvas and letting out a long wail. Edurne patted her on the head and let her cry. It took a lot of coaxing and three pieces of anise candy before Osane was calm enough to tell the story.

“They just came in and dragged him away,” she said, hiccuping a bit, “and they turned the whole house upside down and broke Auntie Alis’ best vase. They went down into the cellar and found something. Um, I don’t remember the word—”

“An altar?” Edurne said, hoping she was wrong.

Osane nodded.

 “Yes. They took it outside, smashed it up and burned it.”

Edurne rose out of her crouch with a sigh, running a hand over her forehead and through her thick curls. She wanted to swear, but Johann, Osane’s father, wouldn’t be best pleased if his daughter came home with a new word in her vocabulary.

She took Osane home, then crossed two streets over to Kerbasi's house. The tailor lived—had lived—with his wife, Alis, who opened the door as soon as Edurne's knuckles grazed it.

“Buruza,” Alis said, and bowed slightly. Buruza was an old title. It had meant something once, in a time and place Edurne never knew first-hand. Being the central hub of the community wheel had been a commitment and a promise, an honorable undertaking. There was no honor in Russhafen that was not financial or imperial, but the Gizatalde still yearned for it, and so Edurne did her best to meet their desire, to give the role what little shine she could.

“Alis. I came as soon as I heard.” Edurne rested her hand on Alis's shoulder for a moment, then ducked under the lintel into the house. It was as bad as Osane-txo had said. Yera, Kerbasi’s sister, sat at the table, her head in her hands. She and Alis must have cleaned up what they could, but that only made the devastation clearer. Cupboards shattered, floorboards splintered, curtains and cushions ripped to shreds. The Inquisition had come upon this place with all the terrible power of their God behind them and had left not a piece of it untouched.

“I’ll send some lads over later,” Edurne said heavily. “Help you set this right.”

“Thank you,” Alis said. Yera remained silent, her body clenched into one tight fist.

“Do you know how they found out?”

Alis shook her head. “No idea. Edurne, don’t go prying. The damage is done now. What good can the truth do?”

“Protect others, who might still be trusting a snake.” Edurne said. “I’ll keep the worst of it from you, if I can. But the community will be relying on me to have answers.”

Alis nodded reluctantly. “If it must be so.”

“It must.” Edurne sat at the table. Yera unfolded just enough to pour some tea and set it in front of Edurne, sliding a little dish of bilberry jam across the table with it. Even now, when everything in their lives was falling apart, they would not forget the niceties.

She got them to talk her through exactly what had happened, but the account was not much more helpful than what she already knew. Most Gizatalde had a little altar to one or two of the old gods somewhere in their house. Demons, the Inquisition called them. But to the Gizatalde they were a connection to things they had lost, to the old homeland. Knowing the risks, they worshipped anyway. Edurne was not surprised Kerbasi had taken that risk. Surely he must have thought, “It's so unlikely to be me they catch,” and for forty years, he had been right. Now he was gone and neither Alis nor Yera would see him again this side of the dark river. He would be sent to the mines or offered the option of an honorable death at his own hand if the priests thought it better to silence him quickly. Officially, the Inquisition never killed. But their hands still dripped with blood.

“Did Kerbasi do anything different recently?” Edurne asked carefully. “Not to set the blame on his shoulders, just to know where I should look first.” She had not noticed anything herself. Kerbasi was like the rest of the Gizatalde. He lived where they did, in the streets between Mondstrasse and Breul. He drank in the same pub, made clothes for his neighbors and anyone else who cared to give him coin. 

“Well,” Alis said, “there was the fortune-teller.”

Edurne raised an eyebrow.

“You’ve probably seen her around,” Yera said. “Little Vastan woman, long hair. She’s been hanging out in Kastanieplatz, rolling dice for passers-by.”

Edurne caught a memory of her with that description. “Was Kerbasi interested in fortune telling?”

 Alis shrugged. “We all went to her once. It was a novelty. She’s very good. Kerbasi liked her enough to go back.”

Edurne nodded. Not much of a lead, but somewhere to start. She stood up. “My thoughts to you in your grief. May it be a short winter of the heart.”

“And spring come again soon,” Yera answered automatically.

At the door, Edurne stopped, turned. “Who was it for? The altar?”

She expected them to say the god of weaving, or perhaps the god of costumes. “The god of sunrises,” Alis said, and her smile shook like a loose tile in a winter storm.

More samples available on request.