An Exchange of Icons

The Jay stared long and hard at the body before her. The rains had not come. The farmer’s crop had failed. She had fed her children before herself. She had starved. The Jay continued to stare. Her tears alone could not sustain the dry stalks that pushed out of the cracked earth. 
The Rook came for the farmer’s soul. He arrived later than usual. It had been a busy season. The body was unburied. He sighed, then saw his sister. 
“Had she no family to bury her?” he asked.
“I sent the children away,” she answered. “Their last memories of her are of her kindness, not her death.” 
“That is… best, I think. So it is. Lend me your spade, if you will, Sister.” Wordlessly, she handed it over. He took it and passed her his flask. For a while he dug silently. She stood motionless. Eventually, he spoke again, the rasp of his voice complementing the sound of metal on earth. 
“Your spade is of excellent make. The work is made easier.” The Jay only nodded. “I could use a solid spade like this,” he continued. “The dead do not bury themselves, and sometimes their people cannot do it for them. When it then falls to me, my tools are ill-suited.” 
“I use it less now than I did. The people have learned to carve their own furrows. Only… they cannot cause rain to fall on their tilled fields. Nor can I.” She trailed off into silence, and took a drink from his flask, only to raise her eyebrows in surprise. 
“Brother Death, is your flask full of water?” she asked, almost reproachful. “I would have expected a stronger drink in these times.”
“Sister, it contains nothing but the liquid you most desire.” To prove his point, he took the flask and from it threw several splashes of floral perfume onto the farmer’s body. He handed it back to the Jay, who looked into the opening of the flask. She could see only shadow within. 
“Brother, does your flask ever run dry?” 
“Never, no matter how much I drink from it.” She nodded, lost in thought. He piled earth over the body. He looked like he’d been using the spade since time began, his motions smooth and effortless. She watched him work until he was done. He muttered a few words in his quiet way, the scratchy sound of his whispers lost to the dry wind. As he turned to leave, she put a hand on his shoulder. 
“We could trade, Brother,” she said, a hint of desperation in her voice. “My spade for your flask.”
“I admit I am fond of this flask, and the drink within.” He gazed for a moment at the delicate etchings in the metal. “But it would make my life easier to carry a spade that is so wieldy in the hands.”
“You are welcome to partake of it anytime our paths cross. But in my hands it will allow me to bring the rains when they are needed, and avoid such needless deaths.” The Rook laughed a little.
“Less work for me,” he said. “Less grim work.” 
Having agreed, the items changed hands. Forever after, the spade was the symbol of the Rook, the eldest, the gravedigger. Forever after, the flask was the symbol of the Jay, the youngest, the raindancer. Only the very observant ever noticed that her flask was carved not only with living trees, but also with bleached bones, and that the runes spelled out not her name, but her brother’s.
Category:Events
Category:Works