Meridian Gravesight's Arc

Chapter 3 of 6

The farmer stood at the edge of the field with three men behind him. One held a shovel. One held a pitchfork. The third held nothing, and that one worried Meridian most. A man with empty hands had come to watch. "My cows won't cross the road," the farmer said again, louder. "My well is bitter. My boy woke up crying two nights running." He pointed at the ground. "Whatever you buried, dig it up. Or we will." Meridian stepped between him and the field. Her teeth throbbed where eleven fresh spirits waited to be settled. If the men turned earth here, they would tear open marked graves and scatter the ones already laid. Every soul she had placed would walk again. "Give me one hour," she said. "You've had a week." "One hour. If the well is still bitter after, I'll leave the hill myself." The farmer spat. "One hour." Meridian ran to the church. Riley Thorne was inside with the bass across her lap. Beside her sat a dark-haired woman Meridian had not met, drumsticks in one hand, a granola wrapper in the other. Riley Crash. Riley Thorne had said a drummer might come. Meridian had not expected her today. "The farmer wants to dig," Meridian said. "We have an hour." Riley Crash stood. "Where." "His well. It's downhill of the field. If the graves are pushing bitterness into his water, we have to pull the hum back." Riley Thorne shook her head. "Bass carries in dirt. It won't pull. It only prints." The drummer walked past them into the nave. She stopped at an old cabinet Luna had pried open the day before. Inside sat a record player Meridian had thought was junk. Runes ran along its edge. A blue record leaned against it, waves cut into the vinyl. "This yours?" Riley Crash asked. "It was here." Riley Crash set the record on the turntable. "Water listens to water. If your ground is leaking into his well, this pulls the sound back up through the field, not down." She dropped the needle. A low tone rolled out. Meridian's teeth went cold, then quiet. The ache in the field lifted, drawn up into the air like steam. Riley Thorne braced her bass and matched the tone. The two sounds locked. Meridian ran downhill to the farmer's well. He was already there, bucket in hand. He drew it up. He sniffed. He drank. He stared at her. "Sweet," he said. He set the bucket down slowly. His men lowered their tools. The farmer wiped his mouth on his sleeve. "One week," he said. "You keep it sweet, you keep your field. It turns again, we come back with more than three." Meridian nodded. She climbed back up the hill. The record was still turning. Eleven spirits waited in the grass. And the sound, she understood now, would have to keep playing.