Ruinous Creatures

I polish the bones, rubbing small swipes of scented oils and soothing ointments into the pale, craggy surfaces of the creatures’ skulls. Their insistent whispered wants echo through my head. I repress a shiver of revulsion.

I remind myself of the honor of my position. Communing with the skulls is a sacred calling. I shouldn’t hate the feeling of their wants flowing through me or be relieved that their voices have grown softer over the years.

Behind me, I hear the cruel scoff of my mentor. “Seventeen years in, and squeamish as ever. The Spinner save us. The day you become matcher will be a bleak one for us all.”

“Especially for you,” I mumble in reply as I rub rosemary and safflower oil along the edge of a long-dead jackalope’s empty eye socket.