Chapter Twenty-Nine: The New Bed

Wade selected a straight thorn branch, cut it to the length of his forearm, used the ice saw to shave away the small thorns on its surface, and flattened one side to make a ruler.

Such frozen tools were nowhere near as durable as metal ones, but the advantage was that Mia could repair them at any time. Whenever the ice saw’s teeth grew dull, Wade would soak it in a small puddle of water, and the little ghost beside him would release her magic. When he took it out again, it was as good as new.

With a ruler and a small knife, Wade began to work on the robe. He measured it with the ruler, then took the knife and made small notches at the sleeves, collar, and hem to mark where to cut, reducing the robe to pieces of cloth of various sizes.

He pulled out the golden threads embroidered with motifs of birds and wreaths, rolling them into a ball. Before removing these distinctive patterns, he made sure to carve their designs for reference. He used the ice knife to engrave them directly onto the ruler—he had already committed their appearance to memory, but, just in case, he carved them so he wouldn’t forget.

With cloth and threads ready, he could finally put his handiwork on display. He planned to make a satchel, mend his old boots, and even craft a small bed for Mia. Considering the raging storms outside made it impossible to go out, he decided to start with the bed.

“Mia, make an ice needle.”

Wade repeated his usual method, drawing the shape of the needle in the dirt. After a round of mental exchange and gestures, the little ghost understood what he wanted. Mia, translucent, drifted down beside the third pit, her frosty white hair floating gently as she released her magic.

With a serious expression, she conjured a crystal-clear ice needle. Wade fished it out of the murky water. If he were alive and warm-blooded, the needle would have melted in his hand after only a few moments. Fortunately, he was a skeleton: his cold bones could wield these ice tools with ease.

He sat down, called Mia to his side, and measured the little one with his ruler. Normally, a standard double bed is two meters long and one and a half meters wide—enough for two adults of average height, or enough space to roll about freely if sleeping alone. Wade scaled down these proportions and carefully measured out the cloth for Mia.

He threaded the needle, sewed a pillowcase and bedding, and nailed two thorn branches into the wall of the cave to make a suspended hammock, about half a meter above the ground. He used the golden threads to fasten the bed, and stuffed the pillow and blanket with scraps left over from cutting the robe. A little weight was enough to keep them from falling—after all, a ghost didn’t need warmth. The bed was more a toy than a necessity.

“Try it out.”

Wade bent over and placed the little ghost on the bed. She glanced about, touched the pillow, and lay down; Wade pulled the tiny quilt over her. She seemed a little shy, burying half her head under the covers.

It felt much like playing house. The little ghost looked like a porcelain doll—so different in appearance from his own sinister skeletal form. Wade scratched his head, wondering if he ought to add a curtain like a mosquito net to the bed.

While he pondered, the little one wriggled out from under the blanket and floated back to Wade’s shoulder, her eyes lingering on the pillow, lost in thought.

“This is your bed,” Wade explained, fearing she still didn’t understand. He carried her back and placed her on the bed again. After several repetitions, comprehension finally dawned on her.

This bed was hers. She could sit or lie on it as she pleased, even jump up and down. She bounced a few times and then looked at Wade.

“This is your bed,” he sent the thought again.

At last, her earlier wariness vanished, and she played on the bed with abandon. Children are always delighted by new toys.

Wade remembered his own first toy—a tiny wooden top with a steel ball at the tip, its string wound round and round the shaft. With a sharp flick, it would spin on the ground. The whip could keep it dancing for as long as he liked. Now, looking back, it seemed such a simple thing, yet he played with it alone until nightfall, completely losing track of time in his joy. That kind of happiness had become rare.

“I hope you like your little bed,” Wade murmured, stroking the little one’s hair. Only when he touched Mia did he feel as though he were touching something real.

Mia seemed to love her tiny bed. She rolled and jumped, but stopped when Wade petted her.

She drifted to Wade’s face, wrapped her arms around his skull, and nuzzled his forehead. Joy, gratitude, and peace—those gentle emotions flowed from her, brightening Wade’s mood and making the cramped, stuffy cave seem less dreary.

...

Five days later.

Wade snipped off the last length of golden thread and tied a firm knot. He smoothed the wrinkles from the fabric and lifted the newly made satchel, inspecting it for loose seams or gaps. The opening used a drawstring: pull it open to fill, tighten it and tie a knot to keep things secure. Inside, he’d sewn a small pouch for seeds, mainly as a hiding place for the little ghost; if the wind picked up outside, she could be tucked safely away.

He had repaired his old boots as well. About two-thirds of the robe’s cloth had been used, with the rest put away for future needs.

It was the sixty-second day. The wind outside had lessened but still howled, making it impossible to leave. The transplanted moss was thriving; Wade watered it daily, and it showed no signs of wilting—proof it could adapt to the cave’s environment.

Mia was still asleep on her bed, peacefully nestled under her blanket. Ever since the hammock had been mended, she no longer slept in Wade’s palm, but now lay curled up on her own little bed like a human girl.

The little ghost’s sleep grew longer and longer, perhaps because she was close to fully absorbing Sweyn’s soul—the surging soul energy forced her into deep rest for better assimilation.

It seemed the time was near.

Wade sensed that today would be the day he finally crushed that lingering memory. He had memorized every move of the Viking; fighting the same opponent for so long, there was little more to gain.

It was time to end it.

He hung the satchel on the wall, lay down, and drifted into a dream.

For the one thousand three hundred and sixty-third time, he picked up his knight’s sword and launched his assault on Sweyn.