Coffin-Born

I am a coffin-born child. A local seer read my fate and declared I was born under a shadowed moon, unlikely to survive my eighth winter. If I was to have any hope of a long life, I needed a patron—a guardian to shelter me from the darkness that clung to my soul. On the day I turned one month old, my father was to follow the seer's instructions to the letter. He was to hold me, his eyes squeezed shut, and walk from our doorstep, scattering a trail of ash and salt with every step. After one hundred paces, he was to open his eyes. The first thing he saw, whatever it was, would become my guardian. That day, as my father stepped out into the world with me in his arms, the heavens seemed to curdle. A freak storm had swollen the river, and the torrent had torn a chunk out of the old hillside cemetery, dislodging the ancient graves. He walked his hundred paces. When he opened his eyes, he was staring at a casket. A massive, blood-red casket, bobbing silently in the floodwater before him. 1 My name is Luna. I was born on the fifteenth of July, a night of the full moon, hence the name. The old-timers in our town, Blackwood Creek, sometimes call me "Half-Moon," a grim little joke I wouldn't understand until much later. My mother’s labor was a nightmare. It ended with her death. It should have been my death, too. The town midwife, a woman who’d seen more than her share of sorrow, warned my father that the spirit of a woman who dies in childbirth is a restless, vengeful thing. A mother and child lost together? That was a curse of the highest order. She insisted my mother be laid in her coffin immediately and moved to the old parish morgue on the outskirts of town. But in the dead of night, I clawed my way out of my mother’s womb. Old Man Silas, the part-time caretaker of the morgue, was nursing a bottle of cheap whiskey when he heard an infant's cry coming from inside the coffin. The sound sobered him up faster than a slap to the face. He was sure it was a ghost. My father was the fourth son in his family, so everyone just called him "Four." Silas, his hands trembling, called out into the gloom. "Martha, lass… whatever I did to you, it’s not on me! Don't you be havin' a go at an old man!" he stammered. "You… you leave me be! I'll burn some extra candles for you, how about that?" He lit candles and incense, but the baby’s cries only grew stronger, more insistent. A thought struck Silas. Could it be… Martha ain't dead? He scrambled to pry open the coffin lid. There I was, nestled between my mother’s legs, slick with blood and still attached to the afterbirth. "A corpse… giving birth?" Silas was so stunned he forgot to even pick me up. He just grabbed his lantern and sprinted through the dark towards our house. "Thomas! Thomas, open up!" he hollered, banging on the door. "It's your wife! Your Martha… she's had the baby!" My father, my grandparents, and half the neighbors were in our small house, making grim preparations for a funeral. When they heard Silas screaming that my dead mother had given birth, a fresh wave of fear washed over them. "Silas, what nonsense are you spouting?" one of the neighbors called out. "We carried Martha to the morgue ourselves not five hours ago!" "Yeah, you've had too much to drink, old man. The dead don't have babies." "Wait a minute," another voice whispered. "They say on a full moon in July, the veil is thin. What if that ain't really Silas at the door? What if it's a spirit?" The suggestion hung in the air, chilling everyone to the bone. My father’s voice shook. "Uncle Silas… it's not that we don't believe you, but… can you prove it's really you? How do we know you're not… something else?" Silas, a respected elder in our small community, was furious. "You listen here, you little punk!" he roared. "When you were four years old, you fell into the septic tank! If I hadn't been passing by to pull you out, you'd still be in there eating shit! You think I'd lie about something this big? Your wife had the baby!" My father’s face relaxed slightly. "It's really him," he breathed, and unbolted the door. But his anxiety returned in a rush. "Uncle, are you saying Martha… she’s not dead?" Silas’s expression softened with pity. "The mother's gone, son. But there's a little one in that coffin, and she's crying her lungs out. I thought I was seeing things, but I swear on my life, there's a baby in there." "Come on," he urged. "No more talk. Let's go." The sheer impossibility of it all—a baby born from a corpse—overwhelmed their fear with a morbid curiosity. A procession of a dozen people, armed with lanterns and torches made from split bamboo, made their way to the morgue. By the time they arrived, my cries had weakened to faint whimpers. Acting on pure instinct, I had crawled up my mother's body and was suckling at her breast. When the townsfolk opened the coffin, that was the sight that greeted them. Me, nursing from my dead mother, whose eyes were wide open, as if she couldn't rest until she knew I was safe. My grandmother gasped and quickly lifted me out. "She really did it… I thought the baby was gone with her." She gently reached down and closed my mother’s eyes. "Rest now, Martha," she whispered. "I swear I'll raise this child right. You can go in peace." My father fell to his knees beside the coffin, his forehead hitting the wooden floor. "Martha… you gave your life for her. I'll raise our daughter, I swear it. I'll never take another wife. You can rest now." And with that, my mother's eyes finally stayed closed. Father Michael, the local man of the cloth who’d been brought in to perform the last rites, pushed through the crowd. "Quickly, is it a boy or a girl?" My grandmother, having just cut the umbilical cord and wrapped me in her shawl, looked up. "A girl, Father. Why?" Father Michael’s brow furrowed. "Born on the fifteenth of July, at the third stroke of midnight. Her birth signs are all shadowed, and being a girl only deepens the connection to that darkness." He ticked off points on his fingers. "She was born in a coffin, from a body that had passed. She's been touched by death. It will be a miracle if she survives." He paused, his eyes grave. "Her eighth year… there will be a great trial, a calamity that will seek to claim her." "What?" My father, who had loved my mother since they were teenagers, was already broken by her death. The thought of losing me too was more than he could bear. He scrambled forward, grabbing at the priest's robes. "Father! You have to save my daughter! She's all I have left of Martha! If anything happens to her, how can I ever face my wife in the afterlife?" Father Michael stroked his beard. "Get up, son. There is a way. But you must do exactly as I say…" 2 After a week of prayers and rituals, my father laid my mother to rest. Then, on the day I turned one month old, he began the ritual Father Michael had prescribed. He held me close, his eyes squeezed shut, and started walking from our front door, leaving a trail of ash and salt behind him. The seer had been clear: one hundred steps. No more, no less. When he opened his eyes, the first thing he saw would be my patron, my guardian, whose spiritual strength I could borrow to survive. He had barely taken a few steps when the sky darkened, and a fierce wind whipped through the valley. It snatched the ashes from his hand, sending them swirling like a swarm of gray butterflies. The river beside the path was raging, and in the distance, he could hear shouts. Something about a landslide, a mudslide, the old cemetery on the hill collapsing. Temptation gnawed at him. He wanted to open his eyes, to see what was happening, but Father Michael’s warning echoed in his mind. Not until the hundredth step. He gritted his teeth and pushed on. He walked, wondering what he would see. A tree? A stone? Please, not a toad… Just as he took the hundredth step, I let out a happy gurgle in his arms. My father opened his eyes. And there it was. A massive, blood-red casket, carried by the churning river, had drifted to a stop right in front of him. It was uncanny. The coffin had been moving with the current, but as it drew level with my father, it simply… stopped. He stood there, clutching me, a cold sweat breaking out on his forehead. His first instinct was to turn and run. But then he remembered the seer’s words: The first thing you see. For my sake, for the promise he’d made to my mother, he took a deep breath. He bowed his head, holding me out towards the crimson coffin. "To whoever rests within," he began, his voice shaking. "I don't know your name… but our meeting here must be fate. My daughter… she has had a hard start. Her mother is gone. The seer said she needs a patron, a guardian to borrow strength from, just to live. I'm asking you… please, be my daughter's guardian." It was a coffin washed down from the old hills, who knew how old it was, what ancestor it held. But he was desperate. He would take the chance. He never expected a response. But as the words left his lips, the piece of red paper with my birth details, tucked into my swaddling, fluttered up and landed softly on the coffin lid. Slowly, the lid began to slide open. A figure sat up inside. It was a woman, dressed in a magnificent, blood-red gown, a coronet of black jet and pearl on her head. Her face was as pale as porcelain, but her lips were the color of fresh blood. Her eyes, dark and intelligent, were unnervingly alive, and a strange, knowing smile played on her lips. Those eyes held a power that rooted my father to the spot, his legs turning to jelly. Then, she spoke, her voice a low, melodic hum that seemed to echo from another time. "If it is fate, then so be it. This child shall be my goddaughter." She looked at me. "Born on the half-moon of July? We shall call her Half-Moon. Easy to remember." My father stared, his mind reeling. "You… what are you? A person or a ghost?" The woman's smile widened. She rose from the coffin, not climbing, but floating, landing weightlessly on the muddy bank before him. She looked down at him, her presence overwhelming. A long, crimson fingernail, sharp as a talon, gently traced the line of my jaw. "Neither person," she purred, "nor ghost." Her eyes glinted. "I am… a corpse." "Aaaah!" A terrified scream tore from my father's throat, but his body was frozen, as if encased in concrete. His hands trembled so violently he could barely hold me. The woman reached out and took me from his arms, cradling me against her chest. I, a one-month-old infant, felt no fear. In fact, I was drawn to her, to the cold, ancient scent that clung to her. I snuggled into her embrace and gurgled happily, nuzzling against her as if searching for milk. My reaction seemed to amuse her. "Clever girl. Your godmother has no milk for you, but I cannot let my daughter go hungry." She reached up to her coronet and plucked a pearl from it—a magnificent orb that glowed with its own cold, internal light. She placed it in my father's trembling hand. "Go," she commanded. "Take this to the city. Find my daughter the finest wet nurse money can buy." She gently patted my cheek. "Be good, little Half-Moon. You'll have your milk soon." 3 The woman—my new godmother—commanded my father to take the luminous pearl to the city and exchange it for money. With me held hostage in her cold embrace, he had no choice but to obey. But a new fear gripped him. "But… I'm just a poor farmer," he stammered, his face pale. "How can I explain possessing something so valuable? If someone asks where I got it, what do I say?" "Leave the town," the woman said, her voice leaving no room for argument. "Take a carriage to the provincial capital. Find the street called 'The Gilded Span' and look for a shop named 'White's Emporium of Antiquities.' The proprietor is a man named White. You will ask him for five thousand silver dollars." The sum struck my father like a physical blow. In those days, a good year of farming might earn a man a few dozen dollars. Five thousand was an unimaginable fortune. "I… I can't!" he panicked. "I wouldn't dare!" The woman laughed, a sound like cracking ice. "You are not afraid of me, yet you fear the living?" She flicked her wrist, and a flicker of red light, like a spark, shot from her finger and sank into my father’s hand. "Fear not. No one will harm you. Just go." My father, now more afraid of refusing than of obeying, set off for the city with the pearl. The old saying, "an innocent man with a treasure is a magnet for thieves," echoed in his twenty-year-old mind. He clutched the priceless pearl, his heart pounding with every step. He caught a neighbor's ox-cart to the county seat, then boarded a train for a three-day journey to the capital. It was his first time in a big city. The towering buildings and bustling streets were a world away from Blackwood Creek, but the thought of me in the clutches of that undead creature spurred him on. He asked for directions and made a beeline for White's Emporium. The shop was an imposing, multi-story building with a grand, carved sign. It dealt in antiques, art, and artifacts of immense value. The owner, Mr. White, was rumored to be the wealthiest man in the southern province, a descendant of a high-ranking official from the old imperial court—a master of forgotten arts. When my father stated his business at the door, the shopkeeper looked him up and down, sizing up his rough-spun clothes and worn boots. He spat out a few lines of coded trade-speak. When my father couldn't answer, the man’s face soured with contempt. "Listen, kid, do you have any idea what kind of establishment this is?" he sneered. "We don't just let any riff-raff in. We don't deal in stolen or undocumented goods. Be on your way." He had my father shoved out the door and, as an afterthought, tossed two copper coins on the ground. "You look hungry. Buy yourself some bread and go home." My father had left home with barely enough money for the journey, and had been eating scraps to save his return fare. He was shocked that even the act of throwing him out came with a two-penny charity. He picked up the coins, tears welling in his eyes. "Sir, I'm not lying," he pleaded. "I have something truly special for your master. My daughter… she's with… her. She's just a month old, and her mother is gone. If I fail, my little girl will die!" He thrust his sleeve forward, pulling it back just enough to reveal a sliver of the pearl’s cold, otherworldly glow. The shopkeeper’s eyes went wide. "That's…" "Please, sir," my father begged, "just tell him I'm here. I, Thomas Croft, will spend the next life as your beast of burden to repay the kindness!" Moved by his desperation and the undeniable authenticity in his eyes, the shopkeeper relented and went to fetch his master. Mr. White of the Emporium looked to be a man in his forties, impeccably dressed in a tailored Western suit and tie, holding a polished cane like an English gentleman. When he saw the pearl in my father's hand, his professional calm shattered. He seized my father’s wrist, his eyes burning with intensity. "Where did you get this?" he demanded. His fierce gaze terrified my father. "She… she told me not to say," he stammered. "She only said to ask you, Mr. White… if you would buy it." Mr. White’s brow furrowed. He studied my father for a long moment, then his grip loosened. "I will," he said, his tone softening. "How much does she want?" My father, abashed, could barely speak the words. He held up five fingers. "Five… five thousand silver dollars." Mr. White took the pearl, examining it with a jeweler's loupe. Without looking up, he gestured to the shopkeeper. "Arthur, go to the vault. Get him five thousand." My father couldn't believe his ears. Five thousand dollars, just like that? Seeing his stunned expression, Mr. White clapped him on the shoulder with a friendly smile. "An excellent piece, young man." "If you ever come across anything else of this quality," he added, "be sure to bring it to White's Emporium first. If I'm not here, Arthur will take care of you. Whatever you have, I'll buy it." 4 Mr. White not only bought the pearl but also treated my father to a lavish meal. After a few glasses of wine, he started talking more freely, treating my father like an old friend. "Thomas, my boy, I won't lie to you," he said, leaning in. "This pearl… it's from an ancient tomb. Hundreds of years old, at least." "A gem of this size and quality," he continued, "is something reserved for royalty, for kings and emperors. This piece… it came from an imperial mausoleum, didn't it?" As he spoke, his eyes were fixed on my father, searching for any flicker of confirmation. But my father just waved his hand dismissively. "An emperor's tomb? Nothing like that! We're from a poor, forgotten corner of the country…" He trailed off, remembering the woman’s warning: Sell the pearl and return immediately. He quickly stood up. "Thank you for your hospitality, Mr. White, but my daughter is waiting for me. I must be going." Mr. White didn't press him. He offered to arrange a ride, but my father refused. The shopkeeper, Arthur, gave him a bundle of dried rations for the journey home. My father sewed the five thousand dollars in bank notes into the lining of his old coat and left without a moment's delay. He didn't know that the moment he stepped out of White's Emporium, he was marked. A gang of thieves had been watching the shop. Four of them, led by a sharp-eyed woman. They weren't common pickpockets; they specialized in robbing people coming out of high-end antique shops and pawn brokers. My father, with his shabby clothes and nervous demeanor, screamed "big score." The first one, a wiry man named Finn, bumped into my father "accidentally." As he did, he slit open the cloth bundle my father was carrying. A pile of hard, coarse oatcakes spilled onto the dusty street. My father cried out in dismay, tears in his eyes. "My cakes! My oatcakes!" Finn feigned embarrassment. "Oh, terribly sorry, friend. Just an accident. They're all dirty now, you should probably just leave them." My father, good-hearted and unsuspecting, shook his head. "No, no, sir. These were a gift. They're made with good flour. We don't even get to eat this well at Christmas back in my village. I'll just dust them off." Finn was bewildered. He's in the capital city, and he's not buying himself a decent meal? He's crying over oatcakes? My father pulled a few copper coins from his pocket. "To be honest, sir, I came to the city on an errand for an elder. I didn't bring much money. This is just enough for my train ticket back. The shopkeeper gave me these two coins out of pity. When I get to the county seat, I won't even have money for the cart ride home. I'll have to walk half a day through the mountains." Finn was now seriously questioning his life choices. Had the boss been wrong? Was this kid actually broke? He reported back to his leader, a woman named Sadie. She remained unconvinced. She sent Finn to watch the city while she and her other two men, Gus and Jed, bought tickets for the same train as my father. Jed was rail-thin and had a nervous stutter, but he was a fearsome brawler, a master of a strange, jerky fighting style. "B-b-boss," he stammered, "th-th-that kid… h-he won't even s-s-spend money on a c-c-cup of water. Y-you s-sure he's got the goods?" Sadie, idly flipping a small, wicked-looking blade between her fingers, was certain. "He's got it. I can smell the money on him. And who is Mr. White? He doesn't waste his time on just anyone. That kid was in there for two hours. He made a big deal." Gus, the third man, wasn't a fighter but an expert with knockout drugs. "Even if you're trying to be discreet," he mused, "you wouldn't be that cheap, would you? He's been gnawing on those oatcakes for three days. I'm getting a sore throat just watching him." Sadie shot him a look. "Then why don't you go offer him a drink?" Gus understood. He got a tin cup of water from the train attendant, stirred in a dose of sleeping powder, and approached my father. "Friend, you look familiar," he said, perfectly mimicking the accent of our region. "You from Redding County too?" The train's final stop was Redding, and after three days of tailing him, they had the local dialect down pat. My father's eyes lit up. "Mister, you're from Redding too?" Gus smiled. "Well, my grandmother is. From Hawk's Hollow, over by the dam. And you?" My father, overjoyed to meet someone from "back home," immediately told him everything. "I'm from Blackwood Creek, by the old bridge! That's only a few miles from there!" "Well, what do you know," Gus chuckled. "Small world. You must be thirsty, eating those dry cakes. Here, have some water. I just got it." 5 My father was hesitant. "Oh, I couldn't possibly…" "Don't be a stranger," Gus insisted. "For all we know, your family and my grandma's could be cousins." My father took the cup and drank, then, not wanting to take without giving, he offered Gus two of his oatcakes. "Here, you have some! They're delicious! A friend in the city gave them to me. We never get to eat food this good back home." He wasn't lying. In those lean years, with crushing rents and taxes, most families in our village survived on boiled yams and wild greens. A bit of grain in a watery soup was a luxury. He had been saving those oatcakes. Gus, not wanting to break character, took one and bit down. The dry, gritty texture was like swallowing sandpaper. He started choking, his face turning red. If my father hadn't quickly handed him back the cup of water, he might have passed out. "Ahem… cough… My friend," Gus wheezed, "you can actually eat this stuff?" My father just smiled a sad, simple smile. "Mister, you've never known a hard day, have you?" Gus froze, suddenly paranoid. Had this simple farm boy seen through his act? He mumbled an excuse and beat a hasty retreat. He reported back to Sadie. "Boss, that kid's not as simple as he looks. I almost blew my cover. He seems naive, but I think he's got a sharp mind." Now, only Sadie and Jed hadn't shown their faces to my father. Jed frowned. "Boss, did we really get it wrong?" But Sadie was stubborn. "We've followed this kid all this way. I'm not leaving empty-handed. Jed, we'll do it the old way." Jed nodded. They got off the train at the next stop and took a shortcut to head my father off on the mountain path back to our village. Sadie, though a gang leader, was only in her early twenties. She braided her hair, smudged some dirt on her face, and could easily pass for a teenager. Jed, with his naturally cruel-looking face, played his part perfectly. He grabbed Sadie's arm, twisting it until she cried out in real pain. "You little tramp! Thought you could run, did you?" he snarled as my father approached on the path. "Your father owes me five hundred dollars in gambling debts! He sold you to me to clear the slate! I was gonna make you my seventh wife!" "You want to run?" he spat. "Pay the debt first!" Sadie fell to her knees, sobbing. "Mr. Owens, please, let me go! I'll work like a slave to pay you back! I'm too young, I don't want to be your wife!" Jed slapped her hard across the face. "Five hundred silver dollars! You think you can ever earn that much? I'm telling you right now, you either pay the money, come be my wife, or I'll sell you to the nearest brothel! You choose!" My father saw this and his blood boiled. This was pure bullying. He stepped between them, shielding Sadie. "You have a debt with her father, you take it up with him! What kind of man bullies a young girl?" "Even if she owes you money, you have no right to hit her! Can't you talk things out civilly?" Jed, with his beady, rat-like eyes, saw his prey had taken the bait. He grabbed my father by the collar. "And who's this bum? Her boyfriend? You want to be the hero, huh? Then you pay her debt!" My father froze. He didn't have any money. "H-how much?" Jed held up a hand, five fingers splayed. "Five hundred silver dollars. Not a penny less!" Behind him, Sadie clutched at my father’s sleeve. "Mister, please, save me! I don't want to marry him!" My father felt a wave of dizziness wash over him. Five hundred? Do I look like I have five hundred dollars? He had five thousand sewn into his coat, but that was my ransom money, my life. He couldn't touch a single dollar of it. All he had to his name were a few oatcakes and the two copper coins the shopkeeper had thrown at him. My father’s bewildered response stunned Sadie and Jed. Could he really be a broke, simple-minded fool who didn't even have five hundred dollars? They exchanged a look. Jed decided to force the issue. He kicked my father to the ground, straddled him, and slapped him twice. "No money? Then what are you playing the big shot for? Let's see what you've really got on you!" He started tearing at my father's coat. The coat was old, the cotton fabric thin and brittle. It ripped easily. Panicked that the money sewn inside would be revealed, my father threw up his hands to protect his chest. As he did, a brilliant red light flashed from his wrist. Jed was flung backward as if hit by a cannonball, flying through the air and crashing into a tree thick as a man's waist. The trunk splintered. Jed crumpled to the ground, coughing up blood. He stared at my father in disbelief and terror. "You… you…" 6 My father was as shocked as anyone by his own power. He remembered the red spark the woman had shot into his wrist before he left. Had she known? Had she foreseen this? Sadie, seeing her man taken down, was furious, but it only confirmed her suspicion: my father was no simpleton. He had been playing dumb all along, hiding his true strength. She grabbed my father's arm. "Come on, let's go!" He was dazed. "What? What about him?" "He's a wicked man, he got what he deserved," Sadie said urgently. "Besides, what if he tries to blame you for this? Do you have the money to pay for his injuries?" My father felt a pang of guilt about leaving a man injured, but Sadie painted a picture of Jed as a monster who preyed on the weak.

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