William Royden

We walked seemingly without purpose, slowly making our way back toward Mount Halcyon.

After almost a full hour of wandering, we came to an anonymous little forested area beside a self-storage rental facility, where a steady trickle of water flowed through the mud between two cement pipes as tall as we were.

There, Cording told me he needed to attract.

It was going to make him incredibly weak, he said, but it needed to be done before the entire day was lost.

He might need my help walking it first when he finished.

He descended the small bank beside the tiny stream with that white sheet in his hand, steadying himself by grabbing onto weak tree branches as I, under the camera, watched him.

He crouched and dipped the sheet into the slowly running water.

Then he pushed it deeper into the mud below.

He held his hands there, eyes closed, for a full minute.

When he brought them above the surface again, the sheet was black with mud.

Water dripped steadily from it.

He ascended the bank again.

He moved away almost as if he had forgotten I was there, and I had to catch up.

In ten minutes, we were back at the cemetery.

Cording walked all the way there with his hands and the sheet covered in mud.

People had noticed, but they said nothing.

Most were too busy shrinking against the cold wind that was getting stronger and stronger, blowing dead leaves everywhere.

Cording went toward the eastern edge of the cemetery, toward the grave he had stood at before.

Frightened, I hung back as much as I could.

I watched Cording crouch deeply at the knees and fold the wet, filthy sheet several times until it was an almost perfect square.