Of all the Cloud Isles, none is as exalted as Heaven’s Rest. It is known by all, but few speak its name aloud, as if to utter the word is to conjure the spectre of death itself. This silent isle serves as the final resting place for the entire Cloud population. No other island is so imbued with reverence, remembrance and the bittersweet feeling of mortality.
Heaven’s Rest is a place of contrasts. Wild flowers sway in the wind on the burial grounds, euphemistically called ‘floating gardens’ by the locals. Dark, moss-covered ossuaries and monumental tombs tower up like silent memorials, while near the harbour, life pulsates with countless inns and taverns hosting funeral parties for the wake. And then there are the catacombs below the surface: extensive tunnels and underground crypts criss-cross the ground like a giant rabbit hole. Once, I was lucky enough to be let into the upper burial chambers by a priest with whom I had previously emptied a bottle of Moonshinewine. You can imagine my amazement, dear reader, when I found a dizzyingly large cave behind the eye of the needle – for that was all the hole in the ground we descended into! Columns several metres high supported the ceiling and the walls were lined with skulls and bones. I quickly left the grisly place, but the stale air and oppressive feeling have been forever etched on my soul.
The Fratres Caelestis, the Silent Brotherhood, watch over this place. Not a word is spoken, no eye meets another, the hoods of their simple grey robes pulled down low over their faces. Instead, their hands speak an ancient sign language that would require an interpreter for a traveller to reach Heaven’s Rest. The monks perform all burials, regardless of faith, origin or status, and follow the traditional rites. Ceremonies in Heaven’s Rest often begin with a procession along the Path of Stars, a long avenue lined with countless lanterns. Some deceased are buried in magnificent catacombs, where their names are immortalised in carved tablets. Others are consigned to the woodland burial grounds, where their ashes are buried under the roots of a sapling, thus nurturing new life. A particularly impressive ritual is designed to release the spirit of the deceased into the air. The Fratres Caelestis light a bowl made of golden metal in which the ashes, together with special herbs and resins, are burned in a very hot fire. The rising smoke is said to absorb the spirit and guide it on its way into eternity.
Dear reader, you will now realise that Heaven’s Rest is more than just a resting place. It is a place where the living can linger for a moment, where they find comfort in the certainty that those who have left this world are safe – but which has nothing to offer them in the long term because it belongs entirely to the dead. And now Eva and her companions have ended up in this place.
Eva shivered as she walked down the narrow walkway and inhaled the air of the cemetery island. Heaven’s Rest smelled of damp earth, old stone and a hint of incense. However, the harbour was anything but a place of silence. Boats of all sizes were moored to the wooden jetties, while people dressed in dark clothes bustled to and fro. Large pennants bearing the symbols of various faiths waved in the light breeze, which carried the scent of incense and hearty food in equal measure.
The air was filled with hushed voices, the clatter of horseshoes on the pavement and the soft ringing of bells that accompanied the arrival of new visitors. Children ran around carrying flower arrangements, while adults shook hands with important expressions and gathered under the canopies of the taverns. A small marketplace right on the quay offered everything needed for a funeral or a wake: wreaths, bouquets, aromatic oils, filigree memorial amulets. Several stonemasons offered their work and outdid each other in demonstrating their craft. ‘This is supposed to be Cemetery Island?’ Nora asked with a grin as she joined Eva. ‘To me, it looks more like ‘bazaar island’.’
The slate-covered towers of the great basilica rose up above them as Eva, Nora and Finn set off in the direction of the floating gardens. The life in the streets quickly became less and mortuaries, small chapels and family tombs replaced the restaurants, guesthouses and craft shops. Finally, they passed through a large metal gate and entered the largest burial ground on the island. Before them lay a mosaic of stone, flowers and grass. Tombs rose up everywhere – some made of light marble, new and immaculate, others of dark, weathered granite, overgrown with moss and lichen. Wild flowers bloomed in bright colours in between: delicate bluebells, golden yellow buttercups and purple thyme, whose scent mingled with that of the herbs and shrubs that sprouted here and there from the ground. The humming of bees and the chirping of birds filled the air, while butterflies danced like little splashes of colour between the graves. A delicate mist hovered over the ground and the golden light of the low evening sun illuminated the dark treetops of the burial forest, whose rustling like a soft whisper blew across the plain towards them. In the middle of the field stood a lonely chapel with a pointed tower.
‘What exactly are we looking for here?’ asked Nora, sceptically eyeing a weathered stone tablet with an inscription half covered by lichen as she passed by. Eva looked around, but they were out of earshot. Then she took out the map and carefully unrolled it. ‘Another clue must be hidden somewhere on this island.’ ‘Do you think we should ask the Fratres Caelestis for help?’ Nora wondered. Finn raised an eyebrow. ‘The silent monks? We might as well ask the wind. Besides, we would need an interpreter.’ “Hey, we could try that Orbis thingy!” Nora interjected. Following her suggestion, Finn took the tool out of his bag and placed it on the map. The metal rings began to shift into each other and now the rays of the evening sun refracted in the lens. A golden beam shot across the page and pointed unmistakably to the chapel. ‘Look,’ Eva called, pointing to the map, ‘there are letters here!’ Nora, your magnifying glass!‘ Nora dug out the magnifying glass and together they deciphered: “Mors janua vitae.” They looked over at Finn for help. ‘Death is the gateway to life,’ the navigator translated. “What is that supposed to mean?” Nora asked indignantly. “They could have made it a bit easier for us.” “Come on,” said Eva, ’let’s go see what’s in the chapel.’