Check out the update to The Eyes of God:
What once was a field lies between him and me. Little dykes, reservoirs meant for the river’s runoff, parts of a forsaken irrigation—all dry and filled with dust—dot the area. The dead gardens of this village where farmers once scattered seed, where crops were tended, where harvests were reaped, were subsumed into a darker purpose than husbandry.
Mounds of dirt, marshaled in neat rows, replace the buried seed. This yard, once meant for life, houses the dead beneath these piles of earth. Working my way between the graves, I behold a strange sight. The first heap I come to is spotted with holes. The ground is hardened by the summer’s drought, but as if a stick were plunged into the grave to let in a little air, it has been broken into. Or, out of. All the graves are the same, punctured with countless holes.
Crossing through the burial ground, I turn again towards the other side of the dead river. The murder dances in unbroken revelry. Even here I smell the corpses of their feast. Yet the birds are content there. While wondering at the cause of this segregation—why should only one side bury their dead?—Oraculi caws, his lone voice breaking through the din of the murder, turning me back toward the forest. I follow him.