Crematorium [Closed]

[Pauline Bonaparte]

The funeral was bright, even for Myrorian standards. The departed patriarch of the Heredreth clan had a reputation for miserliness and frugality, but Rethan pulled out all the stops before his death. His small, old house on the outskirts of town had red and yellow banners hanging from the rooftop, greeting his extended family with warmth from beyond the pale. The front porch was decorated with bunting in the same color, and, stepping inside, one would notice that the foyer had its modest wooden staircase lined with a rich red carpet that was normally rolled out only for the most honored guests.

His body was being displayed in the sitting room. In life, he wore flannels and chamois shirts even in the humid heat of summer, but today he was dressed in an ornate robe made in the style of his faith - the Myrorian faith. His family had lived in these forested hills for six hundred years, and there was no need to disregard ceremony.

Those who were closest to him - his sons and daughters, his widow, his brother - already paid their respects. His most extended family - second cousins, distant nephews and nieces, old friends who had lost touch - were standing in the foyer with the open bar. Some sampled Rethan's liquor and others drank it freely. Resamsi fidgeted among the guests in the common room, staying away from the bar.

She was Rethan's fifth grandchild, and his favorite. She lived across town with her parents, who gladly allowed the old man to take their daughter off their hands for a few hours a week.

He died on her 17th birthday. Her mother took her to get a dress for the funeral while her father handled the preparations. It was a bright red, reaching nearly to the floor. She told Resamsi that if nothing happened to it, and if it still fit her, then in the spring then she could wear it to the school dance. She cried all the way to Rethan's house.

Resamsi opened the door to the sitting room, holding a bouquet of flowers in her other hand. She was the only one in the room, but still closed the door behind her softly. The guests, enjoying Rethan's open bar, were beginning to get rowdy - the Myrorian custom for events such as these. She put the bouquet among the others on a table across from Rethan and walked to him. She noticed, halfway there, that her shoes were not making any noise. She looked down and noticed that someone had taken her grandfather's rugs out of storage and laid them on the old, scuffed wooden floor.

She recognized the table Rethan was laid on immediately, even though it was covered with a tablecloth. It was the same one he used to sit at every morning and play solitaire on. Resamsi felt her eyes water, but took a moment to compose herself. She sat, cross-legged, on the floor and began to pray.

"Spirits and ancestors," she whispered under her breath. "Please deliver my grandfather's spirit safely to the place beyond. Keep him warm and loved so that when he attends to the affairs of his living family on Eras his spirit will be protected from the cold darkness of our universe. Do not let his spirit linger here, but take him to his homestead in the spirit world and make him accustomed to his new residence. Bless him, his living family, and his pallbearers on their journey to Mere-rûn. Spirits and ancestors, listen to my prayer and heed its words."

Resamsi stood again and walked closer to Rethan. She placed her hand on his, rested atop his chest. They were cold and dry.

The door to the sitting room unlatched and opened.

"Grandma," she sniffed, walking towards Rethan's widow. Llandseä was born to a family that, like the Heredreth, lived in these forested hills for hundreds of years. The two embraced. "I'm so sorry, Grandma."

"Thank you for your thoughts, my love." Llandseä said. She was the type of woman who had been persevering all her life, but there was an undeniable coldness in her touch, as if a piece of her was missing. Her and Rethan had been married almost sixty years.

Llandseä and Resamsi stood holding each other for a moment. The guests remained rowdy.

"They're getting loud out there," Resamsi said, releasing her grandmother.

"Yes," Llandseä replied. "I came to be somewhere more quiet."

The pair stood silently, keeping watch over Rethan's body. They stood for at least three or four minutes over him before Llandseä spoke.

"I have a question for you, Resamsi."

"Yes, Grandma?" Resamsi said. She sniffed.

"Rethan asked me before he died if you would be a pallbearer for him in Mere-rûn."

"Mere-rûn?" Resamsi asked, surprised. Mere-rûn was the largest necropolis in Myroria and the holiest site in the Myrorian faith. Every member of the faithful who could afford it was expected to be cremated and buried there in the catacombs or a mausoleum. To be asked to be a pallbearer for a funeral there was a high honor, one rarely bestowed upon grandchildren or minors.

"Yes," Llandseä said. "Your father was surprised Grandfa had the money to go there, too."

"No," Resamsi said. "I knew he would always want to be buried in Mere-rûn, but to be a pallbearer for him - " Resamsi began to tear up again. "it would be an honor."

Llandseä embraced Resamsi. "You did him a great honor as a grandchild. With this you will become an adult; a grown woman. His spirit is proud to have you as a pallbearer, and will be proud to have you as an equal."

Resamsi choked up, and wept.

 

[Pauline Bonaparte]

Resamsi reached inside her closet. She moved blouses, jeans, and dresses out of the way and pushed her hand inside the long-forgotten right end. She felt cotton, polyester, flannel, and linen before her fingertips touched something more heavy. She grasped the top of the hanger and pulled, struggling a bit.

The garment she was looking for finally revealed itself. She turned the metal head of the wooden coat hanger and draped it over her closet door. A traditional Myrorian kaftan that everyone has and no one wears; she last wore it at her fifteenth birthday.

It had not been worn in two years, and that was apparent - the shoulders were crinkled from being hung up for such an extended period of time, and it was covered in a fine layer of dust. She hoped it would still fit. She removed it carefully from the hanger and slid her arms into it.

Resamsi had forgotten how heavy it was - the inside was lined with black flannel, and the outer shell was a thick gabardine covered in religious designs and symbolism woven in velveteen. Her mother, when having her fitted for the garment, told her that the most fabulously expensive kaftans were almost weightless. This was obviously one of the more economical models.

She noticed that her thin arms still didn't fill out the thick sleeves, but unlike two years ago they were the perfect length. She grabbed the left side of the garment and pulled it across her body, fastening it along her right flank. Like her old duffel coat, it was held together with toggles and loops made of a soft, shiny cord material. Resamsi brushed the wrinkles on the front of the robe out and walked to the mirror.

She looked ridiculous. No matter how many times her mother and grandmother spoke of the great importance and symbolism in every brocade and phrase sewn into it, she would always look like someone in a Renaissance painting. Resamsi pursed her lips and scrunched her eyebrows. Her head looked half as big in the enormous robe, and her brown eyes looked beady. She ran her fingers through her hair, pondering how to fix it so it would look less comical.

There was a rumble from her bedside table - her phone vibrating. She walked across the room to check it, trying to get used to walking in what might as well have been a space suit.

"Miveru: I heard about you being a pallbearer. Congratulations, I guess. Never the best circumstances lol"

"Me: Thanks haha. Can you get my homework the next couple days?"

Resamsi threw her phone back on the table and sat on the bed. She looked at her feet, bare except for socks. She remembered the black boots that were made to go with the kaftan she was wearing; they were nearly as oversized. She cursed under her breath. Bearing part of the weight of a coffin in those would not be comfortable.

Another rumble.

"Miveru: Sure thing. My uncle was a pallbearer. You get to be called The Honorable after you know. For a few months he made us call him Honorable Uncle."

Resamsi chuckled for the first time in three days.

"Me: You can call me honorable Resamsi lol"

Resamsi sighed. To be fair, Grandfa wouldn't complain about having to wear some uncomfortable boots for a few hours. Grandma definitely wouldn't complain, judging from those photos Resamsi saw her at her job in the mill before she retired. She would walk the workfloor from one office to another, sawdust flying everywhere, in high heels. The phone vibrated again.

"Miveru: I can call you honorable asshole instead "

"Me: That works."

Resamsi put the phone at her hip and released it. Unlike her jeans, there was no pocket for it to go into, and it fell on the floor.