章 8: Chapter eight
There was a saying that when there was a burial across these parts, three more would follow because of the colossal and costly preparation. The ones who were always ready to dish out unwanted advice were the old women from the village, and thus new traditions would be born out of their twisted imagination. When you were at your lowest, they would surround you like a pack ready to take something of yours away from you. One would say that he will need a chair in the afterlife to sit on and that his legs will hurt if he can’t sit down for an eternity. Or how he won’t have a place at the table of the virtuous, last time I checked, you don’t bring your chair when you go somewhere but that is beside the point. Another asked for a bed, fully staked with a mattress and bedding for him to sleep comfortably, for how will he rest in peace if he doesn’t have a bed?
And after you finished remodeling another house for the deceased to live in, the next question was who will receive them? Since the deceased could not have a word in the matter anymore, there were a humble few who would volunteer themselves as in need of those objects. Whom you might ask? Why those very ladies who pulled you aside in the first place whispered now in your ear:” Leave them to me, my dear. I am old and my life is miserable and fate is cruel and that’s what your husband would have wanted anyway and I will be forever grateful for your kindness.”
A lot of kindness was needed as fewer and fewer objects were left behind in the house. You could not dare oppose tradition or insult the old women or all hell would break loose. You just had to swallow your words and take it. Not only would you be cursed for a thousand years in the same breath which would have blessed you for two, but you would risk becoming an outcast or being removed from the community.
Whenever a foreigner became witness to these strange traditions they were shocked: on top of being forbidden to cry at such a funeral: you had to be generous in all aspects from food, to drink, and gifts as well as entertaining the guests even if they would not have been welcomed by the deceased when he was alive. This much was clear to the foreigners: the Hydraegians were a bunch of lunatics who welcomed misery into their life and enjoyed rolling in the filth that is melancholy.
Their hospitality was as fake as the tears of their guests. The only thing that was real in the whole room was the dead body in the casket sitting on top of the table. The first evening every member of the family had to guard the deceased. “What a ridiculous tradition!” foreigners would comment, but it was important for the dead spirit not to leave the room when everyone else was asleep or he would have no way of finding his way back.
There were even a set of games made up so those guarding the body wouldn’t fall asleep on the job. If an old woman was present she had to chase a much younger man around the table and kiss him on the cheek for everyone’s amusement.
Another game consisted of scaring the young children or the meek when they passed by the dead body, you would pull on a string attached to the deceased finger and you would laugh at their screams.
They would also tell stories about the deceased and remember the good, the bad, but especially the hilarious. They believe the spirit was alive for three days and roaming the village before passing onto the other side.
On the second day, there was a large ceremony held in honor of the deceased. A feast with all imaginable dishes was spread across the table. Only one dish was special for such an occasion and it was made with sweetened boiled wheat. It was called leve and it symbolized the cycle of life and death. The religious ceremony was brief compared to the one from the burial day. The burial day was swallowed by chaotic energy: from the musicians walking by the kart which was carrying the casket. The relatives were tossing coins to the crowds which were gathering behind, each penny was considered lucky and every man was there to make his luck. While the paupers were pushing their luck wallows made their way through, crying and mourning the dead man. /it was a service offered to those interested in the premium burial package. A burial without willows was like a face without eyebrows: it lacks emotion.
How they would cry and grieve about the great man they never met, what a shame it was that he had left us all behind and how God takes the best of us first, making you wish he had taken you too so you wouldn’t have to listen to them now. Most of these women were employed from neighboring villages but it was custom and good luck for the remaining family if someone outside the family unit would mourn the passing of their loved one.
When the in-laws arrived, the door shut with a strong thump, bringing attention to their presence. They had an air of dignity regarding themselves, it felt like they were in a bubble separating them from the riff-raff and chaos surrounding the situation.
“Where’s my son?” the old woman asked, her voice giving away the melancholy she felt in her spirit. Zazuza locked eyes with her mother-in-law for the first time: it was a brief moment of silent acknowledgment followed by the unending chaos which swallowed them both.
His eldest brother had arrived to mourn Uluki’s death with his mother. Together, they slowly approached the room where the body was kept. As the door opened so their eyes widened in utter shock: their Uluki was sitting inside a stupid box on a God damn table! His brother tried to keep his composure for a moment before bursting and yelling in his native language, pointing at Zazuza and the guests. His mother’s face was clouded by grief and she began to cry. The diplomat soon showed up to try to mend the shattered pieces left behind by Uluki’s death.
The diplomat and the translator soon found out that the reason behind the outrage was the fact that Uluki had not received a proper traditional burial. That they felt insulted by not being included in this obvious decision. They believed that since tomorrow was the burial: they worried that it was too late to make any modifications to the arrangements. The family had been expecting to see a typical burial with a sacrificial horse, as it was custom in their country instead of this rubbish with sweetened wheat and cheap circus act. To them, this could have all been avoided if anyone had the slightest bit of common sense.
“I wish he would have listened,” uttered his mother between her tears.
“I wish he never agreed to come here… I knew nothing good would come of this place. He never listened!” She cried with a shriek at the end, you could feel every ounce of regret from every fiber of her being.
Uluki’s brother, Uzman, was holding her hand while hugging her closely. He gazed a deadly stare across the room as if everyone conspired to murder his brother and was directly responsible for their loss.
“What happened to the man who murdered my brother? Where is he now?” His yell was met with silence, the silence was seen as defiance. “If he is not hanging from that tree, in front of this house by sunset, you cannot call yourselves people.”
“Bunch of fucking cowards!” the translator avoided telling the crowds what he was saying.
The kart arrived, carrying the Chief, his son, and his nephews. Before getting off the kart, the Chief gave his nephews a few words of encouragement:
“ You both have to stay brave and not cry when you see your father in the casket for your mother’s sake. She needs to depend on your strength: you will see your father on that table but he is no more. He cannot speak, walk or be there for you ever again because he is dead. Death is when we lose: we have all lost your father but we have to keep ourselves together.”
“Why did he have to die?” asked Iancu.
“He didn’t have to die, he just did. Life is like this: if he knew he would have died that day he wouldn’t have went hunting…”
“But there is only one good thing that will come out of all of this: you will meet your grandmother and uncle. You need to be on your best behavior for them to see you as family. Your grandmother’s name is Urka and your uncle is Uzman. Don’t annoy them and learn all you can about them: it might be the last time you see each other. Understood?”
“I’m not worried, grandpa.”
“And why is that?”
“Because I know how to get under people’s skin.”
“Sure you do, now get out of the kart.”
At the dinner table, after a long round of negotiations, the in-laws were convinced to sit down and experience a true traditional Hydraegian funeral. The chief arrived surrounded by his offspring and nephews. With a sober look on his face, he acknowledged Urka and Uzman.
“Uluki was like a second son to me, his death is a blow to the whole family and if there is ever anything needed of us, never doubt our devotion or loyalty. Our love for Uluki is what unites us in this moment of grief.”
This is when Ziko kissed Urka’s hand as a sign of respect and said: “I never had a brother until I met Uluki. And while none of my words can bring him back: our shared memories of him can at least spark the image of the man we all loved. These are your nephews: Iancu is the eldest and Stefan is the youngest.”
Iancu was excited to meet his relatives and it felt like he was about to flood them with questions when his excitement was rudely interrupted by his uncle’s remark:
“ You can take this one away, Stefan can stay with us at our table.”
The grandmother held him on her knees and smiled at him remarking how he had black eyes like his father and the same chin. Uzman shared her enthusiasm and kept melancholy aside by asking Stefan all sorts of silly questions to lift his spirit.
Iancu wanted to be a part of this, but all his attempts at connecting were ignored. He had never been ignored before, he quickly stopped when his uncle threw him a disgusted look at whispered to Urka loud enough for him to hear: “ I heard this is the bastard Uluki recognized.”
“Shoo him away, I want nothing to do with that whore or her children. We only care for our own.”
Stefan was too young to understand what was being said around him, he was much too fascinated with the toy his kind relatives brought him.
But Iancu understood that those words were negative and removed himself from the table, his face turned red with anger and shame. He was unsure what bastard meant, he knew it was a foul word uttered by grown-ups reserved for the cheeky and misbehaving ones. What he didn’t know was what he had done wrong to deserve to be called that. He began to cry a little, whimpering and wondering what he could have done differently for them to love him too. Was he too loud? Too cheerful? Not cheerful enough?
What could have motivated his grandmother to despise his existence?
He stopped thinking about it when he remembered the other foul word his grandmother used: whore. He knew what those were: he had seen them across the village, and every street corner was littered with them. And he knew from a friend of his that whores have sex. Iancu once got into a dispute with another child about the origin of children. According to his rival’s theory, people had sex to have children. What a preposterous idea! Iancu thought to himself: his parents could never have sex. When he was born, they had no place to have said sex and when they had Stefan they had no space to themselves. After much pondering, Iancu went straight to his mother and asked her:
“Mother, I have a serious question and I need an honest answer.”
“What is it, Iancu?”
“When I was born, did you have sex?”
The whole table erupted in laughter.
“Tell me! What’s so funny?”
Zazuza was trying to control her laughter and evade answering the question. Zico grabbed him by the shoulder and looked him dead in the eyes with a serious expression:
“Will you die if you don’t know the truth?”
As soon as Iancu heard the gravity of the situation, his excitement exploded and he kept saying:
“Yes!Yes!Yes, I will! Tell me!”
“The truth is that…. Yes! Your mother had sex with your father for you to be born! Dun dun dun!”
A look of disappointment and disgust and disgust fell upon Iancu’s face. He locked eyes with his mother and said: “How could you?” while running away crying.
Everyone was dying of laughter at his reaction and his mother’s confusion.
“What the hell did I do?” she said half chuckling.
“Shut up! How could you!” joked Zico in his typical stoic manner.
“You broke the boy! Some mother you are!”
Iancu was torn at the realization that his mother was indeed, a “whore”. Not only that, she had been twice a whore. He was very heartbroken about this whole situation until his grandfather gave him some sweetened boiled wheat and hugged him without uttering a word.
As he was eating, he stopped caring about the opinions of his grandmother, uncle, or the village children. His epiphany was this: none of them were good people, because they wanted to make him feel bad. This thought comforted him, and he began to think about the good people in his life he could love back: his grandfather, his uncle, his brother Stefan and heck, even that “whore of a mother of his”.
He didn’t feel the need for more family, he felt complete despite the recent loss of his father. Those left were united enough in their grief. He hoped for joyous moments together with them and he could feel that soon something good would come out of this tragedy. At least that’s what his bedtime stories taught him.
At the guest table, a man was standing out: tall, with a strong build, and wearing a robe to cover his body. He had a relatively cheerful disposition for the situation. You could tell he was a foreigner from head to toe: this merchant was the center of attention due to his charismatic presence as well as his proving himself to be a good storyteller.
The horde of hyenas had him in their vision, and kept whispering to Zazuza and nudging their elbows: “He’s the one, I hear he’s rich.”
“You have to make him notice you.”
“This is in poor taste, my in-laws are sitting at the same table.”
“I’ll introduce you, they’ll be long gone and you won’t have to worry about them ever again. Think of it this way: they never cared to visit once while Uluki was alive, what makes you think they’ll bother you after the funeral ends? I say that says a lot about how cared about their nephews.”
“You worry too much… Mr. Rocan, meet Zazuza, Uluki’s widow.”
“My deepest condolences, Zazuza.” He placed his hands around her own and locked eyes with her before saying: “Uluki had been a long-time collaborator and we had done business together for the past five years. Had he ever mentioned me before?”
The in-laws were hawk-eyed staring them both down. This type of familiarity felt as foreign as their language.
“What are they saying?” Uzman nudged the translator.
“I have not, Mr. Rocan. My husband did not discuss business matters at home.”
“Sorry to say that you will be expecting me again, soon. My deepest condolences and may your family stay in good health. “ He let a smile escape his lips as he removed his warm hands from hers.
The in-laws started to comment about everything: nothing was to their liking the food was terrible, unlike back home. The people were unpleasant, unlike back home. And their daughter-in-law? The devil incarnate: they could write a long book about her rudeness and incompetence.
Uzman’s only consolation was his nephew: he kept promising him that when he grows a little older he is going to teach him all the things his father never had the chance to.
“We’ll go horse riding together, we’ll talk to your mother and she’ll let you stay with us. You’ll never have to think about what happened ever again.”
Stefan felt something he could later describe as guilt, but he still enjoyed the attention he was getting. Uluki wasn’t the dotting type, and Zazuza had become more rigid as a parent after she had him.
His grandmother rubbed his cheeks and was discussing how they should make the arrangements as quickly as possible.
“We can’t leave Stefan here, in this viper’s den. He should be raised as it was intended: in the Thyan way.”
Stefan’s grandfather approached the table and asked the guests if they wanted more wine to drink.
“How can you people take death so lightly?” asked Uzman “Is this what this all is? A big joke?”
“Not in a million years, I’d argue that it is because we are aware of the gravity of the loss we try to overcome and cope with the situation at hand in a different manner.”
“You make such a show of it: it’s hard to tell where the tragedy ends and the comedy begins.”
“Well, I am curious now: what is a traditional funeral in your country?”
“First of all: we sacrifice a horse, and we bury the body, afterwards we build a large firepit on that spot and burn part of his possessions. We sing around the fire and pray for an easy passing into the afterlife.”
“Wait! You mean to say that you’ve all been upset all evening over something so simple?”
“Stop!” The chief yelled. “Change of plans: find me the fattest horse we have and I want you, Urka to help us with the arrangements for the burial. Do you see these unhappy few in front of you? Their job is to make you satisfied with the ceremony. The translator was quick on his toes to pass down the orders. Urka was tired, but the promise of a proper burial lit up her face. The thought that her son will not be buried in a box as these heathens gave her peace of mind.
On the third day, the horse had been sacrificed and a large pit had been arranged around the middle of the grave. Stefan was held by his uncle on his knees but was quickly rushed aside to stay with the other children when the ceremony began.
The men surrounded the pit and hummed in a grave voice while the translator was rushing to mention every word the priest was saying. This was no easy feat since religions have their jargon and this priest in particular was being difficult. He was sick and tired of all the fighting and had a huge distaste for the mixture of Hydraegean tradition with a Thyan ceremony. Despite being deeply against this, the only thing which managed to convince him was the weight of his pockets after speaking to the Chief.
Despite knowing that trying to satisfy everyone leaves nobody happy, he couldn’t give up on Uluki and he felt obligated to try.
The elders of the village wouldn’t shut their gossip about what a bad omen this was, that they never should have accepted a human into their community, and especially about Zazuza’s cruelty to have children she will quickly outlive.
The ceremony continued in the front while in the back, the whispering wouldn’t end. It almost felt like it was part of the ritual itself.
Iancu was sitting next to his grandfather and held his hand during the ceremony. Words were meaningless, but the strength he felt passed down to him gave him the courage to hold back his tears. They slowly lowered Uluki’s body into the grave. After being completely laid down in the dirt, each passing attendee threw a handful of dirt over his body. Stefan felt empty staring down at his father’s dead body lying under a shallow layer of dirt.
Uzman squeezed his hand and threw the dirt in a defeated manner. Death had won this time. Urkas’s eyes were bloodshed red and as the dirt passed through her fingers she was filled with grief. She kept asking herself over and over in her head “Why him?”
What she wouldn’t give to trade places, she wouldn’t have even cared how she would be buried then. She would have rather been burned, skinned, and drowned than be faced with the passing of her youngest son. We don’t choose who and how we lose our loved ones. All we know is pain and overthinking and the cycle repeats in a torturous manner.
Why do we think we would rather die over our loved one over and over in our head? It feels good like we are rightfully miserable as if our scarifice could have stopped us from feeing this loss. This loss is permanent, while our masochistic self righteous scarifice lasts until we, ourselves are faced with death. Only this time, we are no longer spectators, but leading actors.
Nobody wants that. Tragedy is only beautiful and inspirational in plays and poems. In real life it is just a part of what we are. In real life the smaller your role at a funeral, the happier you are. The greater the joy when you take your mask off the moment you arrive home.
Hydraegean society was built on this idea that everyone had a role to play and that life was a gigantic stage where everyone had to know their place.
Zazuza aproached the grave, earth slipping between her grip. It felt like she was losing her grip on reality that this was all a nightmare where everyone was trying to bend her will to fit their agenda. From the match makers, to the dissaproving in laws, to the judgemental watch of the villagers it felt like their were waiting around to see her crack.
And she would have cracked, bent and kneeled of it wasnțt for the thought that she would lose Stefan. The realisation that if she looked weak, she would become weaker. If her in laws decided to label her unfit and mentally weak they would take Stefan with them. Her family would be divided once more, that thought frightened her so much that it helped maintain an emotionless expression thoughout the whole ceremony.
It wasn’t wise to have any expression, as anything could be left to interpretation and the scrutiny of the public eye. The thought of keeping Iancu and Stefan together kept her hopeful. She knew that despite the many arguments and fallouts with her brother, she could depend on him to atleast never make things worse than they needed to be.
She hoped that Iancu and Stefan would have each other’s backs when they grew up, and knew that they needed to build a strong bond now, while they were children for that to happen.
After the burial was completed, a large amount of personal objects, sticks and branches were piled up atop of the grave and set ablaze. The horse was supposed o be ready for the meal by now. The chef was inexperienced with this type of cuisine and he had no previous knowledge that there even were people who find this food delectable. He was wishing that it wasn’t raw, but never before had a meal been cooked to be so dry and tough to chew. It was what was on the menu and since it was a funefral: in his opinion there were greater tragedies happening around than his cooking.
Iancu wasn’t much if a fan of any of the food, he liked the sweetened wheat the most. Stefan was receiving some of the tastier bites of the horse meat, which made his opinion a biased one. His grandmother caressed his hair and told him that soon, this will all be a sad and distant memory. That we must remember Uluki for the good he had done, that if he walks in his father’s shoes Uluki would have been so proud of who he will grow up to be.
“Tell your mother that you want to come live with us.”’
“We’ll teach you how to be like your father and you will have your own horse, Uzman will take you horseriding and you’ll learn everything about archery.”
Zazuza wanted to intervene but her father stopped her and whispered “Let him spend time with them, it will probably be the last time we see them. It’s better for them to spend time together than to be the reason behind their separation.” He advised her in a cool manner while smiling at the in laws.
After everyone had payed their respects, the horse had been devoured, and the flame extinguished only a few people were left behind: the chieftan, his family and the in laws. What now? What will the future hold? It was all discussed over a bottle of wine.
“I’ll go straight to the point.” Said Uzman. “We want Stefan to be raised in the Thyan tradition. We’ll take him with us when we leave in the morning.”
“You can’t!” Zazuza was upset at the mere mention of it. But that’s when her father and more diplomatic brother, Zico each grabbed her by a wrist each and kept her from reacting in a manner the in laws would deem as “unsuitable.”
“And still, he shouldn’t be separated from his brother. They’re siblings after all.”
“No, in our eyes they are merely half brothers.” Urka said this in a sharp tone and stared Zazuza down.
“We weren’t here at the wedding, but we are fully aware of your daughter’s impurity.”
“You weren’t here for anything. Pure, impure your son and my daughter had a stronger bond than your petty complaints, as you are well aware of. It’s a little too late to be checking the bedsheets after two children and a deadman.” Replied the Chieftan.
Zico intervined: “I think we should take a moment to think about Stefan too. We were thinking of sending Iancu to study in Reece this year. Maybe it would be a good idea to send Stefan to spend some time with his uncle and grandmother. Let him decide afterwards where he’d like to stay.”
Zico believed that in life you have to make sure you can greet anyone next time you meet: so stay on good terms.
Stefan was held by his grandmother and carried towards the carriage. Each group greeted the other goodbye and shook hands as a means to say farewell.Stefan was waving to his older brother who was enthusiastic about each other’s journey. Iancu wanted to say a million things all at once but knew that this was supposed to be one of those serious moments.
After the carriage left, Iancu was left behind looking at the dust rising and falling behind.
Zico put his hand on Iancu’s shoulder, ready to cheer him up:
“School starts soon, you’ll have plenty of fun on your own! You’ll see how much you will learn in Reece and make many friends there!”
Iancu smiled gently at his uncle and his grandfather squeezed his hand.
“Cheer up! When you’ll see each other again you’ll both have plenty of stories to tell.”
-- 贈り物
が届きました 
-- 推薦
ランキング 
-- 推薦
チケット