Funerals always have to start at dawn. No earlier than first light and not a minute later. The cotton candy lavender of a sky with no sun must give way to the golden egg yolk peeking over the eastern horizon for the ceremony to properly begin.
Starting so early requires those in attendance to spend the prior day all the way into the wee hours of the morning preparing food spreads for the family suffering the loss. Alnis was thinking of these customs as he wrapped the twentieth stuffed pheasant breast in a fig leaf with twine. This was the first funeral he had ever attended. As his fingers mimicked his mother’s in a far less practiced manner he wondered if they would show the face of the deceased.
He worked silently beside his mother; taking sliced pheasant breast his mother had rolled thin and filling it with a mixture of diced figs, apricots, and pine nuts. He then rolled the breast tight around the filling and wrapped the fig leaf around it. The whole thing was easy to prepare, and easier to cook. Boil in the fig leaf till cooked, and top with your favorite sauce or jam, and enjoy. An easy meal to store and eat for a family in mourning.
It was 4am when he and his mother finished the last of it. It was 5:30 in the morning when he and his mother arrived at the house of Ihlite, a friend of his mother’s from work. There were other families there, each with a meal or two each for Ihlite’s family. Her husband had died in a minor mine collapse, his body crushed by tons of rocks above him. The body was on a pyre in the backyard wrapped in a beautifully embroidered mourning cloth. Vibrant hues of cerulean and violet with golden trimmings and geometric designs. Just opaque enough that the body could not be seen. His mother bowed her head to Ihlite who gave a stiff nod back while Alnis delivered the fig wrapped pheasant breasts and sweet bamboo shoot salad to Ihlite’s brother.
The house and backyard were filled with the village but the oppressive silence of the affair and echoing sounds of rustling fabrics in the dark made the space feel no better than the wide mouth of a cave. Something to get lost in.
When the sun peaked just over the horizon everyone had all found their way into the backyard on their knees facing the cloth wrapped body. It is an eerie affair Alnis thought to himself as he held his mother’s hand. Ihlite stood on the left side of her husband’s body clearly weeping. Her mother held one of her hands and her brother the other as the priestess from the village temple led the crowd in a prayer to the deceased. Alnis fumbled over some of the words but he heard his mother’s voice beside him clearly: no falterings or stuttering. A tired and melodic reciting of a prayer she must have done many times before.
When the prayer was done the priestess invited each family one at a time to bid the late husband’s spirit goodbye. His mother had brought a bundle of juniper from the tree in their backyard and the Resenos brought a bundle of laurel and there were bundles of olive and other plants each family had brought.
We bring Juniper to honor his strong spirit and protect his journey to the afterlife his mother told him as she snipped the branches for him to hold. Alnis thought about the other offerings people held and what they could represent. He watched his mother kiss the bundle and did the same before his mother placed it on his cloth covered face.
After all the families gave their gifts the Priestess lit the pyre. It burned slowly at first and as they sat and watched it burn the sun continued to rise. Alnis’ mother was the first to stand and begin singing. It was an old story she sang, of a wife watching her husband go to war and wishing for his return. A tragedy she sang and then was joined by Ihlite’s brother, singing from the husband soldier’s need to protect his home and dream to return. Soon every adult was standing and singing. The chorus of a village in mourning. Alnis mimicked the clapping of the men to keep the rhythm of the song going till the pyre was in full roaring flame.
The families of the village stayed in attendance till sunset, long past the pyre’s flaming life, sharing food and drink. He and the other kids sat and played quiet games not to interrupt the quiet conversations of adults but Alnis couldn’t stop thinking about how everyone knew the songs so well. His father had passed when he was too young to remember and for the first time Alnis saw how many older women lived in the village compared to younger men.
As the sun was beginning to set and the ashes had cooled, Alnis watched his mother and the other village women collect the ashes into a simple clay urn painted like the mourning cloth. Tomorrow he will go back to school, and his mother will go and weave cloth, and the men of the village will go back to the mines. With other kids he began to hum the tune of the songs sung as he chased after them playing a quiet game of tag.
