You arrived in Helorus within the past few days and per the instructions in your letter, you met with the executor of Dr. Pallaver’s estate, one Mr. Argentine Keel. Mr. Keel proved to be a young, well-to-do British gentleman who seems quite out of place in the rustic little town. He informed you that the late Dr. Pallaver personally requested your presence at his funeral as well as at the reading of his will, the latter appearance being contingent upon the former.
The appointed hour for the funeral has come, and you stand within the small church at the edge of town amidst a handful of people who have gathered to lay the doctor to rest. There is Father Grimsby, the elderly priest who serves Helorus’s faithful, who seems to be waiting patiently for some unknown impetus to begin the proceedings; a handsome, pale, older gentleman who sweats under an extravagant and unseasonable fur hat and overcoat while steadying himself against a pew; a young veiled woman somberly dressed all in black, her hands clasped before her as she silently sobs; Mr. Keel, seated straight-backed and proper in the first row of pews and dressed in an entirely different well-tailored suit than he wore at your prior meeting; and finally Dr. Pallaver himself, presumably, in a plain pine coffin beside the woman. There's also a pair of other attendees...
His skin tanned from head to toe a deep bronze by the harsh sun, Oukonunaka proudly enters the church. He stands close to six feet tall, wide at the shoulder and narrow at the hip. His torso is clothed in a black leather vest allowing all who look upon him to see the leather medicine bag hanging against the corded muscles that adorn his lean frame. His face is painted black around the eyes from his high cheekbones to his eyebrows. Four mirrored thick painted vertical lines (two on each side of his face) of black and yellow descend from beneath his cheekbones and end at his strong jawline. His head is clean shaven save for the braided top knot of stark white hair adorned with two white feathers that ends midway down his muscular back. He wears a brown leather loincloth, with matching buckskin leggings, and a pair of moccasins. Sheathed on his belt are a tomahawk on his left, and a Bowie knife on the right.
Piercing grey eyes examine the congregation for moment, then, preparing for the worst, Oukonunaka gracefully takes a seat in the pew closest to the exit.
I owe this man my life, may his transition to the Upper World be peaceful.
Amaya approached the church with a knot in her stomach. She was not nervous. She was not worried. Rather, she felt intellectually handcuffed. Usually, Amaya visited an empty church in order to study it. Usually, she ignored churchgoers. On that day, Amaya was not only obliged to attend a service, she was obliged to consider her priorities. Amaya had no intention of disrespecting the service—or the town—and so felt acutely that she was usually a less pleasant person than she was being right then.
Nevertheless, her outward demeanor was not obviously different from any other passage through a crowd that she might make. She made eye contact with everyone who looked at her. She walked with a long stride: a habit that she had developed in order to keep from appearing to scurry as did other women of her modest height. She did not purchase an outfit especially for the funeral. Many of her clothes were simple and dark. That day, she wore a favorite dark green wool narrow skirt and matching jacket with covered buttons. Along with her black bowler hat, her dark clothes made the dirty blond hair showing at the back of her neck appear lighter than it was. Her large hips swayed considerably as she scaled the relatively tall steps to the church.
Neither those people that she had passed outside nor those inside the church regarded her with inquiry, merely with benign assessment. When she had received the invitation, she wondered if she would be the only non-family member at the funeral. Now she wondered if everyone here was also making their first visit to Helorus. Or, perhaps this town is used to visitors.
Clark ambled down the dusty street toward the funeral, wondering what final scheme the strange, intense old doctor had prepared for him. Why invite me? We hardly knew one another. Is he so bereft of family and friends that I make the list? His face soured. I might indeed be worse off than he, when the time comes. Plant's closed. Never managed children. Caroline away to greener pastures... Can't even invite Pallaver, now. How did it come to this?
He pushed the thoughts away as he turned the corner and the church itself came into view. It was a small building, of unimpressive manufacture. He sighed. Don't know what I was expecting, out here in the sticks. Still, it is nice to be out of the city. I do enjoy the air. A fresh start, perhaps...
He made his way to the door, doffed his hat and (somewhat worried that he might be late) entered quietly and moved to stand near the back. The eyes of the others passed over him.
--
Luther Clark is an unassuming man in his middle years, of average height and perhaps a bit on the thin side. He is dressed in a well-fitted, if slightly worn, suit of dark brown wool. A slightly sweat-stained white shirt and crisp tie show above his jacket. His greying hair and stringy moustache are a bit too long, and together with the lines around his eyes and face convey a significant weariness. But his face is honest and open.
As he looks around at the other attendees, his eyes narrow momentarily as they pass over Oukonunaka. Very interesting.
Mr. Keel retrieves a silver pocketwatch from the vest of his three piece suit, checking it before turning in his seat to survey the room. His gaze rests on each of you for a brief moment, then he double checks the watch before snapping it shut and returning it to his vest.
He the stands and walks to the woman, gently laying his hand on her elbow. She turns and allows him to guide her to the front pew, and once they're both seated he nods to Father Grimsby.
At the sign from Mr. Keel, the Father clears his throat and steps up to the podium at the head of the simple room. Standing before the large wooden crucifix hung upon the back wall, he addresses the small assembly in a thin, wavering voice.
"Good afternoon, my good ladies and gentlemen; thank you all for coming today. We are here to lay to rest Doctor August Pallaver, a patron of learning, healing, and justice the world over. It is with a heavy heart that I stand here today to bid him farewell, as a finer man I have never known. Though often misunderstood by his neighbors, he labored without complaint to better himself and those around him, and in so doing to build a new reputation for himself and his family. ‘For a good name is better than precious ointment; and the day of death than the day of one's birth.’
"In this I believe he was successful; while those here in Helorus are not quick to forget the past, I believe those of you in attendance today stand as testament to the breadth of men and women whose lives he affected for the better, of all cultures and all nations, with his dedication to medicine, his generosity of spirit, and his zeal for setting wrongs to right.”
He turns his gaze down to the simple coffin before him, and there is a slight catch in his voice as he proceeds.
”August, you left the world a better place than you had found it. May you receive the rest you so rightly deserve; and may your rest be easy, knowing that your legacy lives on in all those you’ve touched, as they continue your good work the world over. Goodbye, dear friend – you will be missed.”
Father Grimsby steps down from the podium, walking to the woman and taking her hand. He bends close and whispers a few words to her, too quiet for anyone else to hear. She stands, taking his arm for support.
”I need four volunteers to act as pallbearers," the Father declares, looking about the room expectantly. "We’ll not be going far, the graveyard is right next door.”
"I am Oukonunaka. Dr. Pallaver saved my life when I was a boy. It would be my honor."
It is debt I have not paid.
Oukonunaka rises from the pew and slowly makes his way towards Father Grimsby scanning the room for any possible challenge.
Perhaps I will be accepted, perhaps not. Either way, as Pallaver guided me back from the Upper World I shall help guide him there. That is my vow. I shall not be denied.
Clark hesitates a moment, then straightens his jacket, sets his hat down on the rearmost pew, and walks toward the coffin. Not too many other fellows about, it seems. Well, hope it's not too heavy...
He pauses as Oukonunaka says his piece, his initial alarm somewhat diminished by the intense young man's obvious earnestness.
Clark nods slightly at Oukonunaka and then the others, and moves to take up the pole next to the boy. "Luther Clark. I regret that we meet under these circumstances."
There must be quite a story here...
The fur-clad man has remained standing throughout the eulogy, leaning on the pew behind him. He now draws himself up straight and walks to the front.
"Surely I shall help bear the good doctor to his rest, yes?" he asks Luther in a thick Russian accent. "After all, he deserves to have men of... distinction carry out this final task." As he speaks he draws out a handkerchief and wipes the sweat from his brow.
Amaya sits straight-backed in her pew. She had found a seat near the back of the church with only one other guest and managed to find a spot with no one blocking her view of the coffin. As she watches the preacher take the podium, she has her first respite from her unease—this is enough like a lecture hall that she reflexively readies her mind for the remarks.
Not much of an oration, she thinks as the preacher concludes his short remarks. I’d like to know more. Though, apparently this crowd is indeed from beyond Helorus.
Oukonunaka rises and speaks. Mohawk? she thinks before turning to look. She listens closely to the long “I”’s in his speech. Seneca? She has only intermittent views of him through rows of heads as he makes his way to the front of the church along the aisle furthest from her. Clark moves from behind her without speaking and walks up the aisle closest to her. She looks at him. Veteran. Maybe local. Probably not.
As the pallbearers gather they exchange words that she cannot hear. Presumably trying to get organized. Who prepares a funeral without pallbearers? She relaxes lower in her pew and wonders how much more could be left of the service.
Luther attempts to keep his face neutral as his eyes meet Vredovsky's. "Indeed."
Mr. Keel glances back over his shoulder at Ms. Harvey for a moment before standing and joining the other men at the doctor's coffin, taking the place opposite the Russian.
Father Grimsby covers the coffin with a black pall cloth as the four men take up their positions: Oukonunaka and the Russian on one side, Luther and Mr. Keel on the other. A definite odor of some sort of rubbing alcohol or solvent can be detected by the bearers. Father Grimsby then leads them out of the church through the front doors, followed by the grieving woman and Amaya.
The small procession walks outside into a pleasant Spring day; quite the change from the past few days, which had seen a hard, unrelenting rain through last night. Helorus’s small inn has but four rooms and two were already rented, forcing one of you to find alternate accommodations, whether that had been letting a room from the prim Widow Johnson or just a stay in a farmer’s hayloft on the outskirts of town. The weather had kept you and the townsfolk inside for most of your stay, and it had seemed a dreary, desolate place.
Today, however, the sun shines from a clear blue sky down upon the town. Nestled amongst the hills about twenty miles north of the Erie Canal and nearest rail line, the farms of Helorus stretch along the eastern shore of Lake Hinon up into the wooded hills. The center of town is a cluster of buildings (most notably the town hall, inn, general store, pub, and the church) along a section of cobbled road which runs north/south through it. Once past these buildings the road reverts to packed dirt in both directions.
The church lies at the southern edge of the cobblestone, with the graveyard stretching south along the earthen road. A low stone wall surrounds the graveyard on three sides - 200' along the road, and 100' on the sides; the “back” of the graveyard to the west seems to simply devolve into wild shrubs and small trees. Graves appear to be marked with small, simple headstones, and in some cases even just inscribed fieldstones.
Father Grimsby leads the procession down the towards an iron gate set in the graveyard’s wall, in front of which a half dozen men have gathered. They appear to be farmers by their dress and assortment of agricultural tools. Any thoughts of them being additional mourners are quickly dispelled as you draw near.
A white-haired man who appears in his 50s steps forward, an angry scowl upon his face.
“That’s far enough! We been talking, and we don’t want Pallaver buried here in town. You can take him up north and bury him there if you want, but he ain’t goin’ inta our ground!”
The man's words garner a round of agreement from the others with him.
"What is the meaning of this, Gustav?"
"Ye heard us, father. We don't want that devil-doctor buried in the same place as our kin! Now we ain't fixin' t' strike no man of God, but the rest of ya best march that coffin somewheres else."
Again the man's allies voice their agreement, some pounding the ground with the butts of their hoes and pitchforks to emphasize the point.
Oukonunaka reamains stoic, but crouches slightly and shifts his weight to his left leg.
My words of peace might provoke the mob. I will reamin silent. I hope for peace, but am prepared for war.
When leaving the church, Amaya was not sure if she had made eye contact with the grieving woman through her veil. Regardless, the woman only sobs and faces front as she walks. Amaya did her best to walk respectfully in the procession, keeping close to the woman but staying a half-step behind. Did she know that we were invited? Does she wish us to be here? What is worse: having no one to attend a funeral or having to invite a peripheral acquaintance in order to fill the pews?
As the procession slows to a halt in order to confront the farmers, the woman in black stays back and so Amaya stays back, as well. Will she step forward? If they will not disrespect the preacher, perhaps they will fold if faced with her.
Clark frowns as he observes Oukonunaka's weight shift. A fighter, eh...
Noticing the others' hesitation, he straightens himself as best he can while holding the weight, and addresses the mob in a tired voice.
"I don't know what crimes you think this man guilty of, but hallowed ground is proof against whatever fears you may have. Keep Faith and allow the Father to judge the dead."
He takes a breath, and lowers his voice somewhat. "This is not the time." He casts a significant glance at the veiled woman. "Return to your own families, enjoy them while you have them, and let us resume this discussion at a more appropriate time."
uh oh...
"Enjoy our families while we have them?!" Gustav's face contorts in anger. "We'll take no threats from the likes of you lot!" There is a chorus of agreement from the man's cronies. "Now you get that damned man's corpse outta our town, or else we will!"
The farmers, though agitated, seem unsure how to proceed. I wouldn’t know how to disrupt a burial, either. As Gustav’s shouting swells, it seems certain that the group will charge. However, Gustav makes no move—now the other men seem stale, perhaps shaken by the mention of having to carry the body themselves. Some of them are realizing that a fight can’t solve this. Clergy and women and carrying damned corpses were not part of their plan.
I can try…
“Oh, thank goodness!” exclaims Amaya, stepping out into their view from behind the coffin. And you’ve brought shovels from your homes. That is essential!”
The path to the cemetery is narrow and occupied entirely by the coffin and pallbearers. Amaya needs to step around on the knobby field grass in order to approach the angry men. A bit of cooling-off time while they wait for me. She feigns a wobble, then loses her balance and actually stumbles. As she rises, she steals a glance at Gustav. He still seems angry but others in the crowd seem on their heels. Perhaps once more. She continues walking in the field grass longer than necessary so that she may feign a stumble nearly at Gustav’s feet. She intentionally breaks her fall with her left hand, splaying her few fingers wide on the path in full view. Gustav, though marginally diverted, refuses to help her.
He splutters a few words of disapproval.
Steady. They won’t hit you. Amaya rises, speaking softly on her way up. “Thank goodness you are all here.” Even at her full height, Gustav towers over her. He leans down a bit to hear. A few of the other farmers lean in, as well. “This is how it ends. Just like at New Perth.”
I’ve got their attention. “The witch at New Perth that soured the milk. They didn’t stop her until they buried her proper. If you cover the coffin with earth using your own labor and your own tools, then you are sure to have your victory.” She lowers her voice to a whisper. “You don’t want to take the body outside of town—there will be no power over it there. You don’t want to mess with that corpse at all. Let’s get it buried proper in a proper cemetery while we are all here together.” The men variously look at each other and Gustav. "Let’s clear the way. Point me to a shovel.”
Rather than push through the group in toward the cemetery, Amaya backs up out of the huddle that had formed around her, trying to stay between the mob and the coffin. She sneaks a glance up at Keel, hoping that he is some sort of barometer for this situation, then looks at the ground and makes her way toward the edge of the path.
Her hand is that of an owl's talon. This is an omen! I must speak to her.
The farmer takes a step back from Miss Harvey at her fall, gaping at the sight of her hand. He grumbles for a moment after her speech, looking from her to the graveyard and back again. "Hallowed ground..." His brow furrows in intense thought for a few moments before he erupts into shouting once again.
"Alright you heathens, hands off that coffin! We'll be doing this ourselves, to make sure it's done proper - without any further deviltry from the likes of you!" He takes a purposeful step forward and shakes his fist at the pallbearers. After a moment of doubt his cohorts step forward as well, brandishing their farm tools.
Clark's eyebrow raises as the woman stumbles and steadies herself with a strangely deformed hand. He jerks slightly as he considers moving to assist her, but then relaxes when he realizes that she seems to be having some success in her discussion with the mob. He strains to hear the conversation, but can't make it out.
His other eyebrow raises in bewilderment as the woman backs away and the farmer approaches, suddenly seemingly intent on burying Pallaver in the cemetary. What the hell did she say to him?
Glacing to the priest in vain for guidance, Clark adjusts his feet. Camly and very slowly, like a man who has suddenly come upon a wild beast and wishes to disengage without frightening it, he begins sliding back on his pole to make room should one of the men wish to take the weight. As one of the men approaches, Clark solemnly gestures an offer to carry his pitchfork for him.
Oukonunaka warily gives up his pall-bearing spot once a local comes forth to take it.
I do not trust these men. They are strong in anger but weak in resolve. I will allow them to carry Dr. Pallaver but I shall follow to make sure he is shown the proper respect due to him.
Amaya watches earnestly and solemnly as the coffin slowly and silently begins to change hands, wondering if she'll receive a rebuke from any of the pallbearers, either now or later. The veteran and the Indian seem willing enough to play along. She hopes that the handoff to Keel and the Russian will go as smoothly. Amaya cannot discern any disapproval to the plan from Keel or the woman in black.
I hope the preacher heads the new procession, but I'll keep everyone on task if I have to.
As additional farmers move forward to take up the casket, she steps slightly onto the path and offers to relieve one of them of their shovel in order to free his hands. He regards her with a puzzled look, then turns to hand his tool instead to another farmer.
The Russian seems almost grateful as he passes the load to one of the farmers, his arms trembling with the effort. At the same time, Mr. Keel also relinquishes his spot.
Once all the pallbearers have been replaced, Gustav gives a hard eye to the whole procession. "Alright, Father, carry on."
A look of mild amazement on his face, Father Grimsby resumes the proceedings, opening the simple latch on the low wrought iron gates and swinging them open. The procession moves forward once again, Mr. Keel accompanying the grieving woman immediately behind the casket, followed by the original pallbearers. Gustav brings up the rear, scrutinizing the proceedings for any suspicious behavior. The Father leads onwards into the graveyard, the townsfolk now acting as pallbearers seeming nervous and grim as they carry the doctor's casket through the grave markers.
At first the priest seems to be heading towards the only mausoleum present: a short, squat granite affair that seems to glower out across the yard from beneath its mantle of moss and creeping ivy at the back corner of the grounds. He comes to a stop, however, at an open grave alongside a mound of dirt several headstones down from the overgrown tomb. Faint snoring noises can be heard from the brush behind the gravesite.
"Ernest! Ernest, wake yourself, boy!" Grimsby calls in his high voice. Immediately the snoring breaks into snorting coughs and a gangly young man of no more than 16 years quickly rises to his feet behind the gravestone, attempting in vain to smooth out his oversized overalls and cotton shirt. He beams a smile at the Father for a moment before suddenly dropping to his hands and knees to search the brush for a few long seconds, after which he jerkily stands back up, spade in hand.
"Yes, ready, Father."
"Very well. It appears you'll have some assistance today." Grimsby motions for the coffin to be placed upon two wooden boards stretched across the grave alongside two lengths of rope. Once placed, he speaks again.
"August Byron Pallaver, for as much as it hath pleased Almighty God of his great mercy to take unto himself your soul, we therefore commit your body to the ground; earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust; in sure and certain hope of the Resurrection to eternal life, through our Lord Jesus Christ; who shall change our vile body, that it may be like unto his glorious body, according to the mighty working, whereby he is able to subdue all things to himself.
"Vile is right," the farmer grumbles, none too loud but none too quiet.
"Gentlemen, if you would," Grimsby says to the pallbearers, indicating the ropes. Under Gustav's watchful eye each man takes up on one end of a rope. Ernest pulls out each board from underneath, after which the bearers jerkily lower the coffin into the ground. Once done, Ernest steps forward and begins shoveling dirt onto the casket. Gustav grabs the shovel from him with a glare, and he and another farmer begin filling in the grave.
Mr. Keel steps from the side of the grieving woman, leaving her standing and staring down into the grave as Gustav and his crony shovel, Father Grimsby beside her murmuring words of support. He retrieves and checks his pocketwatch before waving the remainder of the attendees a short distance away from the grave and addressing them.
"Lady, gentlemen, thank you for your attendance. If you would like to be present at the reading of the deceased's will, please join me this evening at the Pallaver residence, 6 o'clock sharp." He returns his watch to his vest, then gives a polite but curt bow of his head to the group.
"Until then." He walks back to the grave and stands a respectful distance behind the woman and Father Grimsby as they watch Gustav do his work.
Amaya is relieved that she seems once again irrelevant as the procession resumes executing its task.
"Thank you, Mr. Keel. I'll see you then."
As Keel recedes, Clark watches in disbelief as the men continue to fill the grave.
He eyes the indian, nods to him, and then turns to softly introduce himself to Amaya with a brief dip of his hat. "Luther Clark. A peripheral acquaintance of the Doctor's."
His head twitches toward the farmers. "What in God's name did you say to them? I've never seen anything like it."
Amaya returns the curt nod to Keel. She is disappointed that she cannot read in his face any opinion of the funeral service, of the farmers, or of the group of original pallbearers with whom she now stands.
She turns to Clark as he introduces himself, happy that he is the one to first approach her. He seems kind. Certainly some intelligence behind those eyes.
“Good morning,” she replies. “I am Amaya Harvey. I, too, knew Dr. Pallaver very little.” Who here did know him? Maybe that coffin is full of rice.
“As for those folks,” she looks to the farmers, “God’s name is about right. I figured that busting up a burial sounds a lot better when you are talking about it in somebody’s barn than when you have to confront a preacher and a widow.” She looks back to Clark with the slightest of shrugs. “They heard what they wanted to hear. You have probably seen plenty like it—the coffin and the shovels may be novel details.” As she speaks the words, she realizes that they might sound patronizingly dismissive. Perhaps a joke. “They doubled the attendance.” She glances at the Indian before a polite look back at Clark.
“Здравствуйте,” she says to the Russian. “Меня зовут Amaya Harvey.”
Oukonunaka turns and faces Mr. Keel.
"I will attend."
He then shifts his attention to Amaya.
"You bear the mark of the owl. Our fates are joined."
He then returns to watching the burial.
"I will see this burial done."
Tonight I will check on the grave and add protection to it, to do so now would be unwise.
The Russian man smiles at Amaya and bows.
"Здравствуйте! Я Станислав Телович Ведровский. Приятно снова услышать мой родной язык, особенно в таком приятном голосе."
"I am Stanislav, Mr. Clark." He extends a hand to the engineer. "I knew the doctor quite well. But this is hardly the place for long talks, no? I am staying at the Lakeside Inn, as perhaps are you?" He looks between Luther and Amaya. "Is nice sitting room there, good for talking. Well, I say nice..." he gives a dismissive shrug. "Is nice enough. You join me, yes? Pass the time until we meet again with Mister Keel."
"Мне очень приятно."
Amaya looks around the group.
"I am also at the Lakeside. Tea before the meeting with Keel sounds fine."
"Good, good! Then I will see you both there. Do svidániya." Stanislav grins at the talkative pair and takes his leave, looking like a shambling mass of heavy furs as he slowly makes his way down the road towards town.
Is she dodging my question? I suppose it doesn't matter. Strange day.
...
Clark nods to Stanislav. "Until then."
He resumes watching the burial, a polite distance from the indian. The boy isn't wrong about these no-good farmers. Why don't I keep an eye on them as well...
The farmers finish filling in the grave without further incident and leave the graveyard, Gustav grumbling under his breath before departing. Father Grimsby and the woman stay at the graveside a short time longer before returning together to the church.
Eventually Amaya and Luther find their way to the modest sitting room of the Lakeside Inn, a simple but well-kept establishment that is just as far from the lake as the rest of Helorus's town center. The Inn's lobby serves as sitting room; next to the door at the front is a wide window which provides a pleasant enough view of the main street, with much of the rest of the room being taken up by a half dozen aging armchairs arranged in a semi-circle before a black iron wood-burning stove. At the back of the room is a small check-in desk attended by the Inn's owner, a middle-aged man by the name of Harold, as well as halls leading to the small dining room, the two first floor rooms, and a staircase leading to the two second floor suites.
You've been given a small brass bell which you may use to summon a maid, who is more than happy to take your orders for tea, beer, and wine of modest quality, as well for toast, jams, and hard boiled eggs. Stanislav is seated with a bottle of wine and two empty glasses; in his hand is a third, from which he is guzzling red wine.
Stanislav grins and pulls himself out from the depths of the chair and furs he has seemingly sunken into, standing up and motioning to the empty seats.
"Come, sit! Allow me to pour you a glass of wine." Without waiting for a response he uncorks the bottle and does just that. He hands a glass to each of you, shaking his head dismissively at any protests. Some color has appeared to return to his face since this morning, and he seems more full of vigor.
As the farmers leave, Clark nods to the indian boy and heads out. He takes a walk around the town to stretch his legs, and then heads back to the Inn.
...
Clark first stops in his room at the Inn, before heading to the sitting room.
Letting out a deep sigh, he looks through his cases. His hand hesitates over his revolver, shaking slightly. Just fools and drunks, Clark. Keep perspective. He digs around in his case until he finds a worn brass knuckleduster, and slips it into his pocket. A compromise.
...
"Good afternoon Ms Harvey. Stanislav." Clark greets Amaya and the russian as he enters the sitting room. "Afternoon, Harold."
He moves to join Stanislav at the table. "Thank you, sir. Don't mind if I do." He slides out a chair for and offers it to Amaya, then pulls a second and sits himself. "It's been a day, hasn't it?"
He lowers his voice. "Any idea what had those folks so worked up? It was quite a thing, at a funeral, in front of the family and all. So much for country hospitality."
The burial ends uneventfully and without further conversation. Amaya returns to the Inn to collect a book from her room, then walks the town and eventually finds a park bench at which to read.
…
Amaya arrives at the Inn refreshed but hungry. She finds the party already assembled in the lobby and approaches them willingly. Lest she not get the opportunity again, she rings the bell for service before engaging the group. I don’t wish the maid’s arrival to disrupt our conversation, but I must be sure to eat.
Amaya nods a pleasant welcome to Stanislav and Luther. The bear-like Russian offers her a glass of wine. Not on an empty stomach. Her thoughts must be betrayed on her face because Stanislav shakes his head at the notion of her turning down the glass.
“Good day, all.” As she makes eye contact with everyone, she does not sense much urgency. She smiles a response to Luther’s greeting.
Amaya takes the seat offered to her by Luther, sets her book beneath her chair and her glass of wine on the table. At Luther’s question about the funeral, she returns a glance of a lengthy duration. I have no idea. She turns her head toward Stanislav and politely awaits a response. He seemed ready enough to talk at the burial.
"Small-minded peasants. Always their kind seek to bring down their betters, no?" He finishes his glass with a gulp. A moment later the maid approaches, summoned by Amaya's bell ringing, and Stanislav claps his hands in delight. "Ah! Perfect timing, my dear. Another bottle of wine, and whatever Miss Harvey desires."
Peasants? Betters? Amaya blinks through the effort of hiding a frown of disappointment at such a mundane explanation. Surely he knows more; even a little more would help. He mentioned wanting a longer talk. I'd like to keep him talking...and drinking.
"It is not my experience that disgruntled workers choose a burial at which to air their grievances; or to use epithets like devil-doctor."
To the maid: "A pot of tea for the table and a boiled egg for me, please."
Amaya looks to Luther as a way of keeping the conversation open, rather than looking to Stanislav as if to expect a direct response. I wonder if the maid heard me say 'devil-doctor;' Luther was probably right to lower his voice.
How continental of you, Stanislav.
Clark covers a wince with a slightly forced grin. Well, she's not wrong. He waves away the maid's inquiring look, and takes another sip of his wine. "Not bad at all. Thank you, Stanislav."
As the maid retreats, he looks to Amaya. "They were a rather colorful lot, weren't they. And that Indian fellow?" He shakes his head with a bewildered look, and takes another sip.
He proffers his glass in a gentle toast. "To the good doctor, may he find his rest."
Amaya looks to Luther as he speaks, but offers no opinion of the farmers or the Indian. The Indian. Keel expects him at our meeting, as well. I wonder.
At Luther's toast, Amaya takes her glass from the table and raises it.
"To Professor Pallaver."
She looks to Stanislav. With some food on the way, I may yet drink to whatever this Russian has to say about Pallaver.
Oukonunaka reaches into his pouch takes from it the components of the Sacred Pipe and lays them before him. He contimplates them, preparing for the ritual.
The bowl is of the same red clay The Creator used to make me. The red clay is Woman kind and is from the Earth. Just as a woman bears the children and brings forth life, the bowl bears the sacred tobacco and brings forth smoke. The stem is Man. Rigid and strong the stem is from the plant kingdom and like a man it supports the bowl just as man supports his family.
Oukonunaka takes the bowl in his left hand and the stem in his right.
Just as a man and a woman remain separate until joined in marriage so too are the bowl and stem separate. Never to be joined unless the pipe is used.
Carefully he joins the bowl and the stem together.
The smoke is the breath of The Creator, I draw the smoke in into my body, I am cleansed and made whole. When the smoke leaves my mouth, it will rise to The Creator. My prayers, my dreams, my hopes and desires will be taken to Him in the smoke. Also the truth in my soul will be shown to Him when I smoke the pipe. If I am not true, I will not smoke the pipe. If my spirit is bad and I seek to deceive, I will not smoke the pipe.
He then places the sacred tsula into the pipe and with an ember from the fire lights the tsula so it burns slightly. Looking inward and composing his thoughts, Oukonunaka takes a deep pull from the Sacred Pipe.
May Gayatohásdi see Dr. Pallaver safely across the great divide.
Oukonunaka slowly exhales the smoke from his lungs. He sits still, mediating for a moment, then draws deep again.
I am the last of my clan. The ways of my father and my father's father are no more. I hold true to the old ways. My debt has led me here. The spirits have shown me an omen in the women, Amaya. Unetlanvhi I seek purpose.
Once again Oukonunaka exhales slowly. He watches the smoke as it lazily drifts upward into the sky. Sitting silently he opens himself to the sounds of the land, the feel of the sun and wind on his face, the smell of the campfire, the taste of tsula on his tongue, and the beauty of the clear sky. He is thankful. Cleansed, and the ritual complete, Oukonunaka gently empties the pipe of its ash into his small campfire, carefully separates the pipe, and replaces it into its pouch. He sits quietly in meditation until the evening when he packs up his camp and rides to the Pallaver residence to meet Mr. Keel.
Stanislav somberly raises his empty glass. "To August." He settles back into his armchair, craning his neck to look towards the front desk hall.
"You have much experience with disgruntled workers, then?" The Russian turns his head back to look Amaya over. "I think not with their kind. As for the Indian, he reminds me much of the Alaskan natives that August studied while staying at my manor there. He was very intrigued by their beliefs. To their credit, they were a hardy folk. They made due with what they had, and never asked for anything from us." He resumes looking towards the dining room. "The same cannot be said of my countrymen."
He smiles as the maid appears with the requested tea, wine, and hard-boiled egg on a tray. He gladly takes the fresh bottle and pours himself another glass while the maid sets the tray down next to Amaya. She then excuses herself, and Stanislav begins to gently swirl the contents of his glass.
"How did you know August?" he inquires to the pair.
Amaya sets her glass back down on the table without drinking from it. She straightens when addressed by the Russian; she maintains her attention on him as his gaze shifts around the group and around the room while he speaks of his Alaskan manor. On a first-name basis with Pallaver. Interesting.
Amaya acknowledges the delivery from the maid with a nod to her. Keeping her left hand folded on her lap, Amaya moves the items around the tray one by one and then begins to pour herself a cup of tea. “I am neither a politician nor an aristocrat.” She chooses this word at which to pause and look up at Stanislav in order to offer him tea. She also looks to Luther while the pot waits above a cup. “And I’m not sure what kind of peasants we met this morning. But I do know that their level of agitation is not typical of my countrymen.”
She sets the pot down and takes a sip of tea.
“I met Professor Pallaver quite by accident several years ago. I had,” she pauses almost imperceptibly, “gotten myself admitted to an academic conference concerning a sort of archaeology. I had not been there for an hour before I realized the material was of little interest to me and that the lectures were quite banal. However, as I was making my exit, I was confronted by one of the lecturers who took me to be an attendant girl loitering about ‘discussions that I couldn’t hope to understand.’ Well," she exhales and looks distantly between her companions, "since I had no further love to lose for that lecturer, I took the occasion to disrupt their proceedings by producing, quite arbitrarily but surreptitiously, an ordinary wooden slat from a nearby shelf then slowly convincing him and the others that it was an artefact of great import to their collective field. Professor Pallaver was one of the twenty or so scholars at that conference. He eventually joined the crowd around me and I could see in his eyes that he was on to my rouse. He never outed me. Every time I stole a glance at him, the smile in his eyes had grown, but he betrayed nothing to anyone else. I determined afterwards who he was. He must have done the same about me, for I never gave my name at the meeting and I had not seen him since.”
Amaya looks from one face to the other around the table. She sips her tea. The egg, already peeled, yields easily to her fork and she take a bite.