spirit. With the flames that struggle upwards, with the smoke that tumbles into the sky, with the hot air rising, his spirit. His body shall relinquish it and only the downward dust shall remain. And dust shall feed the earth and the earth will bring forth flowers in the dirt. Flowers, my friends,’ said Grandhe, lifting his arms in a theatrical gesture, and smiling. ‘Flowers know their nature is from the Divine! They struggle upwards, struggle like green flames, though tethered to the ledge. They struggle in the direction that he has gone!’ A murmur spread quickly through the mourners; Grandhe beaming, casting his glance amongst these people. For the briefest moment his eyes lighted on Tighe.
Tighe’s heart leapt up again, but for a different reason. The unholy thought had occurred to him just how ugly Grandhe’s face was. Broad brown nose like a piece of goat-dung; semi-coloured face, blotched with a disfiguring paleness in a spilt pattern, like milk unwiped away. He joined in, heartily, to cover his own evil thinking.
‘Upwards! Upwards!’
Grandhe ducked down and Tighe couldn’t see him past the crush of people. But moments later boulders of smoke hurtled upwards and a shower of flames stretched after them. How did they get bodies to burn so quickly and with such ferocity? Tighe didn’t know.
Wittershe was at his back, pressing herself against him. ‘I could hardly hear,’ she said, leaning close to his ear. ‘Did he say anything shocking? Did he admit to anything with Konstakhe?’
Tighe breathed sharply, sucking in a laugh. It was the tart delight of being close to Wittershe, of her saying the unsayable. He half turned and leaned a little forward, so as to bring his mouth close to the side of her head. ‘How do they get flesh to burn so fierce?’ he hissed in her ear.
She snorted with laughter, stretched up so that her lips were close to his ear. ‘They douse the body. They dig a pit and douse it with this stuff, leave it all night. But only if the dead is a virtuous dead. My pahe told me.’
‘Your pahe doesn’t know anything past monkeys,’ said Tighe, drunk with the delight of speaking the unspeakable. But the cheering had got louder and Wittershe probably didn’t hear. Which was doubtless for the best since Wittershe was close to her pahe.
‘Stand there,’ said Wittershe. ‘I want to climb up on your back and have a look at the body burning.’ He turned to face the front again and her tiny body was scrambling up his back, pulling herself up with her hands over his shoulders. She reached as high as she could go, her belly pressing into the back of his head. She was holding his shoulder to steady herself. His bruises ached a little where she put pressure on them, but he didn’t mind that, not really. He reached up with his own right hand out, pressing the small of her back to steady her. The goat-hair cloth she was wearing scratched his neck, but his head, neck, back could feel the sliding of her naked belly. It was so close, pressed so close against him. His heart swam, his wick strengthening and standing. With his free hand he jostled it, so that it wouldn’t bulge his pants. ‘Can you see it?’ he called. ‘Can you see it?’
It wasn’t comfortable and it obstructed his own view of the scene, poor though that had been. He could just about make out the shimmy of the flame-tops over the people ahead of him. Everybody had shuffled forward as the burning began and closed together, almost as if they wanted to soak up the warmth. He tried to look up, to see if the old man’s spirit was visible as it bounced up free through the air, looking like – he didn’t know what. Dancing on the flame-tops, perhaps, or climbing each strand of yellow flame like a spirit creeper. But he couldn’t see anything other than the backs of people’s heads and at the top of his vision only a mess of broken smoke. Wittershe was leaning forward, her head and her hair stopping him seeing properly
Tighe’s heart leapt up again, but for a different reason. The unholy thought had occurred to him just how ugly Grandhe’s face was. Broad brown nose like a piece of goat-dung; semi-coloured face, blotched with a disfiguring paleness in a spilt pattern, like milk unwiped away. He joined in, heartily, to cover his own evil thinking.
‘Upwards! Upwards!’
Grandhe ducked down and Tighe couldn’t see him past the crush of people. But moments later boulders of smoke hurtled upwards and a shower of flames stretched after them. How did they get bodies to burn so quickly and with such ferocity? Tighe didn’t know.
Wittershe was at his back, pressing herself against him. ‘I could hardly hear,’ she said, leaning close to his ear. ‘Did he say anything shocking? Did he admit to anything with Konstakhe?’
Tighe breathed sharply, sucking in a laugh. It was the tart delight of being close to Wittershe, of her saying the unsayable. He half turned and leaned a little forward, so as to bring his mouth close to the side of her head. ‘How do they get flesh to burn so fierce?’ he hissed in her ear.
She snorted with laughter, stretched up so that her lips were close to his ear. ‘They douse the body. They dig a pit and douse it with this stuff, leave it all night. But only if the dead is a virtuous dead. My pahe told me.’
‘Your pahe doesn’t know anything past monkeys,’ said Tighe, drunk with the delight of speaking the unspeakable. But the cheering had got louder and Wittershe probably didn’t hear. Which was doubtless for the best since Wittershe was close to her pahe.
‘Stand there,’ said Wittershe. ‘I want to climb up on your back and have a look at the body burning.’ He turned to face the front again and her tiny body was scrambling up his back, pulling herself up with her hands over his shoulders. She reached as high as she could go, her belly pressing into the back of his head. She was holding his shoulder to steady herself. His bruises ached a little where she put pressure on them, but he didn’t mind that, not really. He reached up with his own right hand out, pressing the small of her back to steady her. The goat-hair cloth she was wearing scratched his neck, but his head, neck, back could feel the sliding of her naked belly. It was so close, pressed so close against him. His heart swam, his wick strengthening and standing. With his free hand he jostled it, so that it wouldn’t bulge his pants. ‘Can you see it?’ he called. ‘Can you see it?’
It wasn’t comfortable and it obstructed his own view of the scene, poor though that had been. He could just about make out the shimmy of the flame-tops over the people ahead of him. Everybody had shuffled forward as the burning began and closed together, almost as if they wanted to soak up the warmth. He tried to look up, to see if the old man’s spirit was visible as it bounced up free through the air, looking like – he didn’t know what. Dancing on the flame-tops, perhaps, or climbing each strand of yellow flame like a spirit creeper. But he couldn’t see anything other than the backs of people’s heads and at the top of his vision only a mess of broken smoke. Wittershe was leaning forward, her head and her hair stopping him seeing properly
Similar Books
It's Always Darkest Before the Fridge Door Opens: Enjoying the Fruits of Middle Age
Phil Callaway, Martha O. Bolton
