So Sang the Wind

by Pippin O'Leary

It looks ancient. The cool, rough grey stones, the massive peak, and the many bells tolling mournfully at the top. The wind swept past it, making strange voices keen from the stone. It towers over the landscape- the bare fields nearby, the forest beyond- all overtaken by the forcible presence of the stone building. It even feels old. All in all, not a very welcoming building. I had trouble enough going inside the first time, but a second? C-r-e-e-p-y!

Rewind. Today was my mother’s uncle’s friend’s funeral, or something like that. As it turns out, he’s the one my sister was named after. “Jamboree James Johnson.” Yeo-och. Hell of a name, but he was a decent guy from what my mom says. The three of us, Mom, Jam (the one who was alive, my sister), and I were dressed in casual clothes, as was everyone else. It’s funny, watching a bunch of men in Hawaiian shirts carry a casket. Funny in a morbid way. Old Jam had a superstition about the color black, or sommat like that. Not that I really followed that- the only long-sleeved shirt I had was black. No superstition was going to put me in short sleeves!

Nevertheless, the atmosphere of the church was spine-chillingly gloomy. No tacky orange floral-print shirt could diminish the effect of candles, of bloody velvet on the pews. The Crucified Lord stared at us, as we were singing hymns to ease the Old Jam’s parting. I don’t know much about the faith- the songs were in Latin, and echoed in a strange way within the church.

Outside, the fall wind howled, scratching to get inside. It was as though all the wolves of winter had decided to attack the church, from the noises outside to the permeating chill. I shuddered, wrapping my hoodie around me. No matter how could, I refused to put it on, least the text become visible. I was creeped out as it was, I didn’t need to add to it by wearing a grey hoodie that pronounced “Wicked.” Who knew whatever deity in that place may see it.

The funeral itself was amusing, dark, and downright disturbing. Seeing a fire engine red casket was strange enough. The body inside was like a bad joke. He was all dressed up; bright yellow suit, wrinkled blue dress-pants, the ashen complexion of a corpse. Add in the bizarre colors of the mourners, it was like the circus had come to pay their respects. One second it would make me smile, the next shudder. I was ecstatic to get out. I rushed to the door, grabbing the coat my mother had refused to let me wear inside. We left in a hurry.

It was around six in the evening, a good eight hours later, that I realized I had left my Wicked sweatshirt in the sinister church. My favorite hoodie. I refused to let the place win! The uncanny place was within a few miles of my home, within walking distance. That is, if you actually like freezing your bum off. My dearest mother refused me a ride, saying it was my mess. She gave me my coat, and then all but pushed me out the door.

It was around seven when I got there, the sky darkening into a cold, grey twilight. The wind had stung me the entire way, finding all the nooks in my coat. Without the wind, maybe the walk wouldn't have been so bad. Maybe. But add wind into the equation? Not a chance. I had watched all the bare trees rustle the entire way there. I knew how their shivering branches felt.

I shriek, I’ll admit, when that idiot wind strikes my face, whipping a ruby maple leaf into my green-rimmed glasses. I swear it a huge bug (or bat, just something unpleasant) and slap my face silly. A moment of pain and embarrassment later, I stop. They both drop to the dying grass, the scarlet leaf a sharp contrast to the other withered brown foliage, my oddball glasses looking as ridiculous on the ground as they do on my face. After jumping around, looking for the culprit, I snatch them both. I push the funky glasses back onto my face, and then look at the leaf.

The leaf is simply gorgeous- all the veins are pronounced, a deeper scarlet then the leaf. A bit of cold-- water? I dunno-- dripped off it. I look at the stuff, staining my hand red, and wipe my hand in the grass quickly. The wind blows hard, trying to pull my new treasure away. I hold on. Gods, I hate autumn sometimes! Cursing everything about this day, I slip into the sanctuary as quietly as my flapping coat will allow. The wind howls loudly one last time, then is silenced (mostly) by the shutting door.

Shit. The place is near-empty, but there are murmuring sounds of quiet sobs, of droning Latin reaching my ears. Another funeral is happening! I thank all the gods that no one had noticed my entrance. They’re enshrouded in their own misery, inside the womblike desolation of this church. I guess they don’t have room for weird sounds in their hurt. Their own anguish creeps into me, filling me with depression. I have to get out of this place, and fast.

But... I don’t. I put my brightly-colored coat inside the rack. I look down at my black shirt, my deep blue jeans, and start towards the sanctuary. I walk forward on cat-feet, padding my way into the near-empty second row. I knell down on the blood-red velvet, and whisper Latin hymns for the sake of the one in the dark wooden casket.

A woman near me is sobbing. She’s older, around my own grandparent’s age. I see no one near her, no husband or kids sitting beside her. My arms move on their own. Out of nowhere, I’m hugging this grandmotherly woman. She starts, shudders, sobs like the world is ending. I cry too- I cry for her pain. She may be a complete stranger, but she’s suffering so. The sky darkens, as the wind wails at the door. I don’t think I’ve ever felt as lonely as I do now, holding a mourning woman as the candles flicker, as the priest drowns, as the gale-like wind screams.

The service passes in a dream. Finally, it is time to say goodbye, to see the body one last time. I help the woman up, as she cries softly. Her tears have lessoned, but her pain only seems to grow. She stumbles forward without my aid, stroking the face of the deceased the final time. Someone-- I don’t know who, a relative or neighbor-- helps her outside, presumably to her home. I wait until the tiny crowd is gone, a bunch of students a few years older than I, and a couple people that look like teachers.

I step forward, light footstep muffled by the musty carpet, and look into the casket myself. A boy a few years older than me, maybe seventeen, is lying there. It’s strange- while the other corpse looked like a mockery, this boy, this teenager, looks like he is sleeping. His skin is the lightest shade of tan, fair but not, unchanged in death. His hair is a dirty-blond mob, working itself out in wavy curls, all down to his shoulders. I almost smile; It’s so easy to imagine him waking up with ruffled hair, like my little sister does every day.

It’s strange- he doesn’t seem dead. But logic tells me no teenaged guy sleeps so still, in a crisp white dress-shirt. I smile faintly, as I realize he has a pair of faded jeans on. Such a combination of formal and casual seems to suit him. He’s wearing a pendant, some Egyptian symbol on a light silver chain. I want to wake him up, start talking to him, ask him questions. What’s his name? What does that symbol mean? He looks like the kind of guy who likes to talk, likes to learn more about the world. He was a cute guy, in life. In death, he looks peaceful. I reach out, and touch the side of his face.

I don’t know what to say. Hell, I don’t even know the guy’s name. Just a calm, sweet face. Just a sad part of life, losing such a young person. It happens all the time, I know, but it doesn’t make it any less heartrending. My mind flashes back to the woman, her endless pain. I find words.

“You musta been a wonderful guy, if the loss of you hurts someone so deeply.” I sigh. His face gives no indication that his soul has heard, but I feel better. At least I know I told him. At least I gave a tribute of words to someone who could move another.

I brush some of the dark gold waves out of his face, feeling the almost waxy skin beneath my fingers. Impulsively, I kiss his forehead. I almost back away once I realize what I just did. Oh Jeez, why did I do that? But- I guess… I guess I did it for the woman. For such a soul that could touch the life of someone that intensely. I think he deserves that recognition, even in death.

I give the calm face one last look, then turn. I drift down to the last row of pews, the place I sat for the other funeral. My hoodie is still there, crumpled on the side. I take it quietly, slipping out to get my coat. I make no noise. This really isn’t the place. The candles flicker behind me, in the dim light. The boy’s face still lingers in my mind. I walk out the doors, and let the howling wind in for a moment. I flit out, closing the quiet shelter behind me. The church doesn’t seem creepy now. It looks like a broken heart. A silent mourner, attending every funeral. The breezes hammer into a gale, pushing me around. A car honks in front of me, headlights illuminating the now-dark night.

I stare at the way the leaves blow into the light of the beams, only to disappear into the shadowed night. The car honks again. I look at it, trying to see who is inside. The car door is flung open, creaking slightly. I see my mother’s figure leap out, almost launching towards me. “Chase! My god, you scared me! I knew I shouldn’t have sent you out, gods above you could have been captured and when you didn’t call I-”

A breathless tirade. Tides of words. I didn’t feel up to listening. She stopped when she saw my face in the dim shadow-light. She stared a moment longer, then ushered me into the car. It was warm, the furry seat-cushions she has tickling my sides. I take out the scarlet leaf, the leaf I have kept the whole time, and put it on the seat beside me. I let my arms hug my body, smiling slightly, sadly. I feel the tears drip down my own face.

“Honey?” One word. So fun of love and concern. I look back, smiling at her too.

“There was another funeral. A boy.” I say, tranquilly. Then I start to cry, soft tears that rack my body.

She says nothing. She just goes into the backseat and holds me, holds me like I did the lady in the church. She rocks me back and forth, and I sob my eyes out.

“You really must be a great guy,” I say to him, in my mind. “You even affect those who you’ve never met.”

I fell asleep an hour later, my mother still hugging me in that parking lot, my breath still coming in shaky, my tears still flowing, the wind still crying in the trees.

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