Chapter 3: Funeral March

chapter 3 finally! and...chapter 4's almost done...maybe
so, here goes ..something!

Funeral March

No rooster crowed this morning, as the sun’s rays just began to creep over a small village with its nearby castle. Light reached tentative fingers across darkened streets. Clouds above shone in varying shades of pink and orange, reflecting dawn’s overpowering joy at a new morning. All nature exalted at another beginning, shining with promise of many hopes and joys.

All, except for the villagers of this small town.

The tears that fell were not those of joy. Black funeral clothes reflected no promise of beginning. Stony faces held little hope on this bleak day.

The procession began at the castle and continued through the small village, increasing in number at every street and cross street. Sad faces peeked out from closed curtains, shedding their own tears for the dead.

At the head, no wrapped bodies could be seen, for there were none to bury this day. No sound could be heard, for the tears that fell were the tears of silence. Every eye shed tears, even the eyes of the children who did not understand, and the old who did not remember. Every person cried this day.

Save for one.

A young woman led the funeral march, flanked by her father and mother. This young woman had short blond hair and smoky grey eyes, walking with a sure step. Her eyes were dry and her shoulders set, like a great leader into battle. Few could understand why her eyes, among a whole village of mourners, were dry this day. Her mother knew, as did her father, but even if it were to be explained, those around her now still would not see. But this day was not for questions or answers. It was a day to mourn.

Time passed quickly, and soon the procession reached the cemetery at the far end of the village. The crowd assembled, spreading in a circle around the four small cavities in the dirt. Four men approached, bearing small stone markers with words engraved on them. Simple markers, for a simple funeral.

As a tradition, no words were to be spoken over the dead. The only sound would be singing, if an individual were to sing over the grave. There was an order to things, even funerals, and even who had right to sing over whom. A spouse had first right to sing, a widow for her husband or a husband for his deceased wife. After spouse came parents, a mother for her son or a father for his daughter. Then children, a son for his father and a daughter for her mother, and then siblings, a brother for his sister and a sister for her brother. If none of these could be found, then perhaps a cousin or another distant relative would sing, or else none would sing.

The crowd settled in a circle, and three women stepped forward, two elder and one younger. Mothers, for their sons, and a sister for her brother, would sing this day. Yet, no fourth stepped forward, for the fourth man had none to mourn for him. Tears streamed down the faces of the three as they stood at each respective headstone and began their song. Three voices, intertwined, bleeding with sorrow, rose to the blue sky overhead. Two songs, harmonized in pain, bringing more tears to the eyes of many. A keening wail, that of a mother for her beloved son, that for a sister for her beloved brother.

A fourth cry rose up, more mournful than the two songs, contradicting sharply with the melodies. Many looked up in shock. This voice, this song, was not that of a mother for a son or a daughter for a father, or even a sister for a brother. This cry, this the most mournful of mourning songs, was the Widow’s Lament.

The most painful to hear, and to sing, the Widow’s Lament contradicted all other melodies and songs, calling out the fury of a widow’s agony, causing all hearts to feel the same mind-numbing pain. The only that came close to this much sorrow was the Husband’s Lament, but not even its mournful tune could match the intensity of this song.

The songs continued to wrench at each other, until the Mother’s song and the Sister’s song were completed; the third continued on, biting deep into ears and hearts of all around.

The blond haired woman, with smoky grey eyes, knelt before the last headstone, crooning her terrible song, for indeed it was she who raised her voice in defiance to the laments of the mothers and the sister. As the last note echoed from her lips, she reached her hand to the gravestone and traced the name there, whispering it in her heart over and over.

A child pushed his way to the back, where his mother stood, tears in her eyes. “Mama?”

“Yes, child?” The woman’s sparkling blue eyes gazed upon her young son.

“Why’d they mark the stone wrong, Mama?”

“They did not mark it wrong.”

“Yes they did. The widow’s singing, but they didn’t mark her name on the stone marker.”

The woman tensed, and her tone changed to one of slight urgency. “Are you telling me that there is no widow’s name marked on that stone?”

The child nodded. “They marked his name, and how he died, and his age, but no widow,” he said, matter-of-factly, yet with a hint of sadness, for who could not be sad when everyone else weeps?

The mother’s gaze turned up, her confusion stopping her tears. No widow…yet a woman sang the widow’s lament. What does this mean? Is it possible that the stone carvers made a mistake? Never! Then, why did this woman sing a Widow’s lament over an unmarried dead man?

Lament completed, the blond haired woman rose, smoky eyes void of tears. Even after singing that song, no tears were shed by her. As she stood, the woman in the back recognized her as the lord’s daughter, adding to her confusion. She was not married either! Why should she sing the Widow’s Lament? What did it all mean? Her questions would not be answered on this day, for it was a day to mourn. The woman took the hand of her child and the arm of her husband, and walked slowly back to their home. Questions lingered, not just in her mind, but in the heads of many of the villagers.

The crowd dispersed, but the young woman remained at the gravestones. Her parents stood at the edge of the cemetery, waiting their daughter. A man approached, and the woman looked up.

“Why?” The man’s voice quietly asked, rough with emotion and tears. “Why did you sing?”

“Who else would sing for him? None could have claimed the song, and I cannot stand by and let him be forgotten.” Her gaze turned back to the stone before her. Still her eyes were dry, no tear marks staining her cheeks.

“But why that song? Why the Widow’s Lament?” His voice rose slightly, in agitation and confusion.

Her grey eyes sought his green eyes. “We were to be married. What else would I sing?”