Next of Kin

by Tessa Bierle

Grammy’s burial was a raucous affair, even before the Queen showed up.

Ever since the news of her passing spread, the event was highly anticipated, though the expectation was one of torpidity, not exhilaration. Grammy was not known for her exhilaration. She was known for her post office, and nothing exhilarating ever happened in the post office, except for the leeches.

I had worked in the post office since I was six: sorting envelopes, returning change to customers, weighing boxes. It was quite the romanticized upbringing, though the kind of romance that grows mundane after a few months. I was six many, many years ago, so the mundanity has long since lost its charm.

The perverse appeal of small-town citizens, in their ever-stereotypical lifestyles and unceasing noses-all-up-in-your-business-ness, had worn crepe thin. All the stories I would have told, stories that would have been my legacy, blazing on for eternity, can be chalked down to the casualest of the casual; another day, another 26 hours.

For example, Geraldine Wright seemed like an appealing individual when she appeared in the post office one morning, frazzled beyond belief, carrying seven kittens, but it turned out her cat had birthed the week before, and she was simply selling door to door.

Derrick Farley once tried to pay for an eight pound package with a singular nickel from 1738. Normally, the date wouldn’t matter, except for that 1738 wouldn’t happen for another two years. I pointed out the issue, skeptical, and Derrick grasped my hand between both of his, holding tight. His palms were rough with callouses and impossibly hot to the touch. He pulled my hand by the wrist until it met his heart through his shirt. His heart beat rapidly, like a rabbit’s; like meek prey that knows an apex predator is lurking just out of vision, wishing desperately that he could tell which direction it was safe to run to. But it’s gotten dark, and regardless of where he runs, he could never tell how to get home. His options are to await his fate, conceding, or to run, to flee, and never stop fleeing. Derrick’s eyes were glassy. He was sweating profusely.

“It’s a printing error,” he whispered insistently, licking his lips. There was a pause. And then, ever so slowly, he smiled. And winked.

I shrugged, accepted the coin, and sorted his package, because that’s my job.

Roger Winfred once caught my attention when Grammy mentioned how he always walked to the post office from a different house, which prompted me to search his name in the Teleporters Database, but it turned out he was just cheating on his wife.

Deborah Stapleton once had a breakdown over at the label printer, but it turned out she had flushed her anti-occultism medication down the toilet a few hours prior and was once again hearing the Wind. We blindfolded her and referred her to Dr. Price. Poor Mrs. Stapleton, we’ve all been there, we all know better.

Even Shane Decksen, who’d seemed interesting when he’d been tried for larceny, charged accordingly, and then necromanced when fresh evidence was uncovered a couple of years later, stopped showing up when he received a call from his lawyer telling him there’d been a mistake and he needed to report to the morgue immediately.

Yes, Grammy’s post office hasn’t seen much beyond paper products and the same fifty customers since the day I was born. It was ready to go. That store had lived a lethargic life and then died an anticlimactic life-support-unplugged death, just like Grammy. I was happy when I finally cleaned inventory one last time, locked the door one last time, dropped the Ceremonial Match under the porch, and swayed gently along with my fellow townsfolk, smiling wide and singing along, “Time to light up a new dawn // Place ashes in the urn // Throw away our old dead sun // We’ll make a new one burn!”

And then we all took one of Angela’s pre-packed lunches and went home. Another day, another 26 hours.

So, of course, when Grammy’s burial turned out to be an event to remember, I had to immortalize it in writing. After all, I knew I was next.

* * *

It was a crisp, clear morning, 3 days after Grammy had passed. I would have preferred we had the ceremony earlier, because I was sick of passing the corpse on my way to the kitchen, but we had to wait the obligatory grace period to ensure Grammy would not resurrect. It’s only polite, and Kendra Ivers got appropriately upset when she awoke on the second day only to be greeted by a mouthful of dirt when she turned her casket’s standard interior doorknob. The town hasn’t made that mistake twice.

The air smelled enticingly of salt and smoke. It had rained the night before, so the seaweed that’s normally strewn across Main Street had been conveniently washed downtown, meaning the townsfolk didn’t need to get up early to sweep. It was ambiguously warm and the fires lit the comfortingly blank sky.

The burial ceremony wasn’t until evening, and it was an otherwise normal day, so when I finally did wake up, I walked as usual to get fresh bread from Rosalie’s Hardware. I blew a kiss to Grammy’s gray face on my way out the door.

As Rosalie passed me a half-dozen pretzel rolls, she said, “happy burial!” and I was taken aback, because that was the first time I’d heard it. I smiled wide, and said, “thanks!” And that was that.

I wanted to get my little brother a small burial day present, and the toy store was right next door, so I popped in to browse. He already owned quite a few toy trucks, figurines, and those fun collectible tarot cards. I stood there and realized just how much I spoiled him.

In the end, I went with your standard Defibrillator Response Kit. The cashier, someone I’d never met, told me “happy burial!” on my way out, and my chest swelled with pride. With a spring in my step, I returned home to prepare for the evening’s big event.

I arrived through the front door to discover both Grammy and casket gone, which is where I suppose the day’s excitement began.

“Well, that’s not good,” I said, because that was not good. Grammy being gone would have been inconvenient enough; it usually takes a resurrected individual a few days to orient themself before returning to casual life, and Grammy already had dementia. The concerning part, however, was the lack of casket. Grammy definitely would not be able to carry it by herself, and assisted escorpes are illegal.

We still hadn’t found the body from last year’s Post Mortem Scavenger Hunt, and Parshel Rodney had said we couldn’t have another corpse until the first one turned up, so I ruled that option out relatively quickly. Presumably, Grammy was still very much dead, and had simply been stolen.

So I called Dr. Price.

I said, “Grammy’s gone with her casket.”

He said, “I’ll ask around.”

I hung up.

I gave my brother his present and asked if anyone had come inside while I was gone. He grasped the kit in his sticky little kid hands, bellered a gleeful ‘maybe!’, and burst out the back door. If he had missed throwing balled up napkins at the base of Grammy’s casket, it didn’t show.

This was a problem, because without Grammy, there would be no burial ceremony, and the town would be upset at me. I preferred their admiration.

Although, as things tend to progress in a small town, it did not take long for answers to surface, and they did so in the form of Kirby, a recently appointed mortician who had made a rather mortifying mistake while mortifying Grammy. In his haste to correct his erroneous paperwork, he did not think to inform me of the pardonable theft of his discharged patient.

One short stroll later, I was standing at the hospital in front of the perpetrator himself, who was clutching a clipboard devotedly to his chest, arms shaking.

“You wrote the cause of death as ‘death?'” I prompted.

Kirby shrugged, and the clipboard bobbed along with the movement. “That’s what happens when you’re taken off life support…you just…you…”

“Die.”

Kirby nodded vigorously.

I said, “I personally do not have an issue with this observation. But if you could have just put ‘brain death’, Grammy wouldn’t be back in the morgue and the burial ceremony wouldn’t be delayed.”

Kirby tossed up his hands and the clipboard clattered against the ceiling, sending an overwhelming variety of anatomically accurate duck drawings soaring through the air and onto the tiled floor. The look on his face was unabashedly feral. “BUT BRAIN DEATH IS JUST NORMAL DEATH!”

It was his first day, and he had no predecessor, given that the morgue’s unit of sentient employees had only recently been installed. All was easily forgiven, because after all, thirteen-year-old boys are susceptible to mistakes.

Twenty minutes later, Grammy was restored in her place in our hallway, napkins once again bouncing lightly off her polished pine bed.

–

The evening arrived with all the fervor of a male artist who’d found his muse, or a hungry, flesh eating piranha, or in the case of Geoffrey “Fangbrush” Finn, both. The anticipation for the event was immense, for news of Kirby’s mistake had been passed around like a newborn baby. He’d been appointed a primary role in next month’s burial ceremony. We all fuel one another.

The delay did little to diminish the buzz. Vendors were cheerfully advertising bags of popcorn, pretzels, caviar. Tonight was much too momentous for Angela’s tasty, tasty packed lunches. The post office was an appetizer. This was the main course.

Everywhere I stepped I was greeted with pats on the back, thumbs up, broad grins. “Happy burial!” townsfolk chorused around me, accompanied by the squeak of Grammy’s wheels as Parshel Rodney pushed her merrily along behind me. I returned with thanks, and handshakes, and passionate butterfly kisses, relishing the celebration, basking in the atmosphere.

Parshel Rodney set up in front of the Urn. Though weathered with age, it remains magnificent; six feet of alloy steel, tall and wide, carved with all of our names at birth. I see Grammy’s name now, toward the bottom. At the base, the ancient scratchings of the Queen. Within the Urn rest ashes, ever smoldering. Soon there will be more.

I, alongside Dr. Price, assisted Parshel Rodney when necessary; lifting the podium as he secured it, unraveling the Evangeline Scripts, wiping his unceasing spittle with the napkins I’d picked up off the hallway floor. Before too long, the townsfolk began to hover, some out of habit, inattentive, some impatient, fidgety. With three people, seven hands, we made quick work of the preparations, and with the Urn looming over our shoulders, casting no shadow, the burial ceremony could begin.

Parshel Rodney reared back his head and cried, “To the Urn!” All around the field, a cheer spread. Collective footsteps (and Chelsea’s hoof steps) refracted through the earth as the remaining citizens gathered, chills both from the excitement and the cool evening air coursing up their backs. I myself was warmed by the presence of the Urn behind me, and the heat it emanated.

But there was a problem. Or, not a problem, but a disturbance. Not a disturbance, even, but an… alternate attraction. A hush fell gradually over the crowd, gasps swallowed as they took in the sight. I craned my neck to see what the sudden lack of commotion was in regards to, and there She was.

She was peeking out from the path leading into town. It is quite a stride from Her place of residence to the ceremonial field, but She accepted the challenge, out of dedication or pure stubborn pride. Either way, here She came, moving slowly, strategically, allowing us all to take Her fully in before making an entrance.

The Queen.

I had only seen Her once before, outside of the Mart. I was so sure I had hallucinated Her, then, illuminated by the distant flares, standing so still, regarding me, regarding Her. She was gone in an instant, slipping down a dark alley, when onlookers had dared to call out to Her. 

Now, there was only awestruck silence as She strutted tauntingly across the yard, yielding townsfolk, rendering Parshel Rodney speechless. Even the spittle upon his chin dribbled less enthusiastically than before, perhaps out of reverence, or maybe gravity itself halted its relentless pull in Her presence. All around there was silence as She stepped, tenderly, atop Grammy’s now-closed casket. Her feet clicked atop the wood. She turned, eyes beadily analyzing the crowd, mouth slightly agape, regality emitting. As Kirby, whispering excitedly, was hushed harshly by his mother, the Queen’s eyes snapped to meet his, and the color drained immediately from his face.

The field was vast, but She filled the space. All senses: eyes, nose, ears, were suspended in anticipation, in the phenomena of Her. And then, when the silence was too much, when all that was heard was a gentle roar in our ears, when all that was clear was Her, Her, Her, She opened Her great beak, and let out a guttural “BAWK!” 

Someone in the crowd gasped.

She then leapt, less than gracefully, down from the casket, wings flapping uselessly, gravity once again taking hold. She strutted away toward town, head bobbing methodically, her owner, Derrick, sheepishly in pursuit. A trail of stray feathers left behind in Her wake. My legacy, and Her a part of it.

After a moment of reflection, Parshel Rodney wiped his sleeve absentmindedly across his chin, spread his hands wide, and announced, “With the Queen’s blessing, the ceremony may now commence!”

The roar of approval from the town, no more than a hundred strong, could have stood up to the grandest of armies. Never had our camaraderie been so strong. Never had I felt such a sense of belonging and purpose, and I never would again.

So here we are. 

Parshel Rodney lights the Ceremonial Match. All eyes gaze, entranced, at the flame as he, in all his elaborate vocality, begins the recitation of the Evangeline Script. Words, if they could be called that, or sounds, if they could be called that, sear around the edge of my head, drop behind my ears, and pound directly into the base of my skull, our skull; that area of your neck you’re never able to crack. We are all smoke, and sparks, and stone, and might. He speaks, or he may speak, and we hear, or we may hear. And all, gloriously, at once, as one, we know. 

I realize suddenly that there is moisture on my cheeks, and it isn’t sweat from the heat of the flames. I had never felt any kind of emotion toward Grammy, but now I am moved, and it is because of her.

And soon she burns, within that casket, and burns and burns, and then we are singing, and swaying, and Parshel Rodney’s “words” cease but we do not, we keep burning, we keep blazing. 

And when she is ready I step forward, and I draw Grammy’s ashes into a simple steel pan, a modest offering for the Urn. She is still in flames, of course she is, but as I step above the Urn and tip the pan, she willingly spreads amidst those who burned before her, and the fire already within the Urn reaches up to welcome her. As I pour her away, I gasp, or wail, a sound that echoes amidst my fellow citizens, and it is good.

All this excitement, and yet the best is still to come.

“It’s your turn,” Parshel Rodney says to me, as I am the next of kin. A thrill courses through my chest at the words. I hand the rest of my anti-occultism medication to Dr. Price to be recycled. I stopped taking them this morning, and the Wind is whistling in my ears. I take, in exchange, the Ceremonial Match, and this is the most I will ever hold it, twice in one week. I pass Parshel Rodney this story, transcribed, the next part blank until he fills the remainder after the burial. My legacy.

“Happy burial,” Dr. Price says to me, and I nod.

I step toward the urn.

“Happy burial,” those beside me say, and I continue up the path.

“Happy burial,” they say, behind me.

“Happy burial,” they repeat, chanting now, and the Wind hisses.

I step lightly into the Urn, where Grammy’s fresh ashes sit smoking, where gentle fragments of flame flicker out from beneath her casket’s remains. My feet curl from the heat, and I hear them sizzle and I feel them burn, and it is good.

The Ceremonial Match is lit in my hands, and warmth caresses my face as I hold it up. The townsfolk cheer as I wave, smiling wide.

I look left, toward town, and see Grammy’s post office, the fire burning brightly, never to fade.

What a beautiful thing, to blaze on for eternity, to light the way for those who come after, to exist even as you are forgotten, to burn brighter than you ever did in life.

The crowd is singing now. “Time to light up a new dawn // Place ashes in the urn // Throw away our old dead sun // We’ll make a new one burn!”

There are no more tears on my cheeks.

I look out to the crowd and catch the eye of my little brother. There are tears on his. 

“Happy burial,” I whisper.

And I drop the Ceremonial Match.