Post by Westering Holt on Jun 28, 2009 10:58:13 GMT -6
The drums were somber. The rhythmic beat was patterned after a heartbeat: steady, regular, the time-pacer of life. It began softly, a whisper of sound. As the band gathered in the center of the camp, the common area where most of the camp work was done, the cooking, the councils and the celebrations, the beat slowly increased in volume. An unborn child’s first heartbeat growing to that of one ready to enter the world.
When the tribe had all gathered, soft, deep-toned, pipes joined the drums. They didn’t follow the same rhythm. Where the drums mimicked the heartbeat, the pipes brought breath. A single sustained note for inhalation; a different, deeper note for exhalation. There was birth.
The band settled and stilled, seated on the ground in a circle surrounding the central cooking pit. A platform had been raised over the cold fire, and a deep blur cloth had been draped over it. Flowers were gathered around the base of the platform, and all Mahkir’s personal treasures had been laid on the surface. Mahkir himself had been laid in the center of the platform, and all signs of his cause of death had been cleverly hidden or erased. The one who’d led them for so long, and so wisely, would not be remembered as a blackened faced corpse.
A lighter pipe joined the music. It, too, played its own song. Bright, sprightly, joyous, it danced and tumbled it’s what around the drum and the first pipe. Childhood, with all its wonder, curiosity, and joy ran with innocent glee. And faded all too soon into a slower, quieter background whisper.
“The beginning of life.”
A richtoned harp entered with a cascade of notes ranging from heartbreakingly sweet to heartrendingly sad. The second pipe’s volume increased and the two instruments wound around each other, the harp always dominant but the innocence of the people always lending a hint of that childlike wonder to the complexity of adult awareness.
“The long, golden afternoon of maturity.”
Another drum joined the orchestra, lighter-toned, almost sharp, with a staccato beat that marched inexorably, untiring, and unchanging. It never came to the fore, but joined the foundation with the first drum and first pipe.
“Responsibility for all in the band.”
The music played on for a long time. No one spoke. No one stirred. Save for the music, there was no sound.
The heartbeat faltered.
The breath grew harsh.
The harp cried.
The child fell silent.
“The time of death nears.”
Abruptly all stopped but that staggering heartbeat and the labored breathing. Barely perceptible beneath them was the staccato, unchanged march of the second drum. Living, dying, the responsibility of the bandleader continued.
And then everything stopped and stark silence descended.
A single pipe, it’s tone high, clear, and almost piercing. It began softly, then rose with effortless grace. The song was slow, both sad and wondrous. It quickened, sadness fading as wonder grew. The second pipe joined the first, bringing with it the joy and innocence of childhood. Laughing and twining together, the two pipes reached a crescendo, the quickly faded away, as though the sound was dimmed by distance.
“The spirit is free.”
Oreg stepped to one side of the bier. It had been his voice, deep and rough with disuse, marking the stages of life. Nazari took her place on the other side. Oreg’s face was expressionless. Nazari’s was soft and tender.
“Bandleader Mahkir guided his band, as a father does his child,” Oreg continued. His voice was not gentle, but firm and strong: an unbreakable foundation on which to rest. “Safety. Peace. Prosperity. Wisdom.”
“Bandleader Mahkir has lived this life of physicality for more years that he ever wanted to count,” Nazari’s soft voice lay the cushion over the Oreg’s foundation. “He had a good life, a good family, a good band. He was happy.”
Their voices blended together for the last of the funeral rite. “He goes now to the Palace, the spirits, the ones who wait. He goes now to his forefathers, and yours, to watch and wait, until one day we again travel the stars, together, never parting. For all things end, even this world, except for the spirit that is eternal.”
Their voices rang clear and pure, an affirmation of what it was to be elf and not a part of the limiting world of two moons.
Oreg and Nazari stepped aside and Mahkir’s foster sons stepped forward to take up the bier. As the males lifted their foster father to their shoulders, leaving behind flowers and weapons, the band stood up. They parted as Mahkir was carried past, then followed silently for the long walk out to the burial field.
Long centuries ago, long before Makhir was born, when the Plainsrunners had first separated into the nine bands, each had staked out a territory that was theirs alone. They each had established camps for each season. At each location, returned to every season, they had long since designated a specific area for their dead, and erected stone platforms for the purpose. The rectangular towers were tall; the top could not be seen by any but a floater. Wind, weather, and prey-birds would clean Mahkir’s bones. When they were bleached white and clean, they would be collected and taken to the next Mustering for the Remembering. Then would Mahkir’s songs be sung, his accomplishments celebrated, and his bloodkin and fosterkin gathered together to mourn.
There were no stairs leading to the top of the cleansing bier. Oreg and Nazari joined their hands and magic and lifted Mahkir to his new resting place. The spirit pipes began playing again, a swirling, dancing, laughing tune. A soft breeze sprang up and if some seemed to feel an insubstantial hand resting on their heads, touching their cheeks, or tugging on their noses…well, who’s to say otherwise?
The funeral ceremony was completed.
When the tribe had all gathered, soft, deep-toned, pipes joined the drums. They didn’t follow the same rhythm. Where the drums mimicked the heartbeat, the pipes brought breath. A single sustained note for inhalation; a different, deeper note for exhalation. There was birth.
The band settled and stilled, seated on the ground in a circle surrounding the central cooking pit. A platform had been raised over the cold fire, and a deep blur cloth had been draped over it. Flowers were gathered around the base of the platform, and all Mahkir’s personal treasures had been laid on the surface. Mahkir himself had been laid in the center of the platform, and all signs of his cause of death had been cleverly hidden or erased. The one who’d led them for so long, and so wisely, would not be remembered as a blackened faced corpse.
A lighter pipe joined the music. It, too, played its own song. Bright, sprightly, joyous, it danced and tumbled it’s what around the drum and the first pipe. Childhood, with all its wonder, curiosity, and joy ran with innocent glee. And faded all too soon into a slower, quieter background whisper.
“The beginning of life.”
A richtoned harp entered with a cascade of notes ranging from heartbreakingly sweet to heartrendingly sad. The second pipe’s volume increased and the two instruments wound around each other, the harp always dominant but the innocence of the people always lending a hint of that childlike wonder to the complexity of adult awareness.
“The long, golden afternoon of maturity.”
Another drum joined the orchestra, lighter-toned, almost sharp, with a staccato beat that marched inexorably, untiring, and unchanging. It never came to the fore, but joined the foundation with the first drum and first pipe.
“Responsibility for all in the band.”
The music played on for a long time. No one spoke. No one stirred. Save for the music, there was no sound.
The heartbeat faltered.
The breath grew harsh.
The harp cried.
The child fell silent.
“The time of death nears.”
Abruptly all stopped but that staggering heartbeat and the labored breathing. Barely perceptible beneath them was the staccato, unchanged march of the second drum. Living, dying, the responsibility of the bandleader continued.
And then everything stopped and stark silence descended.
A single pipe, it’s tone high, clear, and almost piercing. It began softly, then rose with effortless grace. The song was slow, both sad and wondrous. It quickened, sadness fading as wonder grew. The second pipe joined the first, bringing with it the joy and innocence of childhood. Laughing and twining together, the two pipes reached a crescendo, the quickly faded away, as though the sound was dimmed by distance.
“The spirit is free.”
Oreg stepped to one side of the bier. It had been his voice, deep and rough with disuse, marking the stages of life. Nazari took her place on the other side. Oreg’s face was expressionless. Nazari’s was soft and tender.
“Bandleader Mahkir guided his band, as a father does his child,” Oreg continued. His voice was not gentle, but firm and strong: an unbreakable foundation on which to rest. “Safety. Peace. Prosperity. Wisdom.”
“Bandleader Mahkir has lived this life of physicality for more years that he ever wanted to count,” Nazari’s soft voice lay the cushion over the Oreg’s foundation. “He had a good life, a good family, a good band. He was happy.”
Their voices blended together for the last of the funeral rite. “He goes now to the Palace, the spirits, the ones who wait. He goes now to his forefathers, and yours, to watch and wait, until one day we again travel the stars, together, never parting. For all things end, even this world, except for the spirit that is eternal.”
Their voices rang clear and pure, an affirmation of what it was to be elf and not a part of the limiting world of two moons.
Oreg and Nazari stepped aside and Mahkir’s foster sons stepped forward to take up the bier. As the males lifted their foster father to their shoulders, leaving behind flowers and weapons, the band stood up. They parted as Mahkir was carried past, then followed silently for the long walk out to the burial field.
Long centuries ago, long before Makhir was born, when the Plainsrunners had first separated into the nine bands, each had staked out a territory that was theirs alone. They each had established camps for each season. At each location, returned to every season, they had long since designated a specific area for their dead, and erected stone platforms for the purpose. The rectangular towers were tall; the top could not be seen by any but a floater. Wind, weather, and prey-birds would clean Mahkir’s bones. When they were bleached white and clean, they would be collected and taken to the next Mustering for the Remembering. Then would Mahkir’s songs be sung, his accomplishments celebrated, and his bloodkin and fosterkin gathered together to mourn.
There were no stairs leading to the top of the cleansing bier. Oreg and Nazari joined their hands and magic and lifted Mahkir to his new resting place. The spirit pipes began playing again, a swirling, dancing, laughing tune. A soft breeze sprang up and if some seemed to feel an insubstantial hand resting on their heads, touching their cheeks, or tugging on their noses…well, who’s to say otherwise?
The funeral ceremony was completed.
