More Funerals, More Books
Mar. 29th, 2005 02:17 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
unforth"I'm only here for the food" was the most commonly heard phrase at Alexia Smythe's funeral. Nobody really cared for her, though none cared to admit it. She simply had rubbed most of the people she had ever met the wrong way. When she passed away, no one really expected there to be anyone to step forward to conduct an expensive funeral for her. She had left a hefty inheritence to her great grand niece despite the fact that the two hated each other; the general gist of the speculation about this at the funeral was that Alexia hated every one, but she hated her niece slightly less than anyone else she might have left the money to. Still, that the niece had spent any of the money at all on this funeral was unexpected, much less a full funeral with a reception afterwards. Then again, maybe she had realized that nobody would come if there was no reception - Alexia was not the sort that people mourned when they died. Indeed, it had been most amusing watching the eulogizers attempt to think of something, anything, to say about her that wasn't negative. Watching them dance around her bad qualities and try to find any good quality was well worth the effort of coming in and of itself. Those who had come strictly for the reception, which was to say almost everyone, found themselves hard pressed not to laugh when they heard Alexia described as "a quirky old lady of great means and few interests." This was, they all agreed, by far the most polite way of saying that she was unreasonable, greedy and miserly. Indeed, by the time the reception was done, many were prepared to say it was one of the best funerals they had ever attended. They had gotten to see the end of someone they all disliked, heard an excellant, if unintentional, stand up routine, and then gotten to eat some truly delicious food. Other funerals would be hard pressed to match this performance. Many weddings would have trouble matching it too. The only question that remained was why Alexia's niece had bothered, a question that for some reason nobody bothered to just ask her.
On cold days in the early fall the wind from the mountains carries a bite that speaks of the winter to come, blown down from peaks and passes already thick with snow. The gusts whistle through the trees, plucking leaves in all the colors of fall to swirl in the breeze as it descends into the valley. When the winds reach the low places, the ravines and the deep river cuts, the catches in them and spirals in on itself until it spends all its power. Its dissipation leaves nothing behind but an eerie cold and the leaves so numerous that they smother the ravines and clog the rivers. Perhaps it was this unearthly feeling that caused such distress to those who visited the ravines, perhaps this was why, for as long as people inhabited the area, the ravines had attracted the sorrowful and lonely. The sorrowful and lonely mark the places as their own, a focus of sadness and solitude, to attract others like themselves. Through time, from simple, unmarked graves, to those who used wooden stakes to mark the places, and cairns, and later carved stone and etched reliefs, centuries of tears have stained the leaves that carpet the ground. Spring comes, and summer, and even though the winds don't blow, the ghostly cold remains.
On cold days in the early fall the wind from the mountains carries a bite that speaks of the winter to come, blown down from peaks and passes already thick with snow. The gusts whistle through the trees, plucking leaves in all the colors of fall to swirl in the breeze as it descends into the valley. When the winds reach the low places, the ravines and the deep river cuts, the catches in them and spirals in on itself until it spends all its power. Its dissipation leaves nothing behind but an eerie cold and the leaves so numerous that they smother the ravines and clog the rivers. Perhaps it was this unearthly feeling that caused such distress to those who visited the ravines, perhaps this was why, for as long as people inhabited the area, the ravines had attracted the sorrowful and lonely. The sorrowful and lonely mark the places as their own, a focus of sadness and solitude, to attract others like themselves. Through time, from simple, unmarked graves, to those who used wooden stakes to mark the places, and cairns, and later carved stone and etched reliefs, centuries of tears have stained the leaves that carpet the ground. Spring comes, and summer, and even though the winds don't blow, the ghostly cold remains.
