by D W Bell
Unseen by all, watching from secret, Lilith took this as her cue to leave. Satisfied that all would be well, she smiled her toothy smile and went on her Way.
―
Master Fu regaled the kids with folklore both heroic and hilarious until dusk fell, the sky grew dark, and it was time to light the pyre and say goodbye. With great solemnity he guided John’s descendants through the proper ceremonies until each child stood with a burning taper in hand on either side of the pyre, the girl at the head and the boy at the foot.
“With sacred fire, the ancient purifying flame, we discharge this soul from its earthly prison, cleansing it of all mortal stain, and release it redeemed and sanctified back into The Void.” Master Fu signaled for the children to ignite their father, which they did in perfect harmony, and spoke again, “May this spirit fly swift, light, and free as it travels along the Way, wherever it may lead.”
The official proceedings concluded, the trio sat in reverent silence for the hours it took for the pyre to burn, the natural perfume of burning sandalwood along with the scented oils used to anoint the corpse masking the stench of burning corruption exuded by their father’s scorched and sizzling flesh, Master Fu draping a comforting arm around the shoulders of each child.
It was quite a feat for the inherently fidgety youngsters, but these two displayed a maturity beyond their years. Old souls in child bodies.
The emotionally drained and tuckered out tikes finally succumbed to exhaustion, and Master Fu gently carried the little comatose siblings back inside the dwelling to sleep. He carefully swaddled them together on the couch and sent them off to dream in their cuddled embrace.
―
When the children awoke, with sleep-crusted eyes and the scent of sandalwood lingering in their hair, they found Master Fu outside in the garden sifting through the still warm ashes.
“What are you doing, Master Fu?” The little boy yawned with awakening curiosity.
Master Fu smiled warmly, stood, and extended his hand to display the sparkling treasures he had found, “Collecting relics of your father.”
“Are they diamonds?” The little girl peered excitedly at the strange little pearl-like gems resting in the tiger’s paw.
“Not exactly. These are śarīra. It is believed they are left behind by those who have attained some enlightenment. Your father must have learned a great truth in this lifetime.”
“What’s in the pot?” The boy pointed excitedly at the bottom of an overturned earthenware pot that peaked up from the center of the smoldering ash pile.
“Another little-known tradition I am fond of. Some Buddhist monks believe that the departing spirit will sometimes leave a footprint in the soil under the pot that shows the cardinal direction in which its next incarnation will manifest.” Master Fu stepped carefully to the center of the burnt area, grasped the lip at the base of the upside-down vessel, and gently wiggled and twisted it free from the earth’s ashy grip. “Let us see what-” The old man’s eyes widened in surprise as something unexpected rose from the scorched dust and flitted by his face.
“Butterfly!” The children erupted in spontaneous glee-filled chorus as they giggled and chased the massive monarch butterfly that had emerged phoenix-like from the fire as it floated for a few moments among the garden flowers.
The children squealed and frantically waved their goodbyes to the butterfly with sorrow-free tears running down their cheeks as it alighted briefly to drink nectar and then soared to the heavens and disappeared. They did not understand why, but in their hearts they knew it was a proper farewell.
Master Fu laughed uproariously at the spectacle with genuine joy, awestruck by the glorious implications and exclaimed, “Well, I’ll be damned!”
Epilogue:
This way to the Egress.
‒P.T. Barnum
GIVE ear, O ye heavens, and I will speak;
and hear, O earth, the words of my mouth.
My doctrine shall drop as the rain,
my speech shall distil as the dew, as the
small rain upon the tender herb, and as
the showers upon the grass:
‒Deuteronomy 32:1-2
Bored. Boudreaux was bored. He was completely, terribly, existentially, cosmically bored. An unopened pack of his fancy cigarettes, still wrapped in pristine cellophane, sat next to the agape and empty felt-lined, gilded case tossed carelessly on the paper cluttered desk. Bored.
Boudreaux was disappointed, which was as close as he ever got to truly angry. All his trademark histrionics and vitriol were just for show, indispensable elements of his brand identity. He was disappointed and bored.
As if punishing a petulant child, they had taken away all his toys. Like short-sighted parents blindly stifling the artistic expression of a gifted and talented wunderkind, they had grounded him from his creative entertainments. Mumbling authoritatively about what was good for him and scolding him about the balance. They had grown too fat and comfortable under the auspices of the eternal détente and lacked true vision. What’s more, they were boring. Terrifyingly boring.
They had taken away most of his pets. He had gone all in on his wager to buck the tiger, and now his stable of thoroughbreds stood nearly empty. Only those already deployed in other parts of the world, or those too injured to join the assault, remained after that ill-fated debacle. Of course he could recruit more, but among those lost had been his favorites. Those lovable strays he had rescued from a society that didn’t understand them. The ones that sported striking visuals and heart-breaking back stories that appealed to his sense of theatre. His Special Edition G.I. Joe’s with the Kung fu Grip. All gone. Disappointing.
In the organizational equivalent of the emptying out of his play chest and giving the contents to Goodwill, they had denied him actual toys as well. Equipment. The bus with operating suite would be pricey to replace but was just a matter of reordering and time. The Humvees and deuce-and-a-halfs could be replicated like so many matchbox cars. But the vintage SuperCobras, complete with hot female pilots, had been his alone to play with! Life truly wasn’t fair.
In the most egregious affront, they had taken his church. They had linked his wholesome-sexy young pastor with the trafficking division, INTERNATIONAL BREEDER CULT! the fake news had sensationalized it, and brought the whole thing down with the contrived scandal. Satellite included. It had been forced out of the Heavens and crashed to earth as fiery metaphor somewhere in the South China Sea.
Boudreaux sighed and doodled mindlessly on what may have been important documents. He didn’t care. It wasn’t fun playing office anymore. All was boredom and disappointment, and mind-numbing disappointment and soul-crushing boredom was all. His glum face crinkled sharply in distaste as an outside smell suddenly offended his olfactories.
Annoyed at the intrusion of nature in his sanitized, climate-controlled, denatured gloom he called out for it to be immediately remedied, “Lilith! Close the shutters. It smells like rain…”
It was not that he suddenly recalled that Lilith was no longer in his employ, she had run off to God knows where, that had caused his voice to trail off with baffled astonishment, it was the realization that deep in his sterile, subterranean, hermetically-sealed chamber, nine levels down, the artificially filtered air now hung heavy with the perfume of coming rain. The scent and static of a gathering thunderstorm. The sharp, clean scent of dew in its role as herald to a truly powerful force of Nature.
Quizzically, Boudreaux closed his eyes and sniffed the air again, flaring his nostrils to take it all in, then giggled a question in delightful disbelief, “John? Well, I’ll be damned!”
Like a little boy promised a treat if he finished all his chores, the now beaming Boudreaux quickly shuffled together the papers into neat piles, smoothed his hair, and mashed the transmit button of the antique intercom on the corner of this desk, “Young William!”
A disembodied male voice of lightly accented French answered from the other room, “Oui, Monsieur?”
“Oui, oui. For sure, sir.”
Nearly bursting with glee Boudreaux pulled at the golden thread that tore the plastic that kept the premium tobacco fresh, rapped the base of the paper box against his palm to pack the delicate leaves tightly in their fine paper wrappings, and replenished his gilded, luxuriously cushioned artifice before plucking a cigarette for himself and gracefully lighting it.
He took a long, appreciative drag on the unfiltered comfort and corruption, scooted the ashtray closer to his side of the desk, kicked his feet up, and reclined happily in the heavy leather office chair and day-dreamt of the joys and perils, the signs and wonders, and the magnificent spectacles that may be to come. Bored no more.
With fingers interlocked behind his head and the half-ashed cigarette hanging from the corner of his lip he blew an immense cloud of smoke into the air above him, mimicking and masking the gathering thunderheads the demonic little fellow sensed in his blackened bones. Boudreaux inhaled again with a dry, hacking chuckle, “Game on!”
“’Lord, don’t you love some I’”
‒Blind Willie Johnson, “John the Revelator”
