by Ari Berk
Silas didn’t answer. The thick incense was making him dizzy, and the room had grown hot from the fire, the braziers, all the candles, and the now fading body heat of the bull. He was sweating and his hair was in his eyes. The smell of blood was everywhere, and that newly awakened part of him that held the Book of the Dead roused itself and Silas’s instinct with it. So, with no more thought, he reached out and took the raw meat his great-grandfather offered. He held it to his mouth and tore it with his teeth, smearing blood across the lower part of his face. The meat felt good in his mouth. The taste of warm, salty blood stirred his appetite. He kept eating. As his stomach filled with the flesh of the god, he felt suffused with strength and presence. Though in the short time he’d lived in Lichport, he had chafed at the sharp facets of his personae—son, great-grandson, boyfriend, Undertaker, Janus, Osiris, child, friend, man—now he felt the almost electric charge of the bull’s life force moving though his body, rounding out the edges, making him feel whole and calm, not striving between being one thing or another, simply being. One life given so others might live. Blood and salt and flesh, he thought. Here is the taste of sacrifice and acceptance. And it is good.
As Silas reveled in the primitive feast, Miss Hattie directed one of the Restless to stack some of the meat on the altar in front of Dolores.
Drowsy with eating, but suddenly more aware of where he was, Silas recalled the days with Charles Umber here at Temple House and, for once, smiled at the memory. How displeased Uncle would have been to see so much fresh food served in the dining room.
The Restless had finished with the sacrifice. There was very little left of the bull. Bones and shreds of fat and sinew were scraped together and placed reverently into the wooden tub holding the bull’s head. Several of the Restless folded up the edges of the canvas, carefully tucking them into the tub as well, and carried the whole thing outside, along with the bloodstained linen sheet that had been used to wrap Dolores’s body. With a soft piece of cloth, Miss Hattie herself wiped Dolores Umber’s skin, removing any trace of blood from her face, neck, and arms. Yet, even before she’d started, there was strangely little blood left on the body, as though Dolores’s corpse had absorbed it.
“Beloved, Osiris—” Miss Hattie began, but then smiled, looked over, and said, “Beloved, O Silas—Lordy, but what a day we’ve had!” She touched his shoulder as she continued. “With your help we shall complete the funeral rite, and then we can call our good work done. What follows is very important and most sacred. I believe you are the only living man in Lichport to have seen this part. Usually, the living family members are curtained away. But times change and it seems inappropriate for you not to conduct this portion of the rite. Indeed, I believe it has been apportioned to you from the very beginning.”
Miss Hattie led Silas to the altar and passed her fingers over the implements.
“With these, the Opening of the Mouth is accomplished.”
She pointed to a carved wooden handle with a metal blade lashed to it. “The adze, and these,” she said, picking up two small curved blades, “are made from the iron that falls to earth. Their shape is that of the two fingers of the midwife, she who welcomes the child into the world by sweeping its mouth to clear the baby’s airway. With these, we’ll likewise welcome your mother into the Afterlife.”
Miss Hattie touched the knives to either side of Dolores’s mouth, then handed the adze to Silas and nodded that he should do the same.
As he raised the adze to the level of his mother’s face, he recalled a distant familiarity in the action. The words came easily as the age-polished handle of the adze moved against the skin of his hand.
“We shall open your mouth and the gods of your place shall loosen the bindings of your jaw. Let us fill you with words of power and untie the fetters of your speech. Let those who would bind you be cast down.”
Led by Miss Hattie, Silas put the iron adze to his mother’s mouth and gently pushed her lips apart with it. He continued, “Then, with the same iron that opened the mouths of the gods, let your mouth be—”
But his words faltered. As Silas looked at his mom, her mouth now slightly agape, she seemed more dead than she had been a moment before. Not asleep, but stopped, as if life had fled out of her mouth and left the door open behind it. All the doors were open now. His heart clutched in his chest as he looked at his mom, and his sorrow for her and his own loss became too much to keep buried inside. Silas’s throat thickened and he began to cry.
Augustus Howesman stepped forward and put his arm around him. “That’s all right, grandson. It’s too much for even you to hold by yourself.”
“Did she tell you? It was just getting better between us. It had been bad for such a long time, and I wasn’t any help. I saw her nearly every day of my life, and I don’t think I knew her very well at all.” He reached up and softly touched her cheek, whispering, “I’m so sorry, Mom. I am so, so sorry.”
Miss Hattie brushed her dry hand over Silas’s hair, combing it from his eyes with her long fingers. Then she finished the words of the Opening of the Mouth for him, quietly, solemnly, saying to the corpse, “Let your mouth be open.” As she said the words, the air in the house stirred as though a breeze had drifted from some open window or down the chimney.
“Silas, child,” said Miss Hattie, “there is just one more thing and then, I pray, your mother will be at peace.” She took from her own neck a pendant, a scarab, as large as the palm of a hand, carved of deep blue lapis lazuli. “Take this now,” she said, passing it to Silas. “Place this on her breast, child, and all shall be done.”
Silas turned the scarab over in his hands, running his finger over the lines of hieroglyphic inscription beneath it.
“You know this symbol,” she said. It was not a question.
“Yes,” said Silas, holding up his ring.
“What is it?”
“It is a scarab, the sign of life eternal. The Egyptians believed—”
“Believe,” Miss Hattie said, correcting him.
“The Egyptians believe the beetle who rolled a ball of dung across the ground was the emblem of the sun, making his passage across the sky.”
“Yes. A maker of roads. A passageway into life eternal.”
“The lych way . . . ,” Silas said to himself.
“What’s that?”
“An old name for the paths the dead are carried over and that the dead follow.”
“The living and the dead walk hand in hand,” she said.
“Life and Death are one,” Silas replied, like a catechism.
Miss Hattie smiled and nodded. “Now, child, repeat after me—”
“It’s all right, Miss Hattie,” said Silas, gently interrupting her. “I have read them. I know what to say. . . .”
Silas took the pendant and looked once more at its inscription. Then he passed the gold chain over his mother’s head and placed the scarab above her heart. He did not draw his arms away, but instead hugged her and put his cheek to her cheek. His eyes wet with tears, he spoke the spell of the scarab’s inscription into his mother’s ear, saying the words only to her.
“My heart of my mother. My heart of my mother. You are the protector of life. Let no one stand against you. Let no one drive you from the house of eternity. Wherever you go, you shall walk in joy. When your words are weighed, let them measure out contentment. Let there be joy in your heart and joy in the hearts of those who travel with you. Great shall you be when you rise up in triumph.”
Silas kissed her face.
“I love you, Mom. Always.”
As he finished the incantation, both candle flame and hearth fire flashed and then flickered and burned with a blue incandescence. The corpse shifted and, worried he was about to unbalance his mother’s standing body and pull it over, Silas stepped back, ready to steady her. But she did not fall.
The corpse of Dolores Umber slowly, deeply drew in breath. She opened her mouth and spoke, and the first word she spoke was her son’s name.
> LEDGER
I am the blue lotus rising from the dim primordial waters of nun. O, nuit, Lady who is the arc of heaven and queen of the chorus of stars, O, you who made me, know that I am here: The great ruler of What Once Was has risen from the depths. . . .
— SPELL 42, FROM THE BOOK OF THE DEAD, TRANSLATED BY SILAS UMBER
DOLORES UMBER SLOWLY TURNED HER head and looked at the corpses who filled the dining room and parlor of her house.
“Silas? What the hell is going on?”
He couldn’t move his mouth.
Dolores looked at the altar in front of her, at the blue-flamed candles, and, turning her head again, saw the dark statue of the god of the dead behind her. She saw Miss Hattie seated in a carved golden chair and Augustus Howesman staring. Dolores lifted her hand to her chest and, finding the scarab there, held it briefly. She shook her head. “For Christ’s sake . . . ,” she said, with more annoyance or disappointment than awe. Then very tentatively she stepped to the mirror on the dining room wall and drew its veil away. She stared at herself for many moments, then held up her hands, opening and closing them, scrutinizing the taut skin. She turned her head left, then right, gazing at each side of her pale face.
No one in the room spoke. Silas barely drew breath. All eyes were on Dolores. Silas could see her face and its expression reflected in the mirror. She looked more lively now than she had in years, younger, more beautiful. The lines of worry and anger that life had inscribed upon her had all nearly vanished, and the smallest smile began to form at the corners of her mouth.
“All right,” she finally said. “There is no need to gawk. I am here. That’s all. Silas, don’t stare so. We’ve never exactly been a conventional family.” She turned back to the room and passed her hand over the head of the Ammit, saying, “It might have been worse.” She walked slowly back to her son, meeting his eyes.
“My son has brought me back.”
“Mom, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for this to happen.”
“Don’t be sorry, Si. This was inevitable. I can see that now. It was going to happen whether I wanted it to or not. Don’t take so much on yourself. Some things just have to go their own way, and I am one of them. But, Silas, can you love me now? As I am?”
At first he didn’t answer. He just stared at his mom’s face. Though she seemed strangely improved, there was no question she was dead. It showed mostly in her eyes, which had taken on a flatness. She was present, but not all there. When she’d spoken, Silas felt like he was having a heart attack. The world had stopped when she’d said his name. There was no gravity. Then the more she talked, the more she moved, it all seemed horribly obvious. Silas’s chest ached and he felt as though he was being pulled in four directions as once. Should he still mourn her? Did he still need to feel guilty about her death? Was relief appropriate? Was it okay to feel happy about her return? He felt portions of all those things. But even as his mind spilled over with mixed emotions, detachment darkened the edges of his thoughts. His mother was another of the dead things in Lichport. As awkward as their relationship had often been, she had been an anchor of normalcy for him. She was the one who fought against the strangeness of their new home, the one who wanted to protect him from Lichport’s occult side. Now she had utterly succumbed to it. Silas felt the land tilt beneath him, as though he was standing again on the little boat of reeds. The river was flowing forward once more into the shadows. There could be no looking back now. Not for her. Not for him.
“Si?” Dolores said, breaking in on Silas’s thoughts.
He wondered how much, if anything, she remembered about the river. He put his arms around his mother and said, “Nothing’s changed, I promise.”
Dolores shook her head. “Oh, Si, a very great deal has changed, but I will never change again, it seems.”
The dead milled about the dining room and leaned against the walls of the hallway and foyer. Augustus Howesman looked delighted, utterly in his element, and he walked among kin and neighbor, playing the host, introducing Silas to long-absent relatives.
Silas could see his mother was uncomfortable, most likely with seeing her house in such a state, filled with what were, for her, uninvited guests. So, as politely as he could, he thought he would draw the evening to a close. No matter what had occurred, it was still his mother’s house, and he knew she would prefer more quiet than company.
“Thank you all for coming,” Silas said. “You have honored us with your presence and assistance. But now, or as soon as you like, you may return to your homes.”
He noticed his great-grandfather was watching him speak to the others.
“You are all welcome here anytime. But it’s been a hard day, perhaps we should all think of making our ways home.” He meant this kindly and sincerely, and in truth, he was exhausted.
As Silas spoke the words of departure, some of the Restless looked confused or surprised, as though something in their world had just changed drastically, but they weren’t sure what. One said, “Do you mean we are welcome to return to our tombs?”
“No, no! Not at all. I mean, sure, if you like. But please, return to wherever you want. To your houses. To your families.”
“You mean to where we once lived?” asked one of the Restless, his mouth hanging slightly to the side.
Silas thought of all those Restless he’d seen in Newfield in their dark, lonely tombs. Then he looked at his mother, surrounded by family, smiling at him, looking more alive and at home in death than ever before. “Yes. Sure,” said Silas. “Go to wherever you will be happy. Rejoin your kin. Live again, if you wish, as you once did. Or back to your tombs if you prefer. Let it be as you desire. Go to where your hearts wish to take you.”
Many of the Restless began to smile. Some, of course, had homes to return to, crumbling though they might have been. Others had long ago been put away by the living: in tombs, in tomb houses behind the houses their families had abandoned, or in some cases, where their descendants still resided. And now, the Undertaker, the embodiment of the Lord of the Dead, had told them they could “go home.” Silas’s words emboldened and delighted them. Slowly, taking their time, the Restless began to make their farewells as Silas took to the settee next to where his mother stood, unable or unwilling to sit down.
Before she left, Miss Hattie approached him, no longer needing her chair for balance.
“No, dear child, don’t get up!” She took his hand. “Thank you, Silas, for all your good work. Your mother is the happier for it, I am sure. Oh, goodness, aren’t we all!” And the Restless did look different now, more lively. They were moving more easily and naturally. A few looked merely elderly once more, much of their corpse’s pallor having been driven away by the funeral rites and the sacrificial meal.
“A good death is always enlivening, child, to the dead and the living both, especially among family.” Mrs. Hattie began to lean in for a kiss, but then patted his hand and smiled at him. “You take care now, Silas Umber. You promise me you’ll do that?”
“Yes, ma’am,” said Silas, getting up to walk with her to the door.
“Good. You come by and visit sometime, all right? Don’t be a stranger. The tombs of Newfield are always open to you.”
She turned to Dolores. “Welcome home, sister.” Dolores nodded indulgently. She clearly did not enjoy being outranked in her own home.
Miss Hattie whispered instructions to some of the men in the line of Restless leaving the house. They carried away many of the boxes and coffers of funeral instruments and placed everything back on the bier. As Silas stood at the entrance to the parlor, shaking hands and bidding farewell to the guests, he imagined the pageant of the dead, wandering home, up Fairwell back to Fort Street, across Temple and through Newfield, back to their tombs—smaller versions of the temples of Memphis or Abydos—which soon would be standing in the morning sun. What would the townsfolk make of such a procession?
His great-grandfather was the last to leave. Silas saw him speaking with his mother and then embrac
ing her. He winked at Silas as he left to make his way back to Fort Street.
After all the Restless had gone, Silas wondered how long tradition required him to stay. He didn’t think he should leave his mother. But other parts of Lichport, where he still had work to do, called to him. Bea was there, below the millpond, waiting. He wanted to save her. He was desperate to go to her, to try and get her back, but he didn’t feel right just leaving. And the rite had taken the life right out of him. Silas could barely keep his eyes open. He reclined on the settee and waited for his mother to finish her good-byes.
A little while later, his mother approached and stood over him. He raised his head and shoulders to make room for her, and as she sat down, she took his head in her lap and tenderly stroked his hair. “It’s not as strange as it seems,” she said.
“Seems? Nothing seems. Things are what they are.”
“It’ll be all right, Si. I promise. Now I can look after you a bit. You rest and we’ll chat a little more tomorrow.”
Dolores felt something against her fingers and she paused running her hand through Silas’s hair. She pulled a small dried flower from the locks above his temple.
“Where have you been wandering, my son?” Dolores whispered.
But Silas was already drifting off. He nodded slightly as sleep came over him, and the living corpse of his mother bent down and gently kissed his eyes.
Dolores briefly considered singing Silas a lullaby, but then thought better of it and went to change into something a little nicer.
Dolores Umber walked to the front windows and opened the curtains wide. She had nothing to hide, nothing to be ashamed of. Outside, the clouds had thinned and gaped, revealing glimpses of the moon. In the streets, she could see the Restless milling about, walking on their way to the various districts of Lichport. Many had been exiles for years and years, sent away to now forgotten tombs or abandoned houses to live alone, without the company and comfort of loved ones. But now her son, the Undertaker, had told them it was time to go home, and they were going to do just that.
