His Father’s Funeral
His father’s
body lay upon the stacks of wood. Each step the death priests took made his
shoulders droop. A drum pounded out a steady beat.
Step, droop,
beat.
He reached
over, his small hand trying to take his mother’s beside him.
She smacked
his hand away. The sting just tingled. It couldn’t compete with the ache in his
ten-year-old heart.
“Mother?” His
voice lifted the question, but cold eyes—not a teardrop sparkled within them—focused
upon him.
The death
priests lifted the torches to the firebowl.
“Phoebus,
your father died because he was weak. His daimon rejected him.” Her voice had
hushed to a sharp whisper. He glanced around, but no one heard her words except
for him.
Step, droop,
beat.
The fiery
torches went from the firebowl to the pyre. His eyes filled with tears, and
they trickled down his face and dripped upon his boots.
“Now stand up
straight, don’t snivel for the dead.”
With eyes
closed and tears still dampening his cheeks, he straightened his shoulders.
It did
nothing for the pain. The loss. His breath held in his chest until he thought
he would burst under the pressure, or pass out.
When he
opened his eyes, smoke obscured his father’s body, and he could almost pretend
he wasn’t dead and gone.
Almost.
Step, droop,
beat.
10 comments:
What a hard folk they are! Can't even allow a child to mourn his father? I really got into this, to the point where I could loathe the customs and feel sorry for the boy.
I'm still not sure what the "beat" in the repeated line indicates. It can't be a dramatic pause, can it?
Ah, the "beat" comes from the line "A drum pounded a steady beat." So it's a beat on the drum he's hearing. Sorry it was unclear.
Oh, poor boy. The mama in me wants to hug him. Nicely written. Great emotion.
Very nice. You are so good at this. I'm struggling with a 1000 short story and you convey so much in so few words.
Poor boy, but I wonder if his mother is being strong for him and will fall to pieces in private?
Nicely written. I could feel his emotions.
I really liked the repeated line of the drum.
What I really liked in this short piece was the emotional side... most enjoyable.
So sad. I don't care what the customs are, what the world is, little boys still cry for their fathers. Excellent stuff, Cherie.
Poor Phoebus.
I hope his mother cries with him in private.
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