If Dagon was there he couldn’t see him.
Yet, Ramiel felt sure there was something following him just
out of sight.
He anxiously scoured the land below looking
for St. Andrews Cemetery among squares of gray fields and
bush. There was a drizzle falling and it bit into him with a
sharper edge the lower he went. It was from cooler west winds
that had crept up and he wondered how even the weather was
gray in this place.
His glide brought him closer until he found
the small cemetery in a bare farmer’s field. It was the
funeral procession that had caught his eye, resembling a black
snake wound along a gravel road. People had walked from their
cars and gathered around a coffin balanced over a rupture in
the black earth. They stood on grass that was stiff, quiet -
holding its breath. Next to the waiting mound of dirt a
grasshopper edged up a blade of grass to the coffin and
stretched long on its stick legs, searching for something in
the hanging air. In a dull "snap" it was gone.
"In the name of the Father, the Son & the
Holy Spirit, Amen." An old priest recited his incantation
while waving sweet incense through the air. He then bent to
pick up a handful of pebbled dirt and slowly seeded it over
the coffin, marking a sign of the cross while he whispered to
himself and to his Lord.
Ramiel stepped onto the coarse grass while
keeping an eye on the skies. This must be what a shivering
mouse feels like watching for shadows of a hawk. He breathed
deeply through his nose before deciding it was safe - Dagon
was not here.
The mourners were kneading rags of damp
tissue, leaning on the backs of their children – all their
blank eyes on the coffin. The ceremony was necessary for
closure, Ramiel could understand that, but he thought it was a
lot of effort for an empty shell. When a clam's time in the
water is done and waves throw it on your plate, when you suck
the life out of it and all that remains is the shell, do you
still carry that empty shell with you, preserve it, decorate
it, revere it? This is all a lot of silliness.
For an instant he smiled, but as brief as
it came it went because an angel of God should not be laughing
at the funerals of men.
Ramiel shrunk further into his coat collar
like a miserable sparrow. His hand had started trembling again
and he quickly folded it underneath his warm arm to stop the
shakes. He told himself it was from this damned chill in the
air – he was not used to it. And the wind too, pitching damp
gusts at his face. It made the oddest sound though, blowing
across the grass field in a melancholy moan, as if the
cemetery itself was grieving.
After the priest ceremoniously sprinkled a
final shovel of dirt over the grave Ramiel walked in and out
of the thinning crowd searching faces. He knew there was a man
here who might be able to help him, but when he couldn’t find
him there was a brief fluttering of anxiety – maybe his senses
had faded far worse than he believed. Quickening his search,
Ramiel backtracked through the group before spotting two men
wandering across the sparse grass to an older section of the
cemetery. One man walked awkwardly over the uneven earth, one
leg shorter than the other, while the other had paused to look
at an old headstone. Was it him? Ramiel studied the man’s face
and was sure of it. But if he anticipated feeling any emotion
when he reached him, Ramiel was disappointed. It was an odd,
empty feeling to look at him knowing what must happen and
think nothing of it. The two men talked briefly and Ramiel
froze for an instant when one of them looked back across the
field returning his gaze. Can he see me? Ramiel wondered. He
must see death coming to collect him. But Ramiel knew that
couldn’t be.
Suddenly from bush across the field came an
echo of squawking crows rousted from their spots. Ramiel saw
their chopping, black wings burst out of the poplar trees and
then begin a slow arc toward him.
He left. Dagon was sure to be close over
the horizon.
