HOPE

It was an odd sized casket, too small for a man, too big for a child. A flag was draped over it, a smallish one. It was carried by four men in uniform, though it was hard to tell for sure from a distance what uniform it was, or even if they were all men. There wasn’t room for the usual six pallbearers due to the small size of the casket since it would have made for a comical service to have all six jammed together, shoulder-to-shoulder, crowding around an under-sized coffin. So the extra pallbearers were in the ranks of many others in uniform standing beside a small open grave. The officiant wore a robe instead of a uniform and must have said something because there was a long silence, then a burst of laughter.

The close family members were draped in black, perhaps a bit too dull a colour, because the lady of the house opted for a darkened blue gown, that spanned through her luscious backside and gave a generous view of her cleavage. She seemed undisturbed and unperturbed, she probably was used to the whole drama, and had worn black gowns a little too often, to the burial ceremonies of her other husbands. But this was a special marriage, for with it she tied the knot with prosperity and abundance. The bright red lipstick on her lips was far too shiny, for it distracted the priest that was invited to send the dead off to the great beyond with blessings.

“Ahem Ahem!” the brother of the deceased coughed and raised his head, maybe in triumph or in confidence, it is yet unknown. His sharp gaze tore into the eyes of the peasants in front of him. Another look at the casket, and he turned his gaze sharply away, as if torn with guilt from within, or torn apart by the pain of losing a dear brother, who died in his verandah. His ears shot up in the sky, they were taller and bigger, even seemed to look like a branch falling away from the tree. They said he was skilled in hearing spirits speak. Perhaps he heard the spirit of death lurk ariund his verandah before he invited his brother over.

“We have all lost someone so dear today.” The priest announced, with his thick glasses gently perching on his nose like a bird on a tree. He shot a scrutinizing gaze at the left hand side before he turned to the audience in front. “Maybe not us all.” He said and was met with silence. No nod of agreement or angry stares of disagreement. They all seemed blank and emotionless. The ones in front looked to have resigned, and seemed uninterested. But those at his left side seemed to have buried their emotions beneath a facade of indifference.

The little boy in front started crying to his mother. He was hungry and it was time to be fed. But the service for the dead took so long. That which lay in the casket was one very important person. He had paid the fees of the little boy whilst he was yet alive. So, their presence was important to honour the dead. The boy cried not because he wanted to return home to eat, there was no food at home. But because the only source of their feeding income was dead.

The First Lady looked at the little boy in maximal disgust as if irritated by the sounds he made. Had she not birthed children of her own? “Can you silence that little prat? Or just give him what he wants.” She finally voiced. There was no gasp of surprise from the resigned audience. It was as though they were used to it and it was as normal as the rising of the sun every morning.

The little boy’s mother bowed her head and mumbled under her breath. “That which he wants has been taken away.” She muttered. As if propelled by a raging spirit, the First Lady stood angrily and narrowed her eyes to the boy’s mother as if daring her to speak again. “And what is that which was taken away, you filthy peasant!” she thundered.

“Filthy things like you are like blood sucking bugs! You suck and suck and suck! Just like you sucked my husband dry!” She shouted, making furious gesticulations with her hands as if she wanted to tear something apart. “Now he’s dead and all you mourn for is your hungry belly.” She said lowly like a growling tiger as she scoffed and sat.

The before looking dead audience seemed to awake from their slumber. Eyebrows furrowed, mouths widened, noses twitched, lips curved dangerously, eyes snapped and ears tingled. Like zombies coming back to life or like the walking dead, the atmosphere livened. “What do you mean filthy things like us?” one asked. “And what do you mean blood sucking bugs?” Another questioned.

Not like the First Lady cared about what they said or thought, but they seemed riled up. She looked to the brother of the deceased seated beside her for support. But he seemed less concerned about whatever was going on. He continued chewing on his fingernails furiously. The priest was also of no help. His silence was thickening the tension. The way his eyes dropped and his countenance darkened, suggested that he was a bit slighted.

He was also a peasant, he worked the farms for the Lords and earned his living so. His whole family worked on the deceased’s farm to survive daily. He was a spiritual man too, he probably foretold the death of the deceased. While his silence reigned and encouraged some provocations, his next words erupted the whole atmosphere. “Your husband was not just your husband. He was our Lord.” He said.

Immediately, like flames from fire, angry comments began to fly from the lips of everyone seated in front of the priest. But those on the left side were not bothered. The family members were seated at the left side. They were unperturbed probably because they still mourned or their future was settled with the inheritance left behind.

But the two children of the deceased were seated among the peasants. Almost unrecognizable as heirs, but as abandoned children. They wore black gowns too, but the gowns were so faded. Maybe they were faded because they wanted to stand out or because that was what they wore every day. Amidst the whole congregation, their eyes were fixated on the left side. They probably longed to sit there. But they were to be married out to blacksmith’s sons. At least that was what the Will said.

“Your father was for us all!”, “You never needed him!”, “He helped us!”, “He was a God sent!”, “He was made for us!” They all chorused at the same time. Such indignation filled them that the chairs scattered as they clampered and protested in anger. The anger that clouded their minds was like a mighty pour of the rain that could flood a city. The anger hovered over them like a scorching sun that made them itch and scout for shelter.

“My husband was mine! And I could do with him whatever I pleased.” the First Lady said in seething anger. She couldn’t fathom what the problem of the little peasants was. Did they think it was easy for her to lose a husband? What exactly were they thinking? She growled and looked at them daringly with her chest rising and falling in silent anger. Were they not supposed to be glad she even left them to continue working on the farms?

The brother of the deceased also looked at them, from the very first person at the front to the very last person at the back. They all seemed weary, and frustrated. He could understand that. But why were they angry? Whose fault was it that his brother died? Were they not supposed to be happy they still had their jobs on the farm? They owed him. Or so he thought.

The audience would not be calmed by the angry words of the first lady. She was not in the position to understand what they felt. In fact they couldn’t see how she could. She didn’t care for the children of the deceased, how was she supposed to feel anything for ordinary people she was not connected to.

“You have taken away our joy!” The mother of the baby screamed. “I have given you a source of joy with your job instead! Would you like me to take it from you?!” The First Lady thundered right back in a loud angry voice. And with that, everywhere calmed. The atmosphere sizzled with a certain silence that no could explain but everyone understood. The job on the farm could not be taken away too.

The priest once again cleared his throat and started, “Let us now close our eyes in respect for Mr. Hope.” Then they bowed to mourn him, for now they realized that they had truly lost hope, the only thing left was the struggle for survival on the farms. And the children who could have grown and helped them were also hopeless — they were without their father. The peasants had lost the one thing they held dear. The First Lady and the brother were rich enough, they did not need Hope. So they did not realize how important he was. They instead felt they were giving them some sort of the joy with the jobs rolled out. The little boy cried out again and it irritated the First Lady, for she knew not what he cried for. So, they bowed their heads in mourning for the hope that was now lost.

The grave wasn’t ready until sunset, so the whole event was rushed and disorganized, except for the very last part. The grave was a massive affair, more of a crater than a grave, and it took until dark to roll the casket down to the bottom. If any prayers were said, they couldn’t be heard over the dull thudding of the clods raining down on the casket far below. It was an odd sized casket, too big for a man, too small for a dream, but just right for a dynasty.