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Chapter Six: Extended Stay - Part Three
Leander
Leander sat on the ledge of the library bay windows, looking out into The Elysium gardens. Hugging his shins, he laid his chin on his knees.
The little Lenten girl, dressed in a somber but still pretty, black lace dress, tucked herself into the crook of her uncle’s knees, her fists clenching the neat, creased material of his black dress pants. They looked nice. Dark against the sunlit, mountain morning, but nice.
Black, the absence of all light and color, is often a sign or symbol of formality, mystery, and mourning.
Were they mourning?
Had someone died?
Leander wondered and stared at the sad, awkward expression on the little redheaded girl’s face. The tight, twisting grip she had on her little doll worried him a little, reminding him of something he couldn’t quite place.
Leander turned to squint into the rising sun, his hand drifting up to clutch the pointed arrowhead artifact hanging around his neck. He let the edge bite against the rough pads of his hand.
“You’re not ready.”
Leander turned to face a frowning Rowan who was struggling with a long, black tie. Leander lowered his gaze before rising to his feet and tugging at his gray T-shirt. “No.”
“Well,” Rowan said, still trying to tie the strip of cloth into a suitable knot, “we’re going to start the ceremony soon. You should get going.”
Leander blinked at the boy. “A seventeenth century man, Charles Boothby Skrymshire, committed suicide because he couldn’t stand to put on his English dandy-styled clothes.”
Quirking an eyebrow, Rowan looked at him with amused chastisement in his green eyes. “So you don’t want to get dressed up?” he asked as if trying to decode Leander’s rambling words. “Fine.” He shrugged, removing his tie altogether to wind it around his hand. “I’m sure no one will mind.”
No, that wasn’t it. Leander bit his lip and shook his head, trying to decipher his own thoughts. “I can’t go.”
“Sure you can,” Rowan said. “But we have to go now, if we don’t want to be late.”
Leander shook his head, his fists clenching. No. Leander tried to order his thoughts, tried to find the words. “It’s said that, in some cultures, people aren’t buried immediately after death, but are instead placed in a large jar and kept in the homes of relatives for a year.”
Rowan looked at Leander curiously, even as Leander’s own face curled in confusion. Where had that thought come from?
“Do you need some more time?” Rowan asked. “I can see if everyone’s willing to wait a little bit, if you want.”
Leander shook his head again, more furiously this time. “Some cultures observe a mourning grace that can last for years.”
“You don’t like funerals,” the bright-haired boy said, “do you?”
He gave a little relieved sigh. Yes. Leander shook his head slowly, a little shameful.
Rowan nodded thoughtfully, pausing to pace a little. “Did you know,” he asked idly, “that funeral rites are as old as human culture itself? Dating back to at least 300,000 years ago, which predates the existence of modern homo sapiens.”
Leander stood straighter. Really? He pursed his thick lips, cataloging that fact away within his brain.
“It’s okay to be nervous.” Rowan took off his suit jacket. “But it’s important to be able to say goodbye to people who matter, to acknowledge their passing. I think Lenten and Olive really need this. I think we all do.”
Leander wrinkled his nose and closed his eyes. He couldn’t even remember the name of the person who died. He just knew — felt — that somewhere in the hotel there was an empty room that had once been full, a lingering scent of heather and lilac fading slowly.
“It would be nice if you were there.” Rowan’s voice sounded over the darkness behind Leander’s eyes. He felt him slide the soft, clean suit coat up his arms and onto his shoulders. “I know Lenten and Olive would appreciate it.”
Leander opened his eyes and looked at Rowan, pleading with him to understand. To accept. To not hate him for being scared and weak. “German writer of the twentieth century, Hans Fallada says that every man dies alone.”
Rowan smiled and held out his hand. “I’ll be right there. You won’t be alone.”
Leander tentatively laid his hand in the Rowan’s, his huge fist engulfing the slim, delicate hand. It took a lot of effort for him not to clutch it. He was afraid that, if he held on too tight, he might hurt the other boy on accident.
Rowan’s smile widened. He curled his fingers around Leander’s huge hand. “Jacket’s a bit short,” he said, eyeing the tight cuffs hovering an inch and a half above the other boy’s wrists, “but it looks nice.”
Leander nodded, thinking that this all seemed a little scary. He followed Rowan through the aisles and out the library doors. A little nerve-wracking, but kind of nice.
*
Olive
Olive toyed with the bow braided and wrapped into her hair. She frowned. It itched, pulling at her hair a few strands at a time, and made her scalp all tingly. She wanted to rip it off her head. Wanted to change out of the dress Uncle Lark had picked for her. It was too hot in the greenhouse, stuffy and sweaty even in the coolest part reserved for winter-blooming flowers where, since there wasn’t a casket or tombstone or anything, they’d planted flowers in place of a gravestone for Mei.
Heather, that was what they’d told her was planted in the dirt. Uncle Lark had suggested it, said that it was her flower.
“Hey there, sweet pea.” Flax crouched down next to her on the floor. “How you doing?”
She pushed her bottom lip out even further. She stared at the large, wide, white ash planter box, filled flat with black, wet dirt.
Soil.
That’s what Calla had called it.
“Dirt is dirty;” she’d told her today while Olive had watched the woman pack and pat the moist, dark stuff into the rectangular base, “soil has possibilities. Personality.”
Olive could hear her now. “I think it went well.” Calla came close to join them, followed by Rowan and Leander.
“Lovely service,” Rowan added. He leaned down to look Olive in the eye. “You did a wonderful job singing. I’m sure Mei would have really liked it.”
Leander even smiled at her. “ ‘You Are My Sunshine,’ the state song of Louisiana, has been performed and adapted by many different artists since its first recording in 1939, including a rendition by Ray Charles that reached number one on the soul singles chart and made the top ten on the Billboard Hot 100 chart.”
“Thank you,” she replied reflexively if half-heartedly.
“What’s wrong, petunia?” Flax touched her cheek softly.
She shook her head. She didn’t want to say it. It was going to sound so childish. And ungrateful. And petty and just plain bad.
She felt Rowan’s hand on her shoulder. “What is it?”
She sighed sadly and pouted. “There are no flowers on Mei’s plant.”
“Aw, sweetie,” Calla said and knelt down on the floor, “I told you before, there will be. You just need to give it a little care and a bit of time.”
Olive’s face scrunched with disappointment. She knew that. She knew that flowers started as seeds. She’d seen Calla tuck the tiny, impossibly small seeds into the soil. She knew that with water and sunlight the flowers would come.
Eventually.
She knew that. A small whining sob escaped her lips. It’s just that she wanted them now. She wanted flowers there and growing for Mei now, not sleeping seeds hidden deep underground.
It seemed wrong somehow.
Creepy and contrary.
“Sweetheart.” Calla cooed when Olive felt the woman wipe away a sneaky tear that squeezed out from the corner of Olive’s eye. “Please, don’t cry.”
She tried. She didn’t want to cry. She didn’t want to ruin the day with tears. But, as if the words called them forth like magic, the tears came hot and burning in the stuffy space.
Suddenly, she found herself surrounded, embraced from behind. The presence, familiar and comforting, smelled like home and haven. Uncle Lark, with his hands busy in front of her, was folding something quickly, the tiny creases and lines transforming the rather plain paper from the notebook he carried in his suit pocket with him into something special. She sniffled and leaned her back against his chest and watched him wordlessly push and pull the paper into a tiny, full flower.
Silently, he handed the pretty, little bloom to her before pushing her toward the empty tray with a gentle hand to her back. Peeking back, she saw him tear another page out of his ever-present book. “Go on.” He nodded encouragingly to her, smiling only slightly sadly, before he began to fold again.
She sniffed and turned to the tray. She pressed the small, fragile, paper flower to the soil — filled with its secret seeds waiting to grow under the layer of rich black. Gasping with surprised delight, she thought she suddenly saw the possibilities. Her uncle handed her another flower and then, after she planted that one, another. Olive stood back with her hands on her hips and stared with the others at the neat rows of origami orchids lining the potted soil.
“It looks nice,” Leander said.
Rowan nodded. “Perfect.”
Olive thought so too.
More than that, it felt right.
Reaching over to touch one curled paper petal, she sighed, satisfied. “Goodbye Mei.”
THE END OF BOOK TWO
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