Death Watch (48 page)

“And you should get
The Book of Cerements
. You will, I believe, find it set into the back cover of the town’s death ledger. You may not need it. Your father had a wonderful knack for ritual, and good words often came very naturally to him at such times as they were needed. Perhaps it will be the same with you, but you may feel better just having that text with you.”

At his father’s desk, Silas opened the Undertaker’s ledger and found the small, thin book, more of a pamphlet, set into the thick boards of the inside back cover. It was about five inches high, with a worn, stiff vellum cover. Here was an old thing, perhaps sixteenth century, written, thankfully, in a bold hand in mostly capital Roman letters. Turning the pages carefully, he saw it was filled with prayers and exhortations, words for waking for the dead, prayers of calling and invitation. Words of passage and parting. Like the little book itself, the words were stiff and very old. Some lines were in Latin, and Silas couldn’t really imagine his father standing up and reading them, but he could see that there were necessities behind such formulas and phrases, despite their antiquated formality. Here were words that could call the dead back into the company of their kin, and words that blessed the ghost and directed it to depart peaceably. And there were more forceful words—injunctions, banishings, and bindings—should the ghost choose to linger. Beneath the florid, ceremonial language, deals were being struck between the living and dead.
You shall go, but we shall remember you
. These were consensual arrangements. Bargains. From these, Silas began to understand that the Undertaker’s job was part therapist, part
lawyer, part travel agent, and perhaps, if things went badly, part deportation officer.

He was sure he’d been reading at the book for only a few moments, but when he looked up, there was a tray on the table behind him laden with food, and he heard Mrs. Bowe saying, as she passed back into her house, “I need to get ready. You should find your father’s mourning coat in the closet by the door. I’ve taken it in a bit for you, forgive my presumption. And please, be ready to go at a moment’s notice, all right, dear?”

The mourning coat smelled strongly of tobacco and stale beer, not smells he associated with his father. He put it on, pulling his arms slowly through the sleeves, and then waited for whatever was coming next.

Three hours later, as the sun set, there was a knock, first on Mrs. Bowe’s front door, then on Silas’s. When Silas opened the door, a boy—from one of the Narrows families, Silas recalled—was standing a few steps back dressed in black clothes, a long coat that trailed on the ground behind him, a tattered scarf wound around his neck, and a vest stitched together out of pieces of dark mismatched tapestry. In one hand he held a burning torch, and with the other, he held a letter out to Silas. He pulled his hand back quickly as though he didn’t want to touch Silas’s hand.

“Thank you,” Silas said gravely, while pulling his dad’s long coat back up into place on his shoulders. It was still slightly too big on him.

The child said nothing, but gestured at his mouth and shook his head from side to side, indicating that he would not, or could not, speak. He only bowed a little to Silas and then turned to go, walking quickly away down Main Street, carrying cards to other houses in town. Silas watched the boy’s torch as it bobbed down
the street, getting smaller and smaller, finally turning the corner down Coach Street and vanishing in the gloaming.

The funeral announcement was printed on thick paper and had been made on an old printing press. In bold, ornate letters it announced the passing of John Peale, Mother Peale’s husband. At the bottom, in a thin, uneven hand, Mother Peale had written, “Silas, come to us in the accustomed manner. Be welcome as kin in our home. We ask you, Silas Umber, Undertaker and Janus of the Threshold, to watch over us at this time of passage.”

A small part of Silas flinched as he read, recoiling slightly at the assumption that he would do his father’s job. He would go, because it was the Peales who were asking, but this was by no means a formal acceptance of any permanent position as Undertaker. Yet some secret sleeping part of him began to rouse itself, and despite everyone’s assumptions, despite his fear of their expectations, he was excited. He thrust the invitation into the coat’s front pocket; there he found a black cravat, which he drew out and wrapped around his throat.

Since the Passing Bell had ceased ringing, a change had come over Mrs. Bowe. Her usually meticulously styled hair, which she wore wound up every day in a tight bun on top of her head, was now brushed out and hung down in long tendrils, spilling over her shoulders, flowing down her back and covering part of her face. There was a restless look about her, especially in her eyes, which seemed small, retreating far back into their sockets. It was as though she was grieving already, seeing the world through a veil, or rather, as though a veil had been drawn aside and she was looking into a place no one else could see.

“I didn’t know you were that close with the Peales,” Silas said, assuming the changes in Mrs. Bowe’s appearance were the trappings of her grief at the death of a friend.

In a low voice, Mrs. Bowe replied, “My appearance has nothing at all to do with my affection for the family. This is a professional visit.” She had told Silas a while back that by tradition she had an important role to play at funerals, but she had never elaborated. Silas guessed that it must have something to do with his work. Maybe she’d helped his father prepare in just this way, making sure he had everything he needed, making sure he’d eaten.

Every move Mrs. Bowe now made was deliberate and precise, graceful and fluid—the way she swung her coat about her, a long black robe, much tattered at the hems. She no longer seemed nervous or worried as she often was, and she moved quickly about the house, gathering more things, Silas assumed, for him to take along.

He asked Mrs. Bowe repeatedly if there was anything else he needed to do.
What will be expected of me? How will I know what to say? Where will we go first? How long will I be there?
On and on his questions went until, impatient and stern, Mrs. Bowe turned to him, her face flushed with annoyance.

“Enough. You are as ready as need be. Now, you should begin to think about
them
, not yourself, do you understand? You are an intermediary and have a job to do, but it’s the deceased who matters, and his family. Not you. You must keep them and their needs foremost in your mind. This is crucial. Not just for their comfort, but for your safety and the safety of all those attending. Even the kindest person may become confused in the moments following their death, and in the dead, confusion is dangerous. Not to mention, when someone passes from one world to another, the mist rises, a door opens; and so, you must be watchful and aware of everything that is happening around you, for you are the Watcher at the Threshold.”

“What does that mean?”

“You will see soon enough. It is something better experienced than explained. Don’t worry yourself overmuch. I do not anticipate any trouble at all tonight, considering the family, but you must be vigilant and focused and ready to act if something goes awry. Watch and listen. You are more than what you think you know. This business moves in your blood. Listen. The world you’ll be in tonight is full of spectacle, but you will find, I think, that it is through hearing and not sight that you will perceive the deeper mysteries. Times of passage are far more attuned to the other senses—hearing, smell, touch—for they are more keenly tied to the memory than sight. When we arrive in the world and when we depart it, remember, our eyes are closed.”

“What am I listening
for
exactly?”

“No one thing in particular. I am trying to say that the dead manifest and express themselves in more ways than can be merely observed. You must be open to all your senses—but so long as you insist on being centered in your own losses, you may find that difficult.”

On one level, Silas knew what she said was true. He had himself heard and felt the dead in other ways. More and more, even when he wasn’t using the death watch, he could feel them around him—a brush on his skin, a word out of time on the air. If he were more focused on such things, and less on what he was looking for, what else might he perceive? Could
looking
for his father actually be hindering him? Could his father be, in some way, standing unseen, behind him even now?

But Mrs. Bowe’s tone hurt him. She was a different person suddenly, like she could read his mind and feel the particular nature of his selfish thoughts. It was an invasion. Silas could hear in her voice that when she looked at him, she saw only a child who saw himself at the center of the world, and because that was
close to the truth, it burned him a little. Since arriving in Lichport, maybe he had been only considering what was happening to him, how everything felt to him. But what did she expect? He’d lost his dad. Surely she understood how painful that was. Of course she knew. She had been so kind. It was just today, the way she was speaking. Harsher, more direct, like she’d forgotten everything that had happened to him.

But not wanting to argue, and trying to impress her with his maturity, Silas only nodded in agreement at Mrs. Bowe’s words, although he could not pretend to understand everything she said to him. He’d remain quiet and try to summon a professional posture. Rise to the occasion. Play the man. He straightened both his back and the knot of his cravat, trying to convince her and himself that he was up to the task. He took
The Book of Cerements
and looked at it again, trying desperately to refocus. On the inside of the back cover, he could make out notes in his father’s handwriting, lines of verse and some prose. These were snatches of songs and lines of stories Amos had liked, the kinds of things that might, when read, bring comfort to others. “Bring me my scallop shell of quiet, my staff of faith to walk upon …,” one began, and Silas read those particular lines until he memorized them and found, through concentration, some of his fear and anxiety dissolving.

Mrs. Bowe returned. She brought a small leather satchel out of one of the drawers of Amos’s desk. She opened it and drew out a vial of crystal half-full of clear liquid, tightly sealed with a deeply engraved silver cap.

“Spill none of this, and don’t drink from it. Not ever. Even if you should be dying of thirst. Mother of God, never. This is the drink of oblivion, and it must be offered to the dead, though not all will partake of it. That is their own choice. Long ago, the Undertaker would sit in judgment over the soul of the dead and
administer the waters of Lethe according to what they saw. Your father did not hold with that practice and always left the matter up to the deceased, if it was possible to do so.”

Mrs. Bowe checked once more to be sure they had everything they’d need, then told Silas matter-of-factly, “We will leave for the Peales’s directly.” She returned the vial to the satchel and handed the leather bag to Silas, then smoothed his uneven lapels. “It will have to do. Let’s make our way.”

Silas was surprised by her words. He assumed her role was related to helping him prepare for the wake. He did not think she’d be leaving her house.

Mrs. Bowe seemed to guess his thoughts. “I am sure I told you that I might venture forth for a funeral.”

“Oh, so you’ll be coming to help me? That’s great.”

“It’s all about you, eh? Again? Silas, as much as I am pleased to walk with you, I am not your guest today. Every funeral must have its Scald Crow.” She pulled a large black shawl of homespun wool over her shoulders and drew over it an enormous veil of thin, black, translucent silk. “You will recall my words about the importance of sound at times of transition?”

Silas nodded.

“Well, we both have our jobs to do today, and without me, there can be no funeral. I am the Wailing Woman.”

A Report upon the Judgment from the Synod of 1621 and a report of the response of many ungodly folk upon its Implementation:

And the Synod of this yeere adopteth those regulations laid down by the Archbishops and Bishops and so announced that no priest shall attend a wake or funeral at which female keeners or wailers cry, scream, disrupt, annoy, and distract the heart and minds of mourners from the bosom of their Mother Church. Any priest or man of Orders who neglecteth to endeavor to end such unseemly behavior would be removed from his parish. And when the word of the Synod was spread among the people and when the priests refused to attend upon such unseemly rites and likewise refused to attend upon such houses to deliver Last Rites if wailing was also to occur in them, then did many ungodly folk quit this land and take to the sea to
finde some other land lesse Godly and more accustomed to savageries suche as these Wailing Women and Peller-Men, or Undertakers as they are somtyme called, do contrive to practice.

A
S SILAS AND MRS. BOWE SILENTLY LEFT
the house and walked toward the Narrows, Silas was thinking about the Passing Bell. A few weeks earlier, Mother Peale had pointed it out to him when he’d asked about the odd old chapel built of slate where it hung.